“You’re not helping much.”
“I’m just trying to be honest. Forewarned is forearmed,” Sandy murmured as she kept clicking on her keyboard. It always amazed me when she could simultaneously hang on the phone, type on her computer, and carry on a conversation without a blink-or losing her train of thought. Sandy’s uber-ability to multitask was legendary on Coral Island, which is why Anita kept her employed at the Observer, even during her borderline “price tag” years, when Sandy wouldn’t cut the tags off her clothes because her weight kept fluctuating. Anita feared the newspaper might lose potential clothing store advertisers.
Of course, Anita would’ve fired me for jaywalking in the office.
“Whose obit are you working on?” I asked, not able to look any longer at the grimy scene that awaited me at Le Sink.
“Carlos Santini. His brother owns one of the better restaurants on the island, Little Tuscany. It’s a nice placeunlike Le Sink. Great food, nice atmosphere, and no fried food…”
“Oops, you had me until the last one. I never said I didn’t like grease.” Okay, so I wasn’t exactly top shelf when it came to dining out. But Nick Billie hadn’t done much more than buy me a grouper sandwich at the Seafood Shanty, and Cole rarely had enough cash to do more than grill out at the RV park.
Maybe I needed a better-quality guy in my life. I had two of them, but neither one treated me to haute cuisine or “haughty cruising,” as Wanda Sue, my landlady at the Twin Palms RV Resort, pronounced it.
“What happened to Carlos Santini?” I asked.
“Don’t know. He had angina, so they think he probably had a heart attack, but he was only in his midfifties. I guess the police wanted an autopsy because he died at home.”
I took a peek at the photo on Sandy’s screen. Dark hair brushed back from a heavy-featured face, olive skin, and a body the size of a tank. “Maybe the three hundred pounds didn’t exactly lend itself to coronary health.”
“Watch it.” Sandy ceased her typing. “I know what it feels like to have a butt the size of the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Hardly.”
“Well … maybe only Lake Okeechobee, but it used to take twenty minutes every morning to squeeze myself into size fourteen pants.” She shuddered. “I still can’t believe I’m a size ten now.”
“Okay, back to Mr. Santini. Anything on the autopsy yet?”
“Nope.”
“Who found the body?”
“His niece, Beatrice.”
“Jeez … that must’ve been a shock.” I shuddered myself as I remembered what it felt like to find a dead body. I’d had a couple of incidents like that since coming to Coral Island, none of them pleasant. “Forget about the official story-what’s the island grapevine got to say about the death?”
Sandy paused and leaned back in her chair. “Everyone is sort of cut up about it. Mr. Santini was a great guy. He ran the ice cream shop at the island center, did a lot of volunteer work at the soup kitchen, and never had a harsh word to say about anyone-“
“Oh, I remember him now.” I snapped my fingers. “I used to stop in his store sometimes after work for a double scoop of rum walnut ice cream-if I wanted to skip dinner. And he always gave me extra toppings at no charge. Great guy. I’m so sorry to hear about his death.” I sighed. “He really wasn’t that out of shape to have a massive heart attack just stocky.”
She leveled a long, silent glance at me.
I stared back. “What are you saying?”
“Carlos Santini’s brother, Marco, hated him-always had, but it really got worse the last six months.”
“Why?”
“Marco’s daughter, Beatrice. She began dating an exchange student from Italy who works in the restaurant. A nice kid. But Marco has done everything to break them up. If you ask me, he’s just plain mean.” She shook her head. “I guess the two brothers had a big argument at the restaurant the day before Santini was found dead.”
“You think there was … foul play?”
Sandy shrugged.
“Right. Let me call Nick.” I picked up my cell phone and speed dialed him, my heart beating a little faster.
“Nick Billie here,” his deep voice answered on the first ring.
“Hi, this is Mallie. I’ve got a couple of questions about Carlos Santini’s death-“
“The autopsy isn’t back yet,” he cut in with a clipped tone.
“When did Beatrice find the body?” I cradled my cell between my ear and shoulder as I pulled out my reporter’s notepad. My radar was up; something seemed off about this whole thing.
“Yesterday morning. She had stopped by Santini’s house and found him in his recliner-he was sitting in front of the TV with a glass of wine at his side.”
“Alone?” I scribbled down a few notes that I probably wouldn’t be able to decipher later.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think-“
“There’s nothing unusual about his death.” I could hear his deep sigh. “I’ve got someone with me right now. I’ll call you later.” He clicked off.
I stuck my tongue out at the cell phone and then snapped it shut.
“What did Nick say?” Sandy queried.
“Not much.” My tone must have said it all, because she didn’t probe any further. “What’s Marco Santini like?”
“The opposite of Carlos in every way. Tall, thin-and kind of snippy. Jimmy told me that Marco runs a tight ship at the restaurant, which is probably why Beatrice spent so much time with her uncle. She has to work for her father all day at Little Tuscany.”
Jimmy had moved from painter to waitstaff after he got engaged-a good move. During tourist season, he made almost a hundred bucks a night in tips.
“Sounds more like Little Terrorsville,” I murmured, still irritated over Nick’s abrupt dismissal. I might have been known as “Mixed-up Mallie” for the first twenty years of my life, but I now had a job (semi-permanent), a home (the Airstream in an RV park), and two boyfriends (maybe only one now), and I deserved better than the “official island cop” blow-off. “Back to Carlos-anything else I need to know?”
“Well, he stayed single, so Beatrice was more like the daughter that he never had,” Sandy continued in a soft voice. “That’s about it. I guess that I’ll make sure to get a quote from her for the obit.”
“Fitting” I grabbed my hobo bag-a new addition to my wardrobe since my ten-year-old veteran bag split at the seams from all the junk I carried around. This one had double reinforced seams and a peace sign embroidered on the front. I tossed in a few pens and a small spiral-bound notebook. Then I tossed in two chocolate bars. “Much as I want to find out more about Carlos’ death, I can’t put off Le Sink any longer.” I printed out the directions and stuffed that inside the hobo bag too.
“Good luck!”
“I think I’ll need it-“
The front door of the newspaper office suddenly whipped open, and Madame Geri stood at the entrance, an alarmed expression on her face. “The wedding is off!”
Sandy looked up, her eyes widening in shock. “What?”
“All plans are canceled because a killer is loose.”
My hobo bag slid to the floor with a thump, and Sandy let out a small shriek.
Oh my god. Was Carlos Santini murdered?
I … don’t understand,” Sandy stammered, panic in her voice.
Madame Geri held up her arms, chanted a few words in a low tone, then fastened her glance on Sandy. “It’s confirmed by the spirit world: a killer is on the island, and your wedding plans will be canceled whether you like it or not.”
Sandy opened her mouth and tried to formulate a few words, but nothing came out. Then her eyes filled with tears, and her shoulders began to shake.
“All right, let’s stop all of this alarmist talk,” I interjected as I moved around my desk to stand behind Sandy. Patting her on the shoulder, I glared at Madame Geri, like a tigress protecting her cub-even though Sandy was technically around my age. “I don’t think pseudo
communication from some kind of phony spirit world qualifies as a reason for Sandy to call off her wedding. For goodness’ sake, she’s marrying your son.”
Madame Geri raised her chin and tossed back her blond dreadlocks. “I’m well aware of that, but one does not challenge the spirit world.” She smoothed down her fifties retro white cotton dress embroidered with tiny red apples. Middle-aged but with smooth, unlined skin, Madame Geri had the look of the Mad Housewife generation with a touch of Bob Marley: preppy-boho-loony chic.
Sandy cried harder. “I can’t go through with it now. If I try, Jimmy and I will be cursed and never have a moment’s peace.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I spat out. “Why would the possibility of a killer on the island affect your wedding plans?” I rolled my eyes in skepticism at Madame Geri.
“M-maybe he’s targeting Jimmy or me,” Sandy managed to get out between sobs. “We can’t get married if one of us is d-dead.”
“Stop it!” I cut in swiftly. “Madame Geri didn’t say anything about you or Jimmy dying. You’re jumping to conclusions over some half-baked prediction-“
“Now you stop it.” It was Madame Geri’s turn to cut in, with a warning glance leveled in my direction. “The spirit world never lies to me. Something is going to happen that will end the wedding plans, but it won’t be Sandy’s or Jimmy’s death.”
“Okay, that sounds a little better.” I gave a halfhearted nod in Madame Geri’s direction, trying to reassure myself that Nick had said nothing appeared suspicious about Santini’s death.
Sandy stopped crying.
“So neither of you is in danger of actually dying,” I continued in an upbeat tone.
“Of course not,” Madame Geri agreed. “It’s the wedding that’s in danger-of not happening.”
Sandy began crying again.
“Can we have a reality check here?” I said, throwing up my hands in frustration. I’d received “messages” from Madame Geri’s spirit world before, and they were always vague. My contention was, if spirits were going to communicate with those of us still on planet Earth, you’d think they would find a way to give concrete advice like “Don’t wear red-it clashes with your hair.” Or, “Don’t run that stop sign-a cop is hiding behind those trees.” Or, “Don’t major in comparative literature-you’ll never get a decent job.” That was the type of advice I wish I had heard. If I had been treated to a few of those little suggestions during my life, things might have turned out differently.
“The spirit world doesn’t communicate the way the living do-they live on a different plane of existence,” Madame Geri pronounced, as if reading my thoughts. “And redheads can wear red.”
Okay, now she was freaking me out.
“What am I going to do?” Sandy wailed.
“That depends on Mallie,” Madame Geri chimed in, pointing at me. “You might be able to avert the disaster.”
“Me? How?” I started thinking about Mr. Santini again.
“You need to start investigating anything out of the ordinary on the island. Something has already been set into motion, and you’re the one who can figure it out.”
“Like … a suspicious death?” A warning light flickered inside of me.
“Maybe.” Madame Geri closed her eyes again for a few brief moments. “All I get is `pasta: It has something to do with pasta.”
“Huh?” I asked, knitting my brows. “What does it mean?”
Madame Geri shrugged. “I’m only transmitting what they tell me.”
“What type of pasta?” I persisted. “Macaroni? Spaghetti? Ziti?”
“I don’t know,” she said, raising one eyebrow and enunciating each word with annoyed emphasis.
Sandy opened her desk drawer and fished out a Hershey’s mini chocolate bar and chewed with a meditative expression. “Okay, let’s think what the spirit world might mean by pasta being a barrier to my marriage. We don’t eat a lot of pasta, so it must have something to do with Jimmy’s job at Little Tuscany, where he serves pasta.” Sandy’s eyes widened with dawning realization, and her hand went to her mouth. “That’s it! Marco Santini owns the restaurant-maybe he killed his brother with pasta. What do you think, Mallie?”
“I don’t think you can actually kill someone with pasta,” I said. Just talking about carbohydrates made me hungry, though this spirit world thing also creeped me out.
“What are you two talking about?” Madame Geri looked from Sandy to me, and then back at Sandy. “Was someone murdered?”
“Yes!” Sandy exclaimed.
“No!” I burst out. “Well, maybe. We’re not sure. The circumstances of his death seemed a little odd, but Nick Billie said that there was nothing suspicious about it, and I believe him. Still, the way that Mr. Santini died-at home in his recliner … it makes me uneasy.” My motormouth had kicked in with a savage acceleration-a sure sign of inward anxiety. Some people get sweaty palms or stutter; I just talk on and on and on. “I hate to say this, but I get a funny feeling-“
“That’s it.” Madame Geri reached into her little square purse and pulled out a cell phone.
“Are you calling Nick?” I reached for one of Sandy’s Hershey’s bars.
She flashed me an insincere grin. “No, I’m making a reservation for lunch at Little Tuscany. We need to check it out.”
“Oh, no-“
“Oh, yes,” Anita chimed in from the doorway of her office. “That’s a perfect restaurant to begin your food critic blog, kiddo-especially if it could lead to a bigger story of murder and mayhem.”
“Were you eavesdropping?” I asked with some indignation as I downed the chocolate.
“Duh-like that’s hard to do with my paper-thin walls. I’ve been listening to this twaddle for the last ten minutes. Pure bunk! But then again, if there’s even a chance to stir up some drama for the paper, I can’t pass it up.”
I opened my mouth to protest but then realized that I wouldn’t have to go to Le Sink after all. My mouth clamped shut.
“You can visit Le Sink for dinner,” Anita added. “Oh, I just thought of something else-hit Pelican’s Grill for a second dinner. They buy a buttload of advertising with us.”
Damn.
“Hey, I got to go with my gut-it’s served me well in the past when I worked at the Detroit Free Press.” Anita folded her arms across her skinny chest, with a smug expression. “But now, my face might be my fortune too, on account of the bee cream. I think I’m starting to look like a hottie.”
I peered at her skin. “Anita, your skin is all red from that stuff.”
She patted her cheeks and arms. “For now. Then it’s going to peel, and my skin will look as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
When pigs fly.
“Bee pollen from this island doesn’t agree with human skin,” Madame Geri warned. “You won’t like the results.”
“Says you.” Anita gave a scoffing laugh and disappeared back into her cubicle.
Madame Geri shook her head. “She’s going to look like a broiled lobster in a day or two. It won’t be pretty.”
“It wasn’t pretty to begin with.” I gave Sandy a little pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll find out if there’s anything out of the ordinary going on at Little Tuscany. You and Jimmy are meant to be together, and we’re not going to let a possible killer stand in the way of your wedding.”
“Thanks, Mallie.” A little tremor lingered in her voice. “I’m counting on you and Madame Geri. I’ve spent a ton of money on the wedding already, and I’ve literally dieted my buns off to look good in my white dress.” She bit her lip. “Not to mention, if Marco murdered his brother, he should be brought to justice.”
“And then your wedding can go forward,” I added with an encouraging smile.
“Sandy, have a fallback plan just in case.” Madame Geri tossed her cell phone back into her purse. “You and Jimmy can always just live together if things don’t work out”
“Mercy me.” Sandy buried her head in her hands.
&nb
sp; I just glared at Madame Geri.
After we both settled into my ancient truck, Rusty (named for obvious reasons), I turned on Madame Geri. “Do you think you could be a little more positive? This wedding is Sandy’s big moment, and you’re ruining it for her.”
`Au contraire.” She folded her hands in her lap, the ornate silver bracelets on both wrists making a delicate tinkling sound. “I’m trying to make certain her wedding takes place. But when I know negative forces are at work, we have to act. That’s the only way to avoid a potential disaster.”
“Whatever.” I cranked the key, and nothing happened. I pumped the pedal with a series of short taps and turned the key again. Rusty’s engine sputtered, spewed a blast of exhaust, and eventually started up.
Madame Geri coughed as the fumes wafted through Rusty’s open windows. She started to roll up her passenger side window, but I halted her efforts by letting her know that my air-conditioning was on the fritz again. “Maybe you should get a new vehicle,” she pointed out, waving her hand in front of her face in an attempt to clear the air.
“Sure, whenever you can persuade Anita to give me a raise. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly making CEO wages.” I backed the truck out of the parking space, looking over my shoulder, since the rearview mirror had fallen off for the umpteenth time.
“Maybe I’ll ask someone to talk with her on your behalf,” she said.
“Who? Benton?” I scoffed. “He’s just as much of a cheapo.”
She shook her head.
“Bernice? Her evil twin sister?”
She pursed her lips.
I glanced at her in puzzlement, and then realization flooded through me. “No, don’t tell me that you’re going through a spirit world contact-“
“Why not? Even Anita must’ve had a relative who gave her guidance in this life but has moved on to the great beyond.”
“More likely she was created in a laboratory somewhere like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster-the `hideous progeny.”’
“We’ll see.” She closed her eyes and mumbled a few inaudible words.
“Don’t do that!” I shouted as I turned onto Cypress Road-the island’s main drag-and rammed down the gas pedal. Rusty promptly accelerated to thirty-five mph. “I don’t want any dead-person cooties lingering in my truck.” I tapped the gas pedal again, but Rusty only eked up to forty-five miles per hour. Just peachy. I wanted Madame Geri and any remnants of Anita’s spectral ancestors out of my truck-pronto.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool Page 2
