Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool

by Marty Ambrose

  Madame Geri opened her eyes. “I’m not getting anything. That’s odd.”

  “I told you-Anita isn’t human.”

  “Of course she is, but it’s odd that no one from the spirit world will come forward to connect with her.”

  “Really? Would you want to spend one minute of your afterlife thinking about Anita Sanders?” I drove with one hand, lifting my hair from the back of my neck with the other hand, trying vainly to keep cool.

  “Everyone has a lovable side. Even Anita.” She leaned back against the tattered headrest. “But I don’t get the lack of response from the spirit world. Oh, well, I’ll keep trying until I figure it out, especially if”-she paused-“you want that new truck.”

  “Well … uh … go for it.” I gave her a thumbs-up. But, in truth, much as I would like a new vehicle with an air conditioner and windows that went up and down, I wasn’t sure if I could part ways with Rusty. My old truck had seen me through some rough spots, like when we towed my four-thousand-pound Airstream through the Appalachian Mountains. Rusty gave all his muscle on the way up (barely eked out twenty-five miles per hour) and showed what he was made of on the way down (burned out the brakes). Could a new truck do that? I wasn’t sure.

  “I guess new isn’t always better,” Madame Geri commented.

  Yikes. She did it again-read my mind. Double freaky.

  Gritting my teeth, I didn’t respond just focused on the road.

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, as the tropical scenery whizzed past. Despite its being October, the temperature still hovered near the upper eighties, and everything appeared lush and green-from the delicate palm fronds to the sharp-edged saw palmetto stalks.

  A cold spell was supposed to be on the way, but you couldn’t tell it from the midday, energy-sucking heat. I still hadn’t gotten used to the lack of autumn in Florida with its vividly colored landscape, but in January, when the rest of the country was up to its wazoo in snow, I loved it.

  Heading south, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Cole. He didn’t pick up, so I left him a voice mail to say that we’d be dining at Le Sink tonight. Of my two quasi boyfriends, he was the one to take to a low-scale restaurant; nothing ever fazed him. Blond with surfer good looks, he also possessed a laid-back, life’s-a-beach outlook. Our relationship was fun, carefree, and pleasant.

  Everything a girl could want-sort of.

  “You need more than a guy who looks good on a surfboard,” Madame Geri commented, trying to keep cool by leaning her head as far out the window as she possibly could without being decapitated.

  “I don’t want to talk about my personal life.” I flipped my cell phone shut with deliberate force, hoping she would get the nonverbal reinforcement.

  “Suit yourself, but he’s not the one for you. There’s no getting around it-you’re a different woman from the one who first came to Coral Island, and he can’t give you what you need.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter but said nothing. Was it because she had touched on the truth? Or because of her smug, all-knowing air? Or maybe it was because the wheel had started to shimmy like a hula dancer, which it often did when Rusty accelerated over fifty miles per hour.

  “Be careful-“

  “Just let me drive, will you?” At that moment, an elderly guy turned in front of me on his three-wheel bicycle. I rammed on the brakes, and Rusty screeched to a halt, brakes squealing and worn rubber tires burning. Madame Geri and I both jerked forward and then backward as the seat belts kicked in.

  I blinked and exhaled a shaky breath. “Whew, that was a close call.”

  “I tried to warn you.” Madame Geri grasped the passenger door to steady herself. “I could feel the red energy blitzing my brain-that always means danger ahead.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I was too upset to argue with her.

  The old guy just waved in a friendly gesture as he pedaled with turtlelike speed to the other side of the road. I started to curse at him; then he flashed a smile in my direction, revealing two missing teeth and a mean overbite. I waved back.

  “Oh no.” Madame Geri had her glance fastened on the passenger-side mirror. I looked over my shoulder and saw flashing blue lights. Oh no, indeed. It was the island police. I prayed that it wasn’t Nick Billie; the last thing I needed was for him to see me almost hit an aging, toothless man on a tricycle.

  I pulled over and came to a halt, though I didn’t dare turn off the engine in case Rusty wouldn’t restart. Then I spied the tall, trim form of Nick Billie. Double oh no.

  “Hi, Nick.” I propped my arm on the open window and looked up at him with a bright smile, forgetting my earlier irritation over his official-island-cop attitude. To be honest, his hunky presence always caused my mind to blank out and my heart to beat faster than a race car in overdrive-or than Rusty’s engine when the gears were slipping. Hottie didn’t even begin to describe his handsome, hard-planed face, deep brown eyes, and jet black hair. More like sizzling.

  I hoped that he would attribute my flushed face to the heat.

  “Hello.” He inclined his head in Madame Geri’s direction. She responded with the same gesture.

  “You know, I didn’t mean to almost hit the biking geriatric,” I started in with a preemptive explanation. “He turned in front of me with no warning, no hand signal, nothing. So, I did what I could to avoid hitting him, as you could see. But I don’t want to be ticketed for reckless driving, since I was barely doing fifty in a sixty-mile-perhour zone.” Needless to say, the motormouth had kicked in once again.

  “I saw the whole thing,” he cut in, swiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Before you get up too much of a head of steam, that isn’t why I pulled you over.”

  Had he “blue-lighted” me because he was regretting his clipped tone in our phone conversation earlier? Or was it because we hadn’t seen each other in over a week, and he missed me so much that he pretended I had a traffic violation?

  “I noticed when you stopped that your left brake light is out.”

  Oh.

  “You need to get that fixed ASAP,” he continued. “I have a friend at Palm Auto who can replace the bulb for you.”

  “Thanks.” I struggled to summon a degree of enthusiasm over the brake bulb. I guess it was thoughtful, but not exactly the kind of gesture that made a girl want to swoon.

  He cleared his throat. “I also wanted to know if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight … to discuss adding some new `Police Beat’ items for the Observer this week-“

  “Mr. Santini’s death?” My breath caught in my throat.

  He dropped his head and groaned.

  “Hey, there’s nothing like a little death conversation to liven up dinner,” I offered.

  Nick gave a short bark of laughter and then raised his head. “All right. I’m working a double shift today, so can I meet you around eight?”

  “Pelican’s Grill?” Heh. I could knock out the restaurant review at the same time-if I could focus on the food.

  “It’s a date.”

  Okay, so the dinner was work related; it felt like a date.

  He flipped one of my curls and grinned. “You’d better believe it.” Tipping a jaunty little salute at Madame Geri, he strode back to his F-150 truck and slipped the light off the roof. Then he hung a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. Wow. Sleek and powerful, the midnightcolored truck reflected its owner-dark and sexy. I might not like to self-analyze before (or after) lunch, but my vehicular psychoanalysis of others gave me great insights to human nature. My theory was that people generally drove the kind of auto that reflected their personality: Rusty the Truck spoke volumes about me, including my lack of substantial amounts of cash to afford a new mode of transport or even perform basic maintenance.

  Humming under my breath, I steered Rusty back onto Cypress Drive. A date with Nick Billie. Fabu.

  “I think you forgot something,” Madame Geri interjected.

  I blinked. “What?”

&n
bsp; “You just called Cole to have dinner with you at Le Sink.” She leveled an amused glance in my direction. “I don’t need to contact the spirit world to know that you’ve double-booked yourself.”

  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at Little Tuscany. I’d spent most of the remaining drive hatching schemes with Madame Geri on how I could manage to make both of my commitments tonight. After several possible scenarios, I proposed that I would meet Cole at Le Sink around six p.m. Then I’d say that I had to go back to work to write the restaurant review on the Observer blog. After I managed to escape early by telling that tiny, tiny white lie, I’d hightail it to Pelican’s Grill for my dinner date with Nick and pump him for info about Mr. Santini. It could work … I just knew it.

  “Not telling the truth is bad karma,” Madame Geri stated flatly. “No good will come of it.”

  “Says you.” I parked Rusty and hopped out before she could say anything else. I didn’t want to hear it. After almost a two-year man drought, I finally had two guys in tow on the same night. What could be better?

  Madame Geri appeared at my side, her mouth set in a thin line. I ignored that too.

  “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Let’s get some lunch and see if we can question Marco Santini.” I marched toward the entrance of Little Tuscany, a smallish one-story stucco building painted a deep shade of pink with yellow shutters. Someone had outlined a map of Italy to the left of the front door, but whoever sketched it wasn’t exactly Picasso, because instead of resembling a boot, the country looked like a skinny leg with a flipflop.

  A bad omen? Or just bad art?

  We entered, and after taking in a lovely breath of cool air, I noticed the faux Italy atmosphere throughout, from the mural of ancient Rome on the back wall-complete with a portrait of some muscular guy in a toga-to the olive oil bottles, the smell of garlic, and, finally, some unidentified warbler’s version of “Volare.” Maybe this wasn’t such a step up from Le Sink. More like Le Fake.

  Still, the crowded, noisy dining room meant the food was probably good.

  “Mom!” Jimmy sprinted toward us from the bar area. “Sandy just called me to say our wedding might be canceled because of a killer!”

  Instantly, everyone stopped speaking, and all eyes focused on us.

  “It’s a joke.” I waved my hands in dissent to everyone and then pointed at Jimmy and offered the group an apologetic smile. “He’s a nervous groom, having some last-minute jitters. Everything is fine. Just fine. No murder.”

  Jimmy’s beefy face crinkled in puzzlement. “But I thought-“

  “Why don’t you show us to a table?” I suggested, pinching Madame Geri’s arm so she wouldn’t contradict me. The last thing we needed was the island on red alert before we had any concrete evidence of murder.

  Eventually, the conversation started up again, but I could tell from some of the furtive glances in our direction that not everyone bought my reassurances.

  “Uh, I’m not allowed to seat the guests. Mr. Marco is the maitre d’.” His voice dropped almost a whisper. “He’ll kick my butt if I try to do his job.”

  “Nonsense.” Madame Geri spoke up. “I see a great spot over by the ruins of the Forum.” She sauntered in the direction of a table by the mural.

  “Stop right there!” a man shouted.

  Madame Geri kept going, but the diners ceased speaking again-this time in curious anticipation.

  “Don’t you dare take that table!” he yelled out like a sonic boom.

  I watched as a string-bean-thin middle-aged guy sporting an apron and bad comb-over charged across the room like a train heading for the station. Then Madame Geri made herself known by slowly turning around. He stopped in his tracks.

  “Dio mio.” He clutched the menus to his chest and crossed himself as if he’d committed a major sin. “Madame Geri, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was you. I don’t think we’ve ever met formally, but I’m Marco Santini-owner of Little Tuscany. Please, choose the table that suits you. I’m so sorry. So sorry. Take any table. If someone is already seated there, I’ll move them.”

  The patrons murmured among themselves, some even taking out their wallets or purses to pay, no doubt readying themselves to move for the island’s freelance psychic.

  Unbelievable.

  I eyed Marco. He didn’t appear to be a killer-more like an aging car salesman.

  “No need.” She motioned Jimmy over. “My son said this one was the best seat in the house.”

  “Jimmy is your son?” A shadow of anxiety passed across his face. He obviously was trying to remember if he’d done anything to Jimmy that would incur Madame Geri’s wrath.

  Madame Geri nodded, a proud mother’s smile spreading across her face.

  “I’m at your service. Whatever you need, please let me know.” He gave a little bow, but his breathing seemed to be coming in short gasps, belying his smooth assurances. “Jimmy will be your waiter-unless you’d prefer to have him join you for lunch. In that case, I’d be happy to assign one of my other waitstaff to your table.”

  “I’d prefer Jimmy as our waiter.” She gave Marco a flick of an eyebrow, which he interpreted as dismissal. After setting the menus on the table, he backed away from her and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

  “He’s probably hanging garlic around his neck in case you’re putting a curse on him,” I commented as I seated myself.

  “Like that would help,” Madame Geri scoffed, sliding into a chair opposite mine. “We’ll talk to Mr. Marco after we eat lunch; that way, I’ll get the right vibe to see if he killed his brother-“

  “Carlos?” Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t think that Mr. Marco-“

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” I cut in swiftly, keeping my tone calm. “But we’re here to dig around.”

  Madame Geri nodded. “So you can still get married, Jimmy-“

  “Thanks, Mom.” Jimmy leaned down and gave her a quick hug. “I love Sandy so much, and I really want to marry her.”

  “Now, my dear, the wedding may not take place the way you’ve planned it,” she said gently. “But I’ll try and find a way for it still to happen.”

  “Uh … well …” He hesitated until his mother patted him on the arm. “Okay, I’ll call Sandy and give her some encouragement before she eats every Hershey’s bar on the island.” He started to leave, then glanced back at us. “What would you like to drink?”

  “We’ll have unsweetened iced teas,” Madame Geri said as I started to mouth “a beer.”

  Jimmy strode away from the table before I could correct her. “I may need something stronger if this day keeps going the way it started,” I hissed at my lunch companion.

  “You need to keep your wits about you if you’re going to do the restaurant review.” She handed me a menu. “And find out what caused Carlos’ death.”

  I weighed Madame Geri with a critical squint, knowing she was right; I had to know if there truly was a killer loose on Coral Island-especially if Jimmy’s matrimonial future might be hanging in the balance. Sighing at the responsibility looming ahead of me, I flipped open the menu and scanned through the massive number of appetizers and entrees. Spaghetti, ravioli, ziti-this was pasta haven.

  “If pasta is the word that the spirit world gave you, we’re in the right place to find out what they meant. I’ve never seen so many different pasta dishes.” But no fried anything, I added to myself. Shoot.

  Madame Geri looked around, taking in the tacky Tuscany atmosphere. “We’re in the right place; I can feel it. I don’t like the vibes. Something is off.” She shivered.

  Now it was my turn to be nervous. I’d never seen Madame Geri’s feathers even slightly ruffled by anything-even talking to dead people. Of course, her son hadn’t been involved, so that might be putting a new spin on the spirit world’s wacky predictions.

  Jimmy returned with our iced teas, and we each or dered a pasta dish-hers primavera, mine spaghetti and meatballs. Marco had also reappeared, but he linge
red at the bar, pretending not to watch us as he fidgeted with the strings of his apron. Why was he so agitated?

  Did he have something to hide?

  “Sandy seemed a little better after I talked to her,” Jimmy commented, as he placed a small bowl of sliced limes and lemons on our table. “I wasn’t sure which one you liked for your tea, so I brought both.”

  “I’m a lime girl.” I squeezed a hearty amount of its liquid into my tea, but it squirted out in several directionsboth Madame Geri and her son winced and then rubbed their eyes.

  “Sorry-guess the lime juice has a mind of its own.” I cupped my hand around the second slice to restrict its acidic stream. “So, Jimmy, has there been anything unusual going on here lately?” I stole a few more glimpses in Marco’s direction.

  He paused. “Not really just business as usual.”

  “Is your boss treating you right?” Madame Geri asked. “He seemed a little … belligerent.” She enunciated every syllable of the last word and glanced over in Marco’s direction. He responded with a shaky smile and disappeared again into the kitchen.

  “Mom, he’s not that bad,” Jimmy commented, still trying to clear his vision from the lime juice spritz. “Mr. Santini might be kind of a nitpicker in the kitchen, but I can’t believe he’d harm his own brother. Granted, he hasn’t taken it too hard, but he and Carlos didn’t get along too well.” He blinked a couple more times. “Poor Beatrice, though-she’s pretty cut up over her uncle’s death. She’s been sobbing all day.”

  “Can’t say I blame her,” I chimed in. “Nick Billie told me that Beatrice found his body in a recliner-“

  “We need to talk to Marco-now,” Madame Geri interrupted. “The vibes are getting worse.”

  Oh, jeez.

  Jimmy gulped. “I’ll go get him-“

  All of a sudden, Marco’s shouting could be heard from the kitchen. “I told you not to chop the carrots like that, you idiot!”