“Oh no.” Wanda Sue crossed herself. “If you can’t figure out what happened to the two brothers, something about their deaths will link back to poor of Jimmy-I just know it. And then he’ll end up in jail, and Sandy might meet someone else while he’s locked away-“
“Whoa. Time out.” I made the letter T with my hands. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. We don’t even know if there was anything fishy about Carlos’ or Marco’s deaths.”
“Lordy, girl, don’t you get it? If Madame Geri thinks the wedding could be off on account of the island killer, it’s off.” She touched my arm. “Unless you can figure out a way to make sure it’s back on.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t repeat the `killer’ part; it’ll panic every islander with a pulse-and then some.” Tilting back my head for a few moments, I tried to block out the image of my aging neighbors in a tizzy with their walkers and oxygen tanks. This being-part-ofa-community thing had its drawbacks: like I had to get involved in stuff that didn’t or shouldn’t concern me.
“Please, Mallie, you have to help.”
I paused. “All right. I’ll give it my best shot,” I finally said in a reluctant tone.
Wanda Sue clapped her hands. “I knew we could count on you, honey.”
“This could all be Madame Geri’s bunk-“
“Then you can help Sandy finish up her wedding plans,” she responded with a huge smile. “You’re just a regular Emily Post-it.”
High praise. Just call me the Queen of “sticky etiquette.”
“I’ll get Pop Pop to tidy up the RV site next to you in two shakes just in case any death cooties are still hanging around.” Wanda Sue jaunted off after giving me a big hug and an air kiss.
The only thing that would be “shaking” on Pop Pop was his arthritic hands, but I guessed it was worth a try if I left him the bleach in full sight.
“Come on, Kong, I’ve got to get ready for my dates.” I looked down at him, feeling my excitement build at hearing myself utter the word dates. Oh boy. “Stress the plural-I’ve got two dinner dates. Can you believe it?”
He cocked his head to one side, as if to say, “Fat chance.”
“It’s true, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of the evening.”
Kong lifted his leg and peed on my Birkenstock. Not an auspicious sign.
An hour later, after an invigorating shower and some serious primping in my bedroom, I’d forgotten the peeing incident, having washed off my sandals, and I tried to forget what had happened at Little Tuscanyand Madame Geri’s ominous warning about the wedding.
This was “double date” night, which I was hoping would help to banish the memory of Marco’s deathand all the talk about an island killer afoot.
Taking stock of myself in the mirror gave me the good and bad news. The good: thick, curly red hair and a slim figure; the bad: freckles everywhere (even in my ears) and a flat chest. But with a little tinted moisturizer, mascara, and pink lipstick, I did the most with my girlnext-door looks.
I peered closer at the massive splattering of freckles on my face-nothing except cement would cover them.
Then again, maybe I should slather on some of that bee cream. I’d tried everything else to fade the freckles-
A knock on my Airstream door interrupted my fantasy of a smooth, freckle-free face.
Kong looked up at me and didn’t bark-that meant he knew the knock.
Cole.
I took my time, strolling through the Airstream, taking in deep breaths, and chanting my Tae Kwon Do mantra, muggatoni, to steady my nerves.
It didn’t work.
I’d finally reached the dating zenith after a long, long drought. Double fun by having two guys, two restaurants, and two dinners. Who could keep calm at that prospect?
Then, I swung open the door with a beaming grin and beheld Cole … and Nick Billie.
My heart sank.
The smile faded.
There stood my blond, surfer-dude boyfriend in casual shorts and a T-shirt holding a spray of wildflowers; and my dark-haired potential boyfriend in dress pants and jacket, clutching a large box of chocolates-staring at me with eyes filled with confusion … and hurt. Oh no.
Could two men appear in greater contrast to each other? Except now they both wore similar grim expressions.
“Hi.” What else could I say?
Heat rose to my face, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. Busted.
“I guess I’m late,” Cole said, his voice flat.
“I guess I’m early,” Nick said, his voice strained.
“I … uh, guess I have some explaining to do,” I stammered.
Both men waited in mute anticipation.
My mouth opened and closed a few times, but nothing came out.
Don’t fail me now, motormouth.
“Okay, I know this looks bad, but it really makes sense, considering what happened today. Anita just assigned me to be the new food critic for the Observer this morning, and I have to go to two different restaurants tonight-and then write blog reviews for both of them. But I didn’t want to eat alone, and I didn’t want to have to … well, burden one of you with going to two restaurants in one night.” I turned to Nick. “And then when you pulled me over for nearly running down that old guy on the threewheeler-“
“You almost ran over an elderly biker?” Cole cut in.
“He turned in front of me. It wasn’t my fault.” I swung my glance in Cole’s direction, happy that at least my motormouth had seemed to kick into gear during my time of need. “But then Nick mentioned dinner, so I suggested Pelican’s Grill, knowing I couldn’t cancel Le Sink-“
“You mean you were going to have dinner at the nice restaurant with him after taking me to that dumpy place with all the sinks in the front yard?” The hurt in Cole’s soft blue eyes deepened.
Okay, it was official. This wasn’t going well.
“Cole, it’s not like that. It’s just that you and I had already planned on something casual, and I couldn’t cancel on you just because Anita wanted another food review tonight.” Mentally kicking myself, I plunged onward. “I know you don’t like to wear a suit-“
“That’s not the point. I thought we were a couple.” He tossed the wildflowers to the ground. “I would’ve bought a suit, if it meant that much to you”
Definitely not going well. Even beyond that, I felt like a consummate weasel.
I turned back to my potential island-cop boyfriend (though now that seemed a remote possibility).
“Nick, I didn’t want to turn down your invitation since you were so kind to ask-and Anita wanted me to do a review of Pelican’s Grill.” I swallowed as if a boulder blocked my throat. Who had I been kidding? I wasn’t the type of girl who could handle dating one guy, much less two.
He lifted one dark eyebrow, handed me the box of chocolates, and left without a word.
Cole followed and retreated into his van.
I stood there, chocolates in hand and wildflowers at my feet, with no one to blame but myself. Kong nuzzled my ankle, picking up on my dejection, but this once, my pooch’s affection couldn’t remedy my downcast mood.
I felt like a wrung-out dishrag. How could I have been so stupid?
Just then, Pop Pop zoomed up in his golf cart, taking out a bougainvillea bush before he could apply the brakes.
“Hiya, Mallie.”
I tried to summon a smile but managed only a slight twist of my lips.
“Wanda Sue said you needed the site next to you cleaned.” He slowly heaved his skinny legs out from behind the wheel and grabbed his cane and a bottle of Windex. Of course, he couldn’t juggle both at the same time, and I had to rush up and grab the Windex.
“Be careful.” I rubbed my forehead in frustration. “I think she wanted you to use Tilex.”
“Darn it, I thought Wanda Sue said Windex.” His wrinkles deepened as he looked at the bottle in puzzlement; then he tapped his left ear. “My hearing aid batteries must be running low again.”
“Maybe so.” I raised my voice and enunciated each word with exaggerated deliberateness.
“I guess since I’m here, I could clean the front windows on your Airstream-“
“No need.” I grabbed the Windex bottle from him and tossed it into the back of his golf cart. The last thing I wanted was for Pop Pop to stand on a ladder balancing his cane and a bottle of Windex on those shaky, skinny legs, trying to clean my large Airstream windows.
A recipe for a broken hip if I’d ever heard one.
“Okay, if you insist.” I could hear the relief in his voice.
He leaned forward, both hands on his cane. “You look mighty nice, Miss Mallie.”
“Thanks, Pop Pop.” I set the chocolates on my picnic table with a sigh.
He looked over at Cole’s buttoned-up van. “Did your boyfriend back out on the date?”
“Sort of.” No point in trying to explain-Pop Pop wouldn’t hear me anyway. I picked up the wildflowers and set them next to the chocolates. “And I was going to write a review of the restaurant where we were having dinner, so I guess I’ll be eating alone.”
“A pretty girl like you? Naha” He shook his head, but the motion seemed to loosen his dentures, and he had to shift his jaw to move them back into place. “I’d be proud to go with you.”
Huh?
“I know it’s not a real date or anything, ‘cause I’m a little old for you, but we could share dinner.”
Little old? He was ancient, almost a mummy.
Still, the hopeful kindness in his sagging face tugged at my heart. “I don’t know if your offer will stand if you hear where I have to eat-Le Sink.”
“I love it there,” he enthused, which led to a cackle, which led to a cough and my slapping him on the back so he could catch his breath.
He finally straightened.
“Okay-it’s a date,” I said, realizing Madame Geri had been right. This was my karma for being deceitful: sharing dinner with a geriatric RV park handyman with bad dentures. It couldn’t get much worse.
“You’ll have to drive, Mallie, and I’ll need to pick up my medication on the way there,” he pronounced. “If I don’t take my pills, dinner goes right through me, and I can’t even make it home in time.”
Okay, it just got worse.
Twenty minutes later, I had loaded Pop Pop, his newly purchased pills, his cane, and his oxygen tank (just in case) into my truck, and we headed out to Le Sink.
Luckily, Rusty’s air conditioner had kicked in, and we had a few puffs of coolness coming from the vents. Pop Pop took ten minutes to fasten his seat belt and then leaned his head back on the headrest to recover from his efforts. At least I had a few minutes of quiet as I drove to Le Sink.
This was turning out to be one heck of day: Madame Geri’s ominous predictions about an island killer, watching a man die, and then hurting the two men in my life.
When would I finally get my act together?
Pop Pop coughed a few more times, and my attention swung back to my date. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah … just some phlegm.” He cleared his throat, opened the window, and spit.
I just kept my eyes on the road, almost clapping when I saw the sign for Le Sink.
“Here we are!” I turned into the parking lot, and Rusty lurched over the potholes into a spot near a Porta Potti, which I assumed served as the public toilet for the restaurant-as per Sandy’s warning.
I vowed not to drink any liquids.
We climbed out of the truck and ambled toward the open-air restaurant that appeared just like the image on the Web site: a trailer with a serving window, a dozen or so paint-chipped picnic tables, and ceramic sinks littered around as yard ornaments.
A middle-aged couple sat at one of the tables; they both wore that resigned, desperate look of people who’d long given up ever expecting any food-or service, for that matter.
As we headed for a table, I realized that, in fact, the Web site didn’t quite do it justice. The picnic tables had a layer of grime not apparent in the picture, and the sinks seemed to emanate a moldy smell that couldn’t quite be captured in a visual image.
Charming.
I settled Pop Pop at one of the tables and signaled the waitress to come over. She looked at us and commented to the guy at the grill, “Crap … more customers.”
Grabbing a couple of paper menus, she sauntered over and slapped them onto our table. “You want some water?” she asked in a bored tone.
“I’d like an iced tea,” Pop Pop said.
“All we have is water,” she answered, a hand on her hip; the other hand shoved back her stringy Goth-black hair.
“Sounds good to me.” Pop Pop smiled but received no reaction in response.
I glanced over at the Porta Potti briefly. “Nothing for me, thanks.” I sneaked my notepad out of my hobo bag, ready to start taking notes for my review.
As she stomped off, the middle-aged couple waved their arms overhead for attention like a ground crew trying to land an aircraft. She ignored them, and the man shouted: “We still don’t have our burgers, and it’s been almost two hours!”
“Order up,” the cook said from the trailer grill. She grabbed the plastic baskets containing burgers and fries and took them over to the couple. The man stared down at his meal and then looked up in disbelief.
“This is burned to a crisp,” he said, nudging it as if it were contagious.
“You said you wanted yours well done,” she said. “So?”
“Mine is raw; I asked for medium,” the woman with him complained.
The waitress muttered something under her breath, turned her back on them, and strode back to our table. “What do you want?”
I scanned the menu. Two items were typed on the paper: Burger and Cheeseburger. “I guess I’ll have the cheeseburger-medium well.” I figured that I might luck out and get something in between raw and burned.
“I’ll have a fish sandwich.” Of course, Pop Pop couldn’t read the menu.
“You’ll have the burger,” our waitress said, ordering for him, and left.
Pop Pop turned to me with a smile. “Isn’t this place great? I’d come here every week if I could get Wanda Sue to give me more time off.”
“But you don’t drive,” I pointed out, not to mention that his job at the Twin Palms wasn’t exactly twenty-four/ seven-if you didn’t count his nap time. Still, you couldn’t fault his upbeat attitude-even on the threshold of dining hell.
“Wanda Sue drops me off,” he explained, moving around his dentures with his tongue. “She always says she’d rather be hog-tied than eat here.”
At that moment, the waitress returned with a glass of water; the liquid looked yellowish. Ick.
“Okay, enough!” I stood up, marched past the waitress, and poked my head inside the trailer’s serving counter. “Hey, you!”
A young guy, with a grease-encrusted spatula in hand, looked up from the grill. “What?”
“My friend’s water is yel-low,” I stated, emphasizing the last syllable.
“It’s well water.” He slapped a mound of hamburger onto the grill; it flared in a mini cloud of grease and smoke.
“It’s dirty water.”
“Says you.” He shrugged and slapped another mound of hamburger onto the grill, which sizzled in an even larger sooty cloud.
“Look, just so you know, I’m Mallie Monroe from the Observer, and I’m doing a review of your … uh, restaurant for the paper’s blog.” I rapped my hand on the counter. “And you’re not earning too many stars by treating my dining companion like he’s some kind of pathetic old derelict.”
I gestured at Pop Pop, who had removed his dentures and dropped them into the glass of water.
“Looks like he found a use for the water,” Grill Guy commented as he focused on charring our burgers.
“A bad review could close you down,” I warned.
“Good luck!” The middle-aged couple both gave me a thumbs-up.
“Fat chance,” Gri
ll Guy muttered.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll eat that garbage you’re cooking, and I’ll make certain everyone on the island knows-“
“Kyle!” a man shouted from behind me.
Grill Guy halted and peered out the counter opening. “Guido, what the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you not to come back here-“
“Silenzio!” Guido threw open the trailer door, shouting words in Italian.
Kyle the Grill Guy appeared at the door with the spatula, and Guido lunged at him hollering:
“Killer! You killed Mr. Santini!”
The two young men tussled for a few minutes as Guido aimed several weak punches at Kyle’s face. Kyle slapped Guido repeatedly with the plastic spatula. Neither of them would exactly qualify for a heavyweight title. Or even a lightweight one.
“Killer!” Guido shouted as he yanked Kyle out of the trailer.
Kyle stumbled but never let go of the spatula. “You’re crazy.” He thumped his assailant on the ear with his plastic weapon.
Guido torpedoed into Kyle, grabbing him around the waist and wrestling him to the ground. “I am not! Bastardo! You will pay for what you did to Mr. Santini and Beatrice.”
They rolled around on the sand and gravel, grunting and pummeling each other.
I stood there, transfixed-not sure if I should call the police or get Guido his own spatula. Then they rolled in my direction, and I jumped back.
“Stop it!” I clapped my hands to get their attention.
Neither responded. Kyle grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it into Guido’s face. He spat it out and grabbed some broken shells, which he rubbed into Kyle’s stringy hair. They stuck in the black strands, causing a salt-and-pepper effect.
“Hey, can someone assist me here?” I turned to the waitress.
“Not my problem.” She strolled past me with two small food baskets in hand. I caught a whiff of charred burger and almost gagged. But Pop Pop retrieved his teeth from the glass, snapped them into place, and smiled eagerly as the bored Goth girl served him.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool Page 5
