Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise

by Marty Ambrose

  “Early homesteaders on the island removed the top layers of sand and shell shell to build roads on the island.” His voice took on an indignant tinge. “Imagine that. Disturbing an ancient archaeological site to build a stupid road.”

  “People had to get around the island. In those days it was tough going,” Everett chimed in. He was now picking up shells and tossing them toward the shoreline below.

  “It must’ve been so peaceful and unspoiled when the Caloosa lived here” I could almost envision these ancient Indians living a quiet life, fishing and living off the land.

  “It wasn’t exactly like that.” Bradley shattered my pastoral fantasy. “The Caloosa were warriors-six feet tall and covered with tattoos. They raided neighboring villages constantly and took their captives as slaves.”

  “Did they trade in gold?”

  “Nope … shells were their currency.”

  No treasure. No gold. And no motive up here to kill Hillman. “At least they didn’t practice human sacrifice or anything,” I joked.

  Bradley’s face grew somber. “I’m afraid to say they did.”

  I grimaced. There goes paradise.

  “Seems like a practical way to get rid of people you don’t like,” Everett said.

  Bradley laughed. “And I suppose you’d start with the archeaologists up here”

  “Maybe. Like I said, they’re meddling in things that’s better left alone.”

  “The research foundation is doing everything it can to maintain the integrity of the mounds.” Bradley gestured toward the neatly roped-off area.

  “It’s my land and I should have the final say so about what’s done on it,” Everett bristled.

  Bradley blinked several times in rapid succession and pushed the glasses higher on his nose. “I thought you and Hillman jointly owned this mound.”

  “We do. This blasted dig sits smack dab in the middle of our property line,” Everett spat out. “Not that Hillman recognized it. He was trying to get some surveyor to cheat me out of my land, but nothing was settled” His mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “Leastwise, he won’t be able to argue about it with me anymore.”

  “Did you two finally settle your differences?” Bradley asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Everything’s settled all right.”

  “Really? I’m so glad you-“

  “They haven’t agreed on anything,” I cut in. “Mr. Jacobs is referring to the fact Jack Hillman died last night.”

  “Good god” His eyes widened behind the glasses. “What happened? I mean, I didn’t even know he was ill”

  “He wasn’t,” I said grimly. “Someone murdered him.”

  Bradley’s mouth gaped open. “Murder? I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill him?”

  “Pick a number and stand in line,” Everett quipped.

  “The police are investigating and questioning everyone who knew him.” I chose to ignore Everett’s rude interruption, but made a mental note of it. Everything he’s said so far made him my number one suspect. He hated Hillman and seemed just ornery enough to kill him. “I’m actually doing a story about his death for the Observer. Do you have any comments?” I brought out my notepad and poised my pen above it.

  “Uh … no. Well, yes, I suppose I’m shocked and dismayed that anything like that could happen on Coral Island. And, of course, the loss of Jack Hillman will be felt far and wide in the writing community-both here and elsewhere across the country”

  “She asked for a comment, not a speech,” Everett said.

  “That’s what I’m doing, damn it,” Bradley replied, his eyes kindling in sudden anger. “Jack was a friend of mine and I, for one, will miss him sorely. He donated generously to the museum and frequently did public appearances for fund-raisers.” Bradley removed his hat and waved it back and forth in front of his face. “Have a little respect, will you?”

  “Respect is for them that earns it.” Everett’s eyes hardened. “As far as I’m concerned Hillman could’ve been one of those ancient sacrifices you were jabbering about. Maybe those Caloosas didn’t have such a bad idea. I don’t think they sacrificed victims to their godsthey were probably getting rid of people who’d become public nuisances.”

  “Everett, you’re a surly old curmudgeon,” Bradley exclaimed.

  “So tell me something I don’t know. At least I’m not pretending to mourn someone who I didn’t give a rat’s patootie about”

  I took a glance at the old man’s face. His mouth, outlined by his beard, was set in a mutinous line. His eyes hard and cruel. An oddly primitive warning sounded off in my brain, and I was grateful that Bradley had showed up. At that moment, Everett looked just mean enough to commit murder.

  “Do you know if the police have any leads?” Bradley replaced the hat on his head.

  “I’m not sure,” I evaded an answer, stepping away from Everett. “Detective Nick Billie is handling the case”

  Silence descended on our little group, the shadow of murder hovering over us. Everett had resumed kicking shells and Bradley seemed lost in his own thoughts. I was struggling hard not to remember the sights and smells of death that I’d seen last night. No matter what I did to keep a lid on the memories, they kept surfacing, rising to the top like debris from the darkest regions of the ocean floor.

  Maybe it was this place. It was already filled with ghosts. All the lost souls of the long-dead Caloosa who’d lived and died here. The shells and the mounds were a mute testimony from another time … and a civilization destined not to survive.

  “What happened to the Caloosa?” I finally asked, attempting to divert my thoughts.

  Bradley looked out at the water of Coral Island Sound. “When the Spaniards came, they brought their diseases with them. Smallpox, yellow fever, measles-you name it-the Caloosa had no immunity. They were wiped out in probably less than a century. Some might’ve made it to the Everglades where they intermarried with the Miccosukee, but no one knows for sure”

  “Except that they’re gone.” My words echoed around the stillness.

  Everett emitted a scoffing sound. “When the dead are dead, there’s nothing you can do to bring them back. No good comes from poking around, except stirring up all kinds of bad feelings that could end up causing more harm.”

  Everett shot a glance in my direction. Was that a warning? Was I bringing harm on myself by asking too many questions? I didn’t dare inquire. I was afraid what I would hear.

  B y midmorning the next day I wasn’t thinking about the Caloosa Indians or crusty old Everett Jacobs. I’d been trying to pound out the Hillman story at the Observer office with Anita breathing down my neck.

  “Haven’t I told you a hundred times you’ve got to include a strong hook in the first paragraph?” Anita grumbled, her cigarette bobbing up and down with each word.

  “I thought I did.” I pointed at the first paragraph on my computer screen.

  “Think again.” Anita leaned in closer and I couldn’t help it-I inhaled. Something else besides the usual smoky haze emanated from her. I took a surreptitious whiff. Then another. What was that smell? I couldn’t quite place it. Then I realized-gasoline. She must’ve hit the self-serve pump at the Circle K-the only place to get gas on the island. Smoke and gasoline made a heady combination first thing in the morning, to say the least.

  “Look at that first sentence,” she cut in. “You’re using passive voice and too many adjectives. `Jack Hillman, famous writer of gritty true crime thrillers, was found dead in his Coral Island home in the late evening of June fifth.’ Blah. Blah. Blab.”

  “But I have who, what, when, and where,” I protested. “You said those were the important things to include in the first paragraph”

  “Yes, but not with passive voice.” She thumped the top of the monitor for emphasis. The old computer screen tilted precariously for a few seconds and I raised a hand to steady it.

  “All right, I’ll tweak it some more. What about the rest of the story?”

  “It doesn’t exactly s
tink,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “Thanks” Hatchet-face, I added silently.

  “Look, kiddo, I thought you wanted to be a journalist. If you do, you need to work on your writing. That never ends. It’s always progress, not perfection.”

  I sighed and looked over at Sandy. She offered a sympathetic smile as she downed her third lowfat yogurt of the morning.

  “We want the truth about Hillman in this article, but play down the content about his early years as a security guard. No one cares about his experiences keeping the Coca-Cola factory safe for democracy” She hit the scroll button. “The stuff on his literary fame and the Writers’ Institute is okay. Then wrap up with Bradley Johnson’s comments.”

  “He was about the only person I talked to who had anything good to say about Hillman.”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes when you become famous, people get envious. It happens.”

  “Do you think that’s why he was murdered?”

  “Nope. Murder takes something stronger-hatred, jealousy, greed-emotions that make your blood boil.”

  “His neighbor sure seems to hate him,” I said.

  “Everett?” She waved a hand dismissively. “He’s just cranky. Been that way for as long as I’ve know him. He’s threatened to sue practically everyone on the island-including our paper.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. Said we misquoted him on an interview about the excavation of the shell mounds”

  “Did you?”

  Her thin mouth puckered in annoyance. “If there’s one thing I know it’s how to quote a source. He was just making trouble.”

  “I think he’s way beyond the `making trouble’ category when it comes to Hillman. Everett hates him.”

  “We’ll see. If he did murder Hillman, we’ll be the first to print it. Remember, follow the money,” Anita cackled, as she gave me a swift pat on the shoulder. “Back to work, kiddo. I’m going to call the coroner to see if he has any new information” She disappeared into her office.

  I made the changes my hard-nosed editor wanted, then decided to check the Internet for any other Hillman interviews. After researching for another hour, I’d found only one other interview he’d given to the Miami Herald during the South Florida Library Festival two years ago. I scanned it and stopped in amazement about halfway through.

  “Did you ever meet Jack?” I asked Sandy who had finished her yogurt and was now carefully checking to make sure the price tag was tucked into the short sleeve of her soft lavender cotton dress. I eyed the latest addition to her endless parade of temporary clothes with envy. The tag subterfuge provided some distinct advantages. My own meager salary hadn’t allowed me to purchase more than my usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans, both of which I wore today.

  Maybe I was hallucinating from staring at the computer screen all morning, but she looked a bit thinner.

  “I met him several times.” She tossed the empty yogurt container in the trash can.

  “This article says he volunteered for Big Brothers/Big Sisters and donated a sizable amount of money to help open the Island Museum”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, it’s all right here” I pointed at the screen. “He was a Big Brother to an island boy named Todd Griffith for six years … the kid’s grandmother later took him and his mom in, and he’s finishing high school in Miami now. And Hillman also contributed ten thousand dollars to the Island Museum. Wow. He actually did something nice.”

  “I guess.” Sandy shrugged. “It’s hard to be impressed with someone who refuses to speak to you”

  “You mean he came by the office and ignored you?”

  “He sure did-once he got a look at me”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying he was prejudiced against overweight women.” Her lower lip trembled, but she tightened it in a firm line. “I know the type. They’re all sugar sweet over the phone, but when they drop by and see I’m a large gal, they simply pretend I’m not here. Like I’m some kind of piece of furniture or something.”

  “I … I’m sorry,” I said. Chalk up another black mark against Jack. So far he had two white marks and a slew of black ones. “Sandy, you know I don’t feel that way about you”

  “I know.” She rearranged the blue ceramic bracelets on her wrist. “In spite of Hillman’s `good works,’ I wasn’t exactly heartbroken to hear that he’d been killed.”

  “Welcome to the island club,” I muttered.

  “Not that I’d do him in, of course. I’ve dealt with my anger through focused imagery-a technique I read about in one of my self-help books. But I’m telling you, it was incredibly tough to work my way through all the negative emotion that man aroused-I had to use candles, incense, tapes and my special quartz crystal. The works.” She spread her arms expansively.

  “I’m glad that you were able to … uh … let it go”

  “Me too. Speaking of which… ” She reached for her iPod. “I’ve got to do my morning affirmations”

  “Serenity now!” I gave her a peace sign.

  She donned the earphones and closed her eyes. In a few minutes, her face took on a peaceful, calm expression. I eyed her with renewed respect-not simply for her ability to sink into a relaxed state amidst a cramped, noisy office, but because she was able to overcome her dislike for a man that half the island probably would’ve liked to feed to the sharks.

  I reread the section in the Herald article about Hillman’s “Little Brother” and jotted down his grandmother’s name. I called Miami information and got a phone number so I could call her later for an interview. Then I made a mental note to visit Bradley and discuss the museum donations.

  Intrigued, I realized the “truth” about Jack was taking on interesting and unexpected dimensions.

  The door to the office suddenly flung open and I jumped in my chair.

  “What did I tell you about interfering with my investigation?” Detective Billie demanded as he slammed the door shut, his dark face set in a mask of cold fury.

  “Huh?”

  “I just spent an hour on the phone with Everett Jacobs. He said you were nosing around Hillman’s house and badgering him with questions.” Detective Billie strode toward my desk.

  “That’s not true.” I stood up to meet him when he got there. It didn’t help much, though. He was still almost a head taller than me and … intimidating to say the least when his eyes blazed down from that impressive height.

  “Did you or did you not snoop around Hillman’s house?”

  “Not. I know better than to cross the yellow tape”

  “What about badgering Everett?”

  I glanced over at Sandy for support, but she had her back to us with her iPod still running. “I asked him some questions-that’s all. I certainly didn’t `badger’ him or anything like that. He was the one who volunteered information-told me all about Mabel and how Jack had driven her to distraction. Granted, he was sort of grouchy at first, but he gradually warmed upespecially when I showed some sympathy for the Mabel situation. Although if you ask me, he’s your number one suspect. He hated Hillman-“

  “Could you please stick to the subject?”

  “I’m trying to” Could I help it my motor mouth was stuck in high gear every time Detective Billie appeared? “Anyway, Everett even took me for a tour of the shell mounds. Would he have done that if I was making a nuisance of myself?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to decide who’s telling the truth. The island curmudgeon or me.” I folded my arms across my chest and matched him glare for glare.

  The muscle in his jaw began working overtime as he digested my words. I decided to press my advantage.

  “From what Anita tells me, Everett is a cantankerous old man who likes to cause trouble. I just happen to be the last person who ticked him off. And maybe I did because he’s got something to hide. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job. Everett will be questioned as a
possible suspect when I say so”

  “Are you kidding? He should be at the top of your list.”

  “That’s for me to decide.”

  I took in a deep breath and tried to adopt a more conciliatory tone. “It seems to me that anyone as meantempered as Everett could’ve easily been pushed over the edge to commit murder.”

  He weighed me with a critical squint and, gradually, some of the anger faded from his face. “I can’t deny that Everett lodges a lot of complaints about fellow islanders.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “But you shouldn’t be bothering him in the first place”

  “I was only asking him questions about Hillman for my news story.”

  “You are technically still a suspect even though your alibi checked out, Ms. Monroe, and that means you need to tread very carefully. If I think or get word that you’re trying to manipulate information to your advantage, I’ll throw you in jail.”

  I swallowed hard. Jail. Yikes. That’s just what my family needs to hear. Mixed-up Mallie has become a no-account, down-and-out jailbird.

  “I won’t step over the line,” I promised.

  “See that you don’t.”

  “And why not? Sometimes lines need to be crossed” Anita stood in the doorway of her office.

  Oh, no. And just when I’d calmed down Detective Billie. Please, Anita, stay out of it. I silently offered up a prayer to the saint of browbeaten journalists-the one that must’ve protected Woodward and Bernstein during the Watergate scandal.

  “Anita, I’m not going down this road with you,” Detective Billie transferred his glance to my boss. Strangely, I’d swear admiration was lit in the depths of his dark eyes. “You know what you can and can’t do legally when it comes to a murder investigation.”

  “Yes, I do. We can question people who might have comments about Hillman that we can use in our stories.”

  “I won’t tolerate interference in my job”

  “And I won’t tolerate your trying to censor freedom of the press”

  Watching Anita’s leathery face set in stubborn lines, I gave up on the prayers.