Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool

by Marty Ambrose

  “Can I take that as a `No comment’?”

  “Yes.”

  Okay, now he’s just being stubborn. I chewed on the pen, trying to come up with a tactic that would get Nick to be more forthcoming. I set the ballpoint on his desk. “You know, when I saw Marco stumble out of the kitchen yesterday, he was clawing at his throat and coughing like he was choking. Wouldn’t he have known what was happening if he had this kind of extreme allergy?” I grasped my neck with both hands and imitated the gagging reflex that Marco had exhibited, tongue out and coughing. “It kind of looked like that.” I repeated the motion.

  “Stop. I can’t stand to see the replay.” He held up a hand. “Look, Mallie, I don’t have anything definitive from the medical examiner, except that what the paramedics told you at Little Tuscany was probably Marco’s cause of death. The ME said he had hives and a swollen throat, both common for someone with an extreme reaction to shellfish.”

  “Like shrimp or lobster?” I retrieved my pen again.

  He tipped his head in agreement.

  “But wouldn’t Marco have known that he was allergic to shellfish? Especially because he worked with food for a living.”

  “I would think so”

  “So that means someone might’ve secretly put shellfish in his food to cause the allergic reaction that killed him,” I proposed, trying to construct a logical reason for Marco to have eaten shellfish, my thoughts racing a mile a minute.

  “That’s always a possibility,” Nick responded enigmatically.

  “It also fits with the incident that occurred at Le Sink last night,” I added, half to myself.

  His glance sharpened. “What do you mean ‘incident’?”

  I hesitated. “I was at Le Sink after you and Cole left-“

  “Oh, yeah, I heard you took up with Pop Pop as your main squeeze.” He gave a snort of laughter.

  “How many times do I have to say that I’m not dating Pop Pop?” I slapped my thigh for emphasis as the heat of irritation rose to my face. “This damn island grapevine is a creeping weed of misinformation. To think I would date a guy old enough to be my grandfather. Jeez.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He still sported the vague remnants of a wry smile. “But back to the `incident.’ And please keep it under a thousand words, if possible.”

  “I’ll try.” Sarcasm thickened my voice. After gathering my thoughts, I related the particulars of the fight between Guido and Kyle-and my own heroic role in wielding the broom.

  Nick scribbled a few notes as I talked.

  When I was finished, I peered across his desk and tried to read what he’d jotted down. “Is Guido in trouble?”

  “He started a public fight.”

  “But he didn’t really hurt Kyle-“

  “I’ll talk to both of them.” His tone was clipped and final. “Just let me do my job.”

  “Okay.” I pursed my mouth. “But what if Guido was right? Maybe Kyle put the shellfish in Marco’s food to poison him. I heard there was some kind of trouble between Kyle’s mother and Marco-“

  “Mallie”-Nick leaned forward-“I want you to stick to the facts in your story. Francesca Bernini hasn’t done anything to warrant her being considered as a suspect”

  “So you are initiating an investigation?” I prompted.

  “Maybe.”

  Damn. Back to the one-word answers.

  “You’ve had my statement for the Observer,” he added.

  At least that was a full sentence. “By the way, I’m not exactly writing a news story on Marco’s death at Little Tuscany.”

  “Then what is this interview all about?”

  “I’m doing a restaurant review series leading up to `Taste of the Island,’ and the first reviews are covering Le Sink and Little Tuscany-“

  “You’re now a food critic?” His brow rose in disbelief. “I’ve never seen you eat anything but fast food and microwave dinners.”

  “True, but I can tell the difference between fresh grouper and frozen fish sticks,” I hastened to add. So what if my palate wasn’t gourmet? At least I’d read a copy of the magazine once.

  “On a good day,” Nick quipped as he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “What was Anita thinking?”

  I rose to my feet with some indignation. “She believes in me-something that would be kind of refreshing from you.”

  “I guess I’d have to trust you first.”

  “Trust comes from commitment.”

  We just stared at each other for a long moment, both knowing we weren’t talking about the restaurant reviews any longer. It seemed like we were back at square one, with Nick being cagey and me being disappointed.

  Sigh.

  I tossed my notebook and pen into my bag. “One last thing: do you think it’s strange that Marco died the day after his brother, Carlos, passed away?”

  “Conspiracy theory?”

  “Nope. Madame Geri prophecy.”

  “That explains it.” He picked up a file. “I have one of these on both brothers, and while they didn’t like each other, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary about either death.” He tossed the file back onto his desk. “Marco’s possible allergies aside, Carlos weighed in at the size of a Mack truck and had congestive heart failure. He could barely stand in the ice cream store for more than ten minutes. The poundage and high-fat food aren’t exactly a healthy combination-even if he did seem happy all the time.”

  “True.” I remembered his jovial face as he scooped my favorite maple walnut flavor into a sugar cone. He certainly didn’t seem like he was stressed, but all of that girth might have been enough to do him in.

  Still, Madame Geri’s words flitted through my mind. Much as I hated to admit it, she had a sixth sense about untimely deaths-and the kind of secrets that people would do anything to hide.

  I heaved my hobo bag strap over my shoulder. “I might talk to Beatrice, just to check on facts for my review, of course.”

  “Just make sure you keep the conversation about food.” He eyed me with a suspicious glint. “And remember, she just lost her father and uncle in the same week.”

  “I’m not totally insensitive,” I said in a defensive tone.

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  I pivoted on my heel and left. While Nick’s anger might mean he cared about me, it would be a long while before he forgot about being two-timed, as he called it. I had blown it.

  Feeling somewhat deflated, I braved the chilly wind and climbed back into my truck. Maybe it was best not to focus so much on my pathetic love life and, instead, figure out what had happened to Carlos and Marco. I might have a better chance of success, that’s for sure.

  Sending a silent appeal to St. Otto again, I tentatively turned the ignition key. Rusty’s engine roared into action. Yippee. I guess my saint ally had given me my answer: I had to find the connection between the two brothers’ deaths.

  Far be it from me to argue with the universe. I’d head to the Island Garage to get a new battery, and then I’d question Beatrice.

  Time to get to work.

  Luckily, Stan had a battery to fit the make and model of my ancient rust bucket, so my stop at the garage didn’t take too long. While waiting, I texted Sandy to get Beatrice’s phone number, then called her to see if I could stop by and chat. When Beatrice hesitated, I told her I worked at the Observer and hinted that Guido might need me to be on his side as a witness to the fight at Le Sink.

  She immediately acquiesced and gave me the address of her family’s house.

  It took only a few minutes to get to Beatrice’s neighborhood. Located in an older section of the island called Palmetto Place, I quickly pinpointed the midsized stuccoed dwelling that looked like it might have been transplanted from Tuscany. The house was the only one on the street painted the same pink color as the restaurant, with Mediterranean arches across the front facade. The mailbox also had the name SANTINI printed in large letters.

  I wasn’t an investigative reporte
r for nothing.

  After parking Rusty, I made for the front door. But I didn’t even have a chance to knock before Beatrice appeared and let me in. As I entered, I noted that the large living room had a very similar decor to the restaurant: murals with Italian scenes, dark leather furniture, and several wine racks. The same aroma of bread and olive oil even wafted in from the kitchen off to the left.

  My mouth watered. It was way past lunchtime.

  Beatrice quietly shut the door behind me and offered to take my coat. As I gave it to her, I noted her face appeared blotchy from crying.

  “How are you doing?” I asked, instantly feeling guilty that food was uppermost on my mind from the moment I stepped inside the house.

  “I’m okay, I guess.” Her eyes welled up, and she brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. “My older brother is driving down from Jacksonville, so he’s going to help with the funeral arrangements. I still can’t believe what happened at the restaurant yesterday. Dad was standing there cooking one moment and then choking to death the next-” She broke off, a fresh wave of tears gushing down her cheeks. “It’s just a nightmare, especially after losing Uncle C-Carlos two days ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I gave her a brief hug. Her thin shoulders felt so delicate, as if they could snap under the weight of her grief.

  “The paramedics did everything they could, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they did,” I assured her.

  “It … must’ve been fate.” She glanced at a giltframed religious picture on the wall and crossed herself, murmuring something under her breath. “Uncle Carlos always said, `Que sera, sera’ What will be, will be. And I guess he was right.” She sniffed and shoved her hair back with a resolute hand.

  “Guess so.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” At my eager nod, she motioned me to follow her into the kitchen, which turned out to be a chef’s delight: granite countertops, stainless steel double ovens, and a massive glass-fronted refrigerator.

  “Amazing.” A far cry from my Airstream’s minuscule cooking area. “This is an incredible space.”

  “Dad designed it. He wanted the kitchen to look like the one in the house where he grew up in Tuscany.” Her voice sounded wistful. “When I was a little girl, I would stand on a chair while I learned to make homemade pasta with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Carlos. They were all good friends then.”

  “What happened?”

  She paused, coffee scoop in hand. “I don’t know. When I was about ten, I came home early from school one day and heard Dad yelling in Italian to Uncle Carlos. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. But after that, my uncle didn’t hang out with us anymore. My mother never told me what they’d argued about, but I sensed that she knew.”

  “Your mother was Delores Santini?”

  “Uh-huh.” Beatrice clicked on the BREW button and then faced me, her delicate features shadowed by even more sadness. “She kept her married name, even though she and my dad divorced years ago.”

  “And she moved to town after the divorce?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

  “My landlady at the Twin Palms is Wanda Sue.”

  “‘Nuff said.” A ghost of a smile raised the corners of Beatrice’s mouth. “She was BFFs with my mother; they’d meet at Uncle Carlos’ ice cream store for a banana split every Sunday-even after Mom moved to town.”

  “Interesting.” Odd that Wanda Sue had omitted that part when she told me about Delores.

  “So your dad didn’t get along with your Uncle Carlos for a long time?”

  “At least ten years.” She pulled two blue-and-white ceramic mugs out of a cabinet. “To tell you the truth, my dad always had an … Italian temper. You heard it that day in the restaurant.” Her tears seemed to dry up. “I guess everybody just gave in to him, so he wouldn’t make a fuss. That’s probably what finally drove both Uncle Carlos and my mother to break away from him, even though my uncle stayed on the island.”

  “So did your uncle ever say what they had argued about?” I restrained myself from grabbing my notebook. It didn’t seem respectful.

  “No. And I saw him every day before I went into work.” Her face softened again. “He was such a cool unclecaring and patient. He even paid for me to go to culinary school, so I could eventually run the restaurant myself.”

  “I used to see him at the ice cream store,” I replied. “He was always in a good mood, and he gave me extra candy sprinkles on my cone when I’d had a bad day, which occurred almost every twenty-four hours when I first started working at the Observer. My editor, Anita, didn’t like anything I wrote, and then I had to work for her evil twin sister, Bernice, for a while. She drove me even crazier-” I caught myself, reining in the motormouth. Again, it wasn’t the time or place.

  “Uncle Carlos had a big heart-and maybe that’s why his own was giving out: he cared so much about everyone. I … I knew he didn’t have long to live, ‘cause he told me that his heart was failing, and he wouldn’t get treatment.” Her eyes welled up once more. “I loved him to pieces; he was like a second father to me, and he was so good to Guido.”

  “So your uncle knew he was dying?”

  She gave a little nod.

  “And he approved of your relationship with Guido, but your father didn’t?” I took in a deep whiff of the brewing coffee. Heavenly.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, all of a sudden more nervous than upset. Her hand began to twirl a strand of curly hair, and she inched back from me.

  Was Beatrice’s display of grief genuine? Certainly, she had loved her uncle, but what about her father? Was she secretly glad he was gone, so he couldn’t come between her and Guido? Or maybe she’d had a hand in getting her father out of the picture permanently, since she knew her uncle wouldn’t be around long to protect her.

  “Urn … did your father have any food allergies?”

  “Y-yes, to shellfish.” Beatrice started as if stung by a wasp, but she recovered quickly. “He couldn’t even work with shrimp at the restaurant; it would cause a rash to break out on his hands.” She poured the coffee, shielding her face with the long fall of her hair. “Why do you ask? Do you think it had anything to do with his death?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but if your father died of an allergic reaction to something he ate, it’s likely that it would be to some kind of shellfish.” I took the coffee mug from her. “You know, the fight last night at Le Sink occurred because Guido accused Kyle of harming your father. Do you think he could have managed to put shellfish in something your father ate yesterday?”

  “Maybe.” She exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Kyle was at Little Tuscany yesterday morning with his mother. They wanted to go over their menus for `Taste of the Island.’”

  “And?”

  Beatrice filled her own cup to the brim and offered me some biscotti. “They never got the chance. As soon as Francesca and Kyle came into the kitchen, my dad started yelling at them about stealing his prized secret sauce recipe. He said he was going to expose Francesca as a food thief.”

  I raised my hands, palms up. “So?”

  She drew back, as though stung for a second time. “She won fifty thousand dollars for that recipe in a national recipe contest; it was enough for her and her son to start up their own Italian restaurant on the island: Taste of Venice. They took a lot of our regular clients.”

  My mouth dropped open at the amount of money. Maybe I could start whipping up some recipes of my own: Hamburger Helper with mango sauce? Leftover pizza a la mode? They’d be worth about two dollars.

  “Anyway, Francesca started yelling back at my dad that his slander was ruining her business and that she would `take care’ of him.” Beatrice paused. “Do you think they could’ve … done something to my dad?”

  “Were they ever in the kitchen alone?” I took a deep swig of the coffee. Delish. My knees grew weak at the scrumptious flavor. “This is really … like, incred
ible coffee, and I drink enough of it to know.”

  “I ground the beans this morning.”

  I gulped down the entire cup and then helped myself to a refill. “Okay, back to Francesca and Kyle-so maybe Guido was right about them. They could be suspects.”

  “But Guido isn’t going to get into trouble for saying it, is he?” Her voice turned anxious, and a little frown line appeared between her dark eyebrows.

  “Not for the accusation, but maybe the fight. He shouldn’t have attacked Kyle, and there were witnesses, including me. To be honest, I had to relate the event to Nick Billie a little while ago.” I dipped my own biscotti in the coffee and then took a taste. My knees grew even weaker, causing me to drop into a chair while I gobbled down two more biscotti.

  “Detective Billie knows?”

  “Yeah … sorry.”

  She slid into a chair across from me. “I don’t think Guido even knew what he was doing. We were at the hospital for hours. Then we came back to the island, and Guido took off, saying something in Italian about Kyle. I should have stopped him. Now he’s made things worse for himself.”

  “You mean with his visa?”

  She bowed her head and sighed. “He came here as an exchange student but applied for one of those green card lotteries right before he graduated-and won. But until he becomes a full citizen, he has to keep his job and stay out of trouble.”

  “I think Nick understands that yesterday took its toll on everyone, so I wouldn’t worry about Guido, unless there’s something else you’re not telling me.” I ended on a questioning note.

  Beatrice’s head jerked upward. “No-there’s nothing,” she said quickly. A shade too quickly.

  We sat there for a few moments in silence, and I took a few furtive glances at Beatrice, but she kept her cameolike features shuttered and closed. Still, a faint pink flush stained her cheeks-a sign that she was hiding something about Guido?

  “When is your brother going to come in?” I finally asked.

  She checked her filigreed-silver watch. “In about an hour.”

  “I can stay until then.” My cell phone rang, and I checked the caller ID: Sandy. “I need to get this.”