Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue

by Marty Ambrose

  “I’ve got to get mine painted, and I was curious about matching colors.” Oh, yeah, as if Rusty had a discernible color anymore. “How did you find the right paint for the touch-up?”

  “The dealer.” His mouth pulled tightly in at the cor ners. “Find the VIN number, and they can get the right shade of paint.”

  VIN? Hah. If Rusty had one, it was long gone. “So, may we see your truck?”

  Madame Geri slid off the stool.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t-not till the paint is dry.” Two patches of red appeared on his cheeks. “Could get smudged”

  “Suit yourself.” I began to rewrap the fly.

  All of a sudden Frank snatched it from me.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I grabbed for it. “Give it back.”

  He stepped back and cradled the deceiver in his hands. “I’ll need to keep it so I can sketch the design, research it, maybe even put it out on the Internet.”

  “I … I wanted to do the research myself.” The deceiver was my only clue. And I needed to hand it over to Detective Billie. I hadn’t exactly decided on when I was going to hand the fishing fly over, but I was going to do it.

  Frank paled but kept his protective hold on the fly. “Just give me a couple of hours to make some inquiries. Please. It’s too beautiful to just let go without trying to find out who made it.”

  I hesitated. Frank was a suspect. He could destroy the evidence. But short of trying a few Tae Kwon Do maneuvers, I didn’t know how I could wrestle it away from him. Damn. “Okay. We’ll pick it up after the fishing tournament this afternoon. No later. No excuses. You understand? I’ve got a witness.” I pointed at Madame Geri. “If it `disappears,’ and I see it on eBay, you’re going to be in big trouble, mister.” I shook my finger at him.

  “It’ll be here when you return. I promise.”

  “It had better be,” I warned. “By the way, what’s your e-mail address?”

  “Huh?” He looked blank for a moment. “King52@aol.com”

  “Oh” Not that I expected him to say Salty Surfer. Still, I’d thought I might trip him up. But his answer was quick, the information easy to check-not that he couldn’t have used Salty Surfer as a temporary address. I hesitated, trying to figure out if I could wrestle him for the fishing fly. Not likely. Still peeved, I finally exited Frank’s Fish and Bait Shoppe with Madame Geri and Marley in tow. Once we were back in Rusty, I thumped my head against the steering wheel. “I can’t believe I let him take the fly from me like that. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  She was silent.

  “Nick Billie is going to pitch a fit when he finds out” I turned to her. “Whaddya think? Did the spirits tell you if Frank was guilty or not?”

  “He was hiding something-that’s for sure.” She stroked Marley with an absentminded caress.

  “His reaction to the fly seemed genuine,” I pointed out with a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t destroy it.

  “Maybe”

  “But what about the paint on the truck? He sure tried to hide where he did the touch-up”

  “True.”

  I gave a snort of impatience. “Could you be a little more definite? I mean, what’s the point of having a psychic with me if you’re not getting any vibes?”

  She sighed. “Psychic impressions aren’t like a water faucet I can turn on and off. When the spirit world thinks the time is right, I’ll get `vibes,’ as you call them. And not a moment sooner.”

  “Fine” I started up Rusty’s engine and cranked on the heat. Deceivers and psychic visions aside, I still had another story to cover. The local fishing tournament might not be Detroit Free Press front-page headlines, but coverage of it was scheduled for next week’s edition. Anita would pitch a nicotine-withdrawal fit if I just blew it off because I was investigating Tom’s murder.

  Madame Geri and I drove toward the south end of Coral Island, where Sea Belle Isle Point was located. Unlike the north part of the island, where I lived, which boasted a small beach and trailer park, the south tip was much more ritzy.

  Canals had been dredged almost a hundred years ago and a large community planned, called Sea Belle Isle Point on the Gulf. Needless to say, the community never expanded beyond a few hundred people-maybe because no one wanted to live in a place with a name that long. Or maybe because the area could only be accessed by ferry at that time. Whatever the reason, Sea Belle Isle Point had languished until about ten years ago, when a small causeway was built and wealthy tourists “discovered” the appeal of direct Gulf-access canals.

  Fancy-schmancy “old Florida” houses went up, along with a clubhouse and marina. The Sea Belle Isle Point inhabitants kept themselves separate from the rest of the islanders, except for occasional charity events where they could bestow their magnanimous wealth on the community. The fishing tournament was one of those occasions. Money raised from the event went to the Coral Island Elementary School-not that any of the Sea Belle Isle Point kids attended it. Their mothers drove them into town to exclusive private schools, thank you very much.

  As I parked Rusty in the country club parking lot, I noted the Lexus to my right and the Mercedes to my left. I patted Rusty’s faded plastic dashboard, murmuring, “Don’t let them intimidate you, buddy. Could they pull an almost five-thousand-pound Airstream?”

  I gave my truck another pat and turned off the engine. It backfired with a loud burst of sooty exhaust. Madame Geri said nothing, but the significant arching of her eyebrows spoke volumes.

  “Rusty’s just clearing his throat” I jerked on the door handle, which promptly fell off. Screwing it back in, I managed to open the door and get out before anything else could happen. Rusty needed body work, especially now that the bumper was messed up again. When I got a few paychecks ahead next year, I intended to take him for a spring “spruce up” at the body shop in town. If he could hold out until then …

  As we headed toward the clubhouse, I zipped up my windbreaker and hunched my shoulders. The sun had finally peeped through the blanket of gray clouds, but the temperature hadn’t warmed up much. A teeth-chattering wind still roared in off the Gulf, bringing a wind-chill factor that seemed to penetrate my best attempts to layer against the cold.

  “A bit nippy, huh?” Madame Geri said, clutching her cape around her like a protective tent. Even Marley had his wings drawn in tightly against the cold. I guess the bird wasn’t that dumb after all.

  I muttered something unintelligible and kept moving toward the prospective heat of the clubhouse. Once inside, I realized it wasn’t much warmer there. The French doors at the far end were wide open, so people could move back and forth between the building and the fishing pier directly behind. A huge banner hung from the ceiling, saying Welcome, Coral Island Hookers. Catchy. I reached for my Official Reporter’s Notepad. “I’ve got to do some interviews and snap a few photos. Catch you later.”

  She nodded and moved off in the direction of the refreshments table. I headed out toward the pier.

  Lots of islanders milled around the docks, many with fishing poles in hand. One of the guys who played guitar on Friday nights at the Seafood Shanty twanged away under a palm tree, and the smell of sizzling seafood wafted out of the covered tent.

  “Hi, Mallie,” Sandy said as she approached with Jimmy at her side, both of them wearing olive drab fishing vests. I spied a price tag peeping out of the armhole of hers. I smiled.

  “Jimmy, your mom is around here somewhere.” I scanned the room but didn’t see her.

  “She’s probably going to set up somewhere to do readings.” His arm slid around Sandy’s shoulders. “She can’t be in a place for five minutes without people wanting to have their fortunes told. It’s an occupational hazard”

  “Must be like doctors always being badgered for free medical advice.” I tried to keep the amusement out of my voice. “You guys fishing for prizes?”

  “You bet.” Jimmy held up his pole proudly. “I won second place in the saltwater fly-fishing division last year. I intend-“
/>   My interest immediately perked up. “You mean people will be fly-fishing today? In saltwater?”

  “Sure. You can catch saltwater fish on flies just as easily as freshwater. Maybe even better. I like using a thirty-yard line, a black Lab deceiver-“

  “A deceiver? You use one of those?” My voice grew excited.

  “Everyone does. They work so well here. Most of the islanders make special flies for the tournament” He held up a fly with black and gray feathers. Even to my un trained eye, it didn’t appear to be nearly as complicated as the one I’d found on Tom’s boat.

  “You and Jimmy have fun…. I’ve got a story to do” Sprinting past them, I stepped onto the pier. Excitement kindled inside of me. I had a prime opportunity to preview all the islanders’ fishing flies while appearing to work on my article. If the murderer were here today, I might be able to pinpoint him by his fly. I grinned to myself. All right, keep it clean, Mallie. His fishing fly.

  I strolled toward a group of fishermen at the end of the pier. Jake Fowler wasn’t among them. I took a few photos, asked some questions for my article, getting people’s reactions to the tournament, and managed to scope out their flies. Fishing flies, of course.

  Nothing but run-of-the-mill stuff.

  I started to make my way back to the shore when I spied a young woman with a group of kids clamoring around her. It was Beverly from the school. I’d recognize that lovely gold hair anywhere. Unfortunately, the rest of her appearance still screamed “schoolteacher.” A long black skirt, plaid coat, and Mary Janes completed the picture of Mary Poppins in the twenty-first century. As I approached her, I noticed the expert flick she gave to her fishing pole, launching her fly way out into the water.

  “I can tell you’ve done your share of fishing,” I said.

  She turned around and looked blank for a few moments.

  “Mallie Monroe, from the Observer. Remember I came to cover the jump-rope story at the elementary school?”

  Recognition dawned in her eyes. “Oh, yes, of course. I knew I’d seen you somewhere. It’s just that I deal with so many students and their parents that sometimes I sort of forget who I’ve talked to”

  “Sure” I couldn’t make out what kind of fly was on the end of her line. It looked larger than some of the other ones I’d seen today. “Since I’ve got you here, I might as well get a quote for my article.”

  “Miss … miss!” A little boy with large brown eyes and hair that flopped over his forehead was pulling on her coat. “My line is all messed up”

  “Never a dull moment. Just a sec.” She set her pole down, took his, and with a few deft movements untangled his line and handed it back to him. “Here, go join Robby and the other boys.”

  Once again I was impressed with her fishing acumen. I decided I had to get a look at her fly. I don’t know how or why she could be connected to Tom, but anything was possible.

  One boy from the group waved at me. It was Kevin. I waved back. Then I frowned when I saw that Robby Fowler was also in the little group. “It’s nice to see Kevin out here with his-“

  “Buddies. Yes, I know.” A cloud of doubt settled over the delicate oval of her face. “But to tell you the truth, I’m a little concerned. The other boys in his class have heard about Tom’s death and the rumors that it was … murder.” She stumbled over the last word as if it were an obscenity. “They’re upset and scared”

  “Of Kevin?”

  She picked up her fishing pole again. “I’m afraid so”

  “They don’t actually think he’d-“

  “Hurt them?” she cut in again.

  I glared at her. One, because she was painting Kevin in a bad light. And, two, because she seemed genetically unable to let me finish a sentence.

  “I hate to say this about one of my own students, but I’m a little nervous around him myself.”

  “That’s ridicu-“

  “Is it? I’ve seen Kevin’s temper in the classroom. He’s easily frustrated and takes it out on his classmates. I’ve tried to work with him, knowing his parents were separated, but he’s been sent to detention almost a dozen times over the last month alone”

  “What for?” That odd, protective feeling rose up inside me again. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight, was I finally becoming maternal? Nah. It couldn’t be. I didn’t particularly like kids. I just hated seeing anyone get picked on.

  “Fighting with the other boys. He’s got quite a temper, and I’ve been concerned that he might injure one of his classmates” She clucked her tongue in an irritating manner that reminded me of my old schoolteachers, who were always comparing me to my straight-A, never absent, always perfect sibling. “One time he hit a boy on the head with a paperweight.”

  A tiny alarm went off in the back of my mind. “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course. I had to “

  No wonder Detective Billie still considered Kevin a suspect. A hot-tempered, violent boy on a boat with his dad who’d deserted him. I had to admit, it didn’t sound good even to me.

  “Did you call in the school counselor-” I began.

  “Killer!” a boy screamed. “Daddy killer!”

  “No. No. No!” another boy yelled back.

  I turned toward the group of boys in time to see Kevin knock down Robby Fowler, then rain punches on his face in a fit of rage.

  “I’ll kill you!” Kevin exclaimed.

  oys,B stop that!” Beverly shouted and clapped her hands. They ignored her.

  “Hit him! Hit him!” the other boys clamored. I wasn’t sure if they were encouraging Kevin or Robby, but I realized that one of them was going to get hurt.

  I pushed past the circle of boys and reached for Kevin. But Jake Fowler got there first. He pulled Robby back by the hood of his jacket. I slipped an arm around Kevin to keep him in check. His breathing was ragged, his whole body shaking.

  “What’s the matter with you, boy?” Jake exclaimed. “Haven’t I told you about fighting?”

  Robby’s face was flushed. “But you’re the one who told me Kevin’s dad was a no-good-“

  “That’s not the point. You don’t rag on a boy when he’s down. He just lost his father. Cut him some slack”

  I almost gasped. Was this Jake Fowler? He actually seemed to be showing some sympathy for Kevin.

  “But, Dad-“

  “It’s time for you to go home.” He grabbed Robby’s fishing pole. “Sorry ‘bout this.” He looked at me rather than Beverly. “He’ll be grounded, I can tell you.”

  Robby began to cry.

  Jake hustled him away from the group, chastising him every step of the way. The other boys turned back to their fishing poles, whispering among themselves.

  “Are you okay, Kevin?” I squatted down to his level.

  “Yeah” The anger had faded from his face. Now he just looked embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay that-“

  “No, it’s not okay,” Beverly cut in, her voice at a shrill pitch that sounded like nails scraping across a chalkboard. “Kevin, how many times have I talked to you about practicing self-control? You simply cannot continue hurting other children. If you do, the principal will have to remove you from the school. Is that what you want?”

  “No, miss.”

  “I didn’t think so” She folded her arms across her flat chest. Her face took on a pinched quality that offered a preview of what she would look like in twenty years. It wasn’t pretty.

  “You don’t even know who started the fight” I rose to my feet. “It could’ve been any of the other boys”

  “Robby? Maybe so. But Kevin was the one who had him down, pummeling his face. That is totally unacceptable.”

  “Yes, miss,” he mumbled.

  “What’s going on here?” Detective Billie strode up to us, looking big and handsome in his jeans and black leather jacket.

  “Oh, Nick, thank goodness you’re here,” she tittered. The pinched look vanished, replaced by a coy, mincing smile. Ick. That was even worse.
Not that I was jealous. Far from it.

  “The boys just had a little ruckus, and-” I began.

  Beverly brushed aside my comments and blurted out, “Kevin had Robby Fowler down on the dock and was beating him senseless.”

  “Oh, come on. It wasn’t like that-“

  “Poor Robby was saved in the nick of time by his father,” she continued.

  “Okay, I’ll take it from here” Detective Billie glanced down at Kevin from what must’ve seemed a great height to the young boy. “Whaddya say we go get a hot chocolate and chat?” he proposed, his voice firm.

  “Okay.” Kevin pointed at me. “Can she come too?”

  His eyes caught and held mine. “Sure. If we can keep her from talking too much.”

  Beverly laughed and started to say something, but then her cell phone rang. She pivoted on her heel, chatting away on the phone, and strolled toward her students with a saucy sway to her hips. Spare me.

  “Thanks a lot, Nick.” I gave an affronted snort. “You can pick up the tab for the hot chocolates”

  Kevin and I trooped inside. Detective Billie followed a few minutes later after a brief stop at the concession stand.

  We found a table set off in an alcove by itself and pulled up a couple of chairs. Kevin immediately grabbed for his hot chocolate. He downed almost half of it in one long swallow, leaving a little brown mustache over his upper lip.

  Detective Billie dabbed at the boy’s mouth with a napkin. “Now, Kevin, tell me what happened out there on the dock”

  Kevin hung his head low on his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, but I still need some details,” he continued.

  “I was minding my own business just fishing, that’s all, I swear. The other boys didn’t say much to me, but that’s okay. I didn’t want to talk to them neither.” His defensive tone told the opposite story. “Anyways, Robby came up and started boasting. Said he was gonna catch the biggest fish. Stuff like that. I ignored him. But then he pushed me and said he wanted my fishing spot. I still didn’t do anything. Honestly.”

  I didn’t respond, but I believed him. Detective Billie sipped his hot chocolate in silence. I did likewise.