Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves

by Marty Ambrose

  A Mango Bay Mystery

  The Mango Bay Mystery Series:

  Peril in Paradise Island Intrigue

  Marty Ambrose

  This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from the Avalon book archive files.

  As always, I would like to thank my family, especially my husband, Jim, for being supportive of my mystery-writing career. They are constantly there to offer advice, revisions, and good cheer!

  My gratitude also extends to my friends and, in particular, Joan Van Glabek, for her upbeat attitude and keen proofreading talent.

  And, lastly, I’m eternally thankful for my agent, Roberta Brown. I love having you in my corner!

  Now, the mango in its infinite variety

  possesses charms as engaging as

  those of Cleopatra.

  E. J. Banfield, My Tropic Isle

  ho would’ve thought when I, Mallie Monroe, awakened to the bright Florida sunshine that by the end of the day I’d wind up knee-deep in swamp water and death?

  My life at the Twin Palms RV Resort on Coral Island had settled into the quiet comfort of midsummer. No hordes of tourists, no cold spells, and, most of all, no boring elementaryschool stories to write for the newspaper. School was out. Tropical heaven. Except that it was hot, hot, hot.

  I’d even received a raise from the Coral Island Observer, where I work as a reporter. Not that it amounted to much, but I actually could afford to buy new summer clothes instead of the usual “pre-owned” items I picked up at the secondhand store. Ah, the smell of fresh cotton … nirvana.

  Yes, life was good.

  And it promised to be even better. I’d received an e-mail that morning from my long-lost but not forgotten hunky exboyfriend, Cole Whitney. A freelance photographer, he had the kind of surfer-dude looks and free-spirited spontaneity that I’d found irresistible at the time. We’d spent a year together in Orlando. Fun, carefree, happy times.

  Unfortunately, his free spirit had urged him out west to “find himself,” leaving me in a state of indentured servitude at the Magic Kingdom. I hadn’t heard from him since-except for the occasional postcard. Almost two years, three months, and four days ago. But who’s counting? I should’ve been furious with him, but being angry with Cole was like chasing a butterfly in the wind. Pointless.

  Besides, I was curious to see who or what he’d morphed into on his personal-development quest. And even more curious to know if the “new” Cole still made my heart beat faster than a chorus-line tap dancer. And even more curious still to know how he would stack up against my attraction to island cop Nick Billie.

  Perhaps a summer love triangle in the offing?

  Hah.

  I practically skipped into the Observer office that morning.

  It didn’t take long for my bubble to burst.

  As soon as I saw our secretary-cum-receptionist, Sandy, up to her elbows in a quart of double-chocolate ice cream, I knew there was trouble. She’d been on the Ozone Diet for over a year and had reached her target weight months ago, publicly stating that “hell would freeze over” before she ever gained weight again. She’d even treated herself to a makeover to go with her new slim shape: a chin-length bob for her brown hair, greenish-tinted contact lenses, and a spiffy new wardrobe.

  Now, she occasionally strayed and flirted with a simple scoop of fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, but this megadip into her favorite, forbidden dessert was full-fledged diet adultery.

  “What’s up?” I asked in a tentative voice.

  Sandy shook her head, unable to speak. With a chocolateladen spoon, she pointed at our editor, Anita Sanders’, office.

  “Oh, no. What’s she done now?” I moved toward my desk. It was a rickety metal structure that barely supported the old PC I shared with Sandy. As I thumped my large canvas bag on top, the spindly legs shook with an ominous creak. By some miracle, the desk remained standing.

  Sandy’s shoulders drooped, and her face almost disappeared into the ice cream box.

  “Drat her anyway,” I muttered. Anita wasn’t known for her people skills. In fact, she could be a downright nagging crone. Crusty, single-minded, and sarcastic, she’d cut her journalistic teeth at the Detroit Free Press, a fact she never tired of telling us. Unfortunately, she thought our little island weekly should aspire to those heights-when our biggest story last month was the purchase of a new flag for the VFW hall. I know, because I covered it. Fast-breaking news it wasn’t, but, hey, that’s Coral Island. Tucked in a corner of southwest Florida, the twentymile-long, two-mile-wide island was rural, sparsely populated, and quiet most of time-much to Anita’s dismay.

  “It’s not Anita,” Sandy mumbled between spoonfuls.

  “Jimmy?” Sandy’s fiance.

  Closing her eyes, she whimpered, “No”

  “What, then?”

  At that moment, the door to Anita’s cubicle opened, and she strode out.

  I blinked a couple of times in shock. “Ohmygod” My hand went to my mouth. Not Anita. Worse.

  It was Anita’s twin sister, Bernice.

  Even though their faces looked exactly alike-thin-lipped mouth and aging, sun-damaged skin-I could tell them apart because Bernice weighed about twenty pounds more than Anita and sported close-cropped, salt-and-pepper (more salt, less pepper) hair. She also favored a fashion style of dress that could only be described as “tacky nautical”: red tank top with a little anchor embroidered on the chest, boat-patterned Capris, and gold-plated jewelry everywhere. A geriatric sailor girl.

  To call Bernice the “evil twin” would be a misnomer. An “evil” twin would suggest that the other was “good.” Needless to say, Anita hardly fit into the latter category. They were both sixtyish and cantankerous, as far as I could tell. Having Anita on the island had been bad enough, but when Bernice showed up six months ago to start up a charter fishing business, people got out their garlic and crosses for protection.

  “Nice to see you, too, Miss Priss,” Bernice said, slipping a lollipop into her mouth, the stick protruding from between her lips like a large toothpick. Again, another notch down: Anita chewed gum like crazy, but only because she’d kicked the cigarette habit.

  “My name is Mallie, as you well know.” I straightened to my full five feet five and one half inches and puffed out my flat chest for all it was worth. “What are you doing here, and where’s Anita?”

  Bernice smiled with a feline sort of smugness. A Cheshire crone. “My idiot sister left to take a vacation. Do you believe that? She’s never had one in the seven years she’s been at the Observer.”

  Sandy and I both nodded.

  “That moron who owns the paper, Bentley-“

  “Mr. Benton,” I corrected, keeping an eye on the bobbing stick in her mouth.

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “He said by law she had to take a vacation, so she took off-and put me in charge of the paper.”

  “What!” For a few moments, the room began to spin. Was I dreaming? Had I entered bizarro world? “But she hates you”

  “Yeah, I know. And I hate her too. But there’s no one else on this crap island she trusts to be hard-nosed enough to run things.”

  I sat down-or, rather, my legs gave out.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Priss, I won’t work you too hard.” She guffawed-low-pitched and throaty. Oh, my.

  Sandy handed me a heaped spoonful of ice cream. I downed it in one gulp.

  “Let’s get down to business…. I’ve got some ideas to spark up this hopeless rag” Bernice strolled toward us. “Right now, the stories are as downright dull as dirty dishwater. We need some real juice�
��.”

  I almost gagged at the simile but somehow managed to swallow the ice cream. “What did you have in mind, Bernice?”

  “No school stories about bratty little kids doing stomachturning `good works’ for the community. Spare me. Or boring Town Hall meetings where a bunch of old codgers discuss how to `beautify the island.’ Just thinking about it makes me want to stick my head into the nearest toilet and barf.” She grabbed my spoon, rammed it into the ice cream box, and scooped out a small chunk. “Nope, we’re going to do some real-life kind of stuff. The journalistic version of reality TV.” She shifted the lollipop to one side of her mouth and downed the ice cream on the other side.

  “Huh?” I didn’t know what alarmed me out more-her eating the ice cream with my spoon or the implication of “reality journalism.”

  She smiled down at me. “You’re not only going to report the stories, Miss Priss. You’re going to live ‘em. Get your hands dirty. Get your feet dirty. Dang it, you’re just gonna get down and dirty.” She licked the spoon. Needless to say, I wouldn’t want it back again.

  Sandy and I abandoned the ice cream. It now had “Bernice cooties.” Then I began to do a slow burn about the “down and dirty” suggestion.

  “Bernice, I’ve been involved in two murder investigations and almost got myself killed both times. If that isn’t getting “down and dirty,” I don’t know what is. I was almost shot one time and nearly stabbed the other. Not to mention having a crazed murderess try to pull my hair out by the roots” I rubbed my head for effect and galvanized my motormouth into high gear. “Let me tell you, my scalp was sore for almost a week. But I didn’t complain. I just came to work and wrote the story. I do what I have to for the paper. Anita has taught me that. But she wouldn’t like it if I started doing sensationalized stories that-“

  “Anita ain’t here. I am. And do me a favor: can the longwinded sob stories. It’s not like I care” She picked up the ice cream carton and scraped out the last vestiges with my ex-spoon. “I want to make sure the word gets out to our advertisers that things are changing. We might get in some new accounts from people who’ve got a few bucks to spare. Like Danny’s Bait Shack or the Frozen Flamingo. We need to beat the bushes and bring in some decent dollars. You know what I mean?”

  Sandy and I both stared mutely at her.

  “You can’t simply beg them on the phone, Sandy. You need to get up-front and in their face-bully ‘em.” She tossed the empty box into the trash can-my ex-spoon followed. “Do whatever it takes”

  “Anita always felt that people on the island wouldn’t respond to a hard sell,” Sandy began in a quiet voice. “That’s not the way things work here-“

  “Really? I say, slap ‘em in the face and grab their wallets. That sells advertising. I should know. I kept my charter biz going in Fort Lauderdale with flyers, cheap advertising, and promotions with the girls from Scooters. I did it because it works”

  Sandy’s mouth clamped into a mutinous line.

  “Get on the phone, sweetie. Let’s make things happen” Bernice snapped her fingers several times in rapid succession. “Now!”

  Sandy picked up the phone, glaring at Bernice with eyes that could shatter glass.

  “Good. Now here’s your assignment, Miss Priss.” She handed me a press release. “A new hiking trail opens on Little Coral Island today. You need to get your butt out there. And I’m not talking only interviews. I want you to hike the trail with the guide, wade through the swampy waters, give a firsthand account of meeting up face-to-face with an alligator. Action. Excitement. Adventure. Let’s do it. Chop-chop”

  I’ll give her a chop, all right, I thought to myself. A karate chop. I had my yellow tip in Tae Kwon Do now and could give her a hard jab right in the neck. I fantasized about doing it for a few mad moments-nothing lethal, of course. Only enough to disable her until Anita returned.

  “The trail tour starts in thirty minutes.” Bernice tapped her watch. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  She strolled back into Anita’s cubicle, which passed for an office, gold bracelets jangling.

  Once she closed the door, Sandy buried her head in her hands and moaned.

  “Hang in there. We’ll find a way out of this. What we need is a plan.” I sat there for a few moments, fingers drumming on my desk. Come on, girl. You solved two murders. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Get on the phone with Mr. Benton and see if this `takeover’ is legal. I don’t see how Anita can ask Bernice to take over the paper when she doesn’t have any journalistic experience.”

  Sandy raised her head. “You think?”

  “Dunno. But Benton is a reasonable guy-maybe he’ll take pity on us. Then we’ll try to find out where Anita went on her vacation, so we can tell her what Bernice plans to do. If Anita learns that her sister is damaging the newspaper’s reputation, she’ll get back here before you can say key lime pie.”

  “Oh … tasty.” Her eyes brightened.

  “That was metaphorical,” I cautioned. “I’m a lit major. And we have `miles to go before we sleep,’ to quote Frost” I f we’re lucky. Then again, we might not get any sleep while Bernice lurked around the newspaper.

  “My head is spinning.” Sandy raked a hand through her nutbrown hair. “Or maybe it’s my stomach churning. I had three doughnuts this morning before I started on the chocolate ice cream, and I’ve got a bag of M&M’s in my car.” She pinched her upper legs, shaking her head in disgust. “I might as well just apply them directly to my thighs.”

  I took Sandy by the shoulders. “You’re not going off the Ozone Diet. It took you too long to whittle down to this weight. Remember you and Jimmy are getting married in the spring. You’ve got to fit into that wedding dress. Be strong, sister, and ditch the candy.”

  “Okay.” She tried to paste a slight smile onto her face. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, deep trouble. But first things first-I’ve gotta cover the story.” I grabbed my Official Reporter’s Notepad, shoved it into my large canvas bag, and set out for the trail.

  So much for the tropical heaven.

  My battered old truck, Rusty, decided for once not to act up. I made it to the trail on Little Coral Island in less than fifteen minutes-in time for the hike and introductions. Oh, boy.

  Little Coral Island lay situated along the inner coast of the bigger island, three miles long, with nothing but wetlands and wildlife. Scrubland. Palmetto palms. Critters. And little else.

  As I climbed out of my truck, I felt the late-June heat and humidity envelop me with its morning greeting. It wasn’t the kind of full-fledged embrace that squeezed the life out of you at midday. But that was coming. And with my freckled skin and supercurly red hair, I was the last one who needed to be given that kind of loving attention.

  As I approached a small group near the entrance to the trail, I noticed that everyone wore hiking shorts and the everpresent Coral Island “Reeboks”-knee-length white fishing boots. I looked down at my cheapie Keds. Uh-oh. Not much protection there.

  “Hi, glad you could join us” A young woman with shoulderlength auburn hair and thick, round glasses motioned me over. She wore a sleeveless cotton top, hiking pants, baseball cap, clip-on sunglasses, and the white boots. Obviously ready for action.

  “I’m Mallie Monroe from the Observer.” I held up my notepad. “I’m here to take notes and talk to you as we go down the trail.”

  A broad grin of uneven teeth answered me, as the woman pumped my hand in a vigorous shake. “Angela Stillwellchief guide for the Coral Island Parks and Recreation Service. So happy to meet ya,” she drawled. “Your editor, Bernice, called me this morning to let me know you’d be coming along today. You’re gonna love it.” She gave my hand one more pump.

  “Thanks.” I flexed my fingers.

  “Well … to begin with, Little Coral Island is part of what we call in the South a ‘preserve.”’ She stressed the first syllable. “It has near to five thousand acres of unique wetlands that have been restored to their n
atural, native glory.” Angela gestured with a wide arc of her arm across the expanse of tropical vegetation with an air of dramatic emphasis. “We’ve created this trail so islanders and tourists could hike, rest a spell, and just take in nature”

  I jotted down these comments, amazed that anyone could get so excited about some scrubby-looking flora and fauna.

  Angela turned back to the small gathering of hikers. “Would y’ all like to introduce yourselves to Mallie?”

  “Hi, I’m Mae Hamilton, and this cute thing is my husband, George,” a gray-haired woman drawled as she pointed at the tall, wizened guy next to her. “We’re here for bird sightings.”

  Dressed similarly to Angela, the birder duo had further accessorized themselves with sun-protective hats that looked like something out of the French foreign legion, hiking shorts, and binoculars dangling from thin leather straps around their necks.

  “And I’m Charley.” He waved a wrinkled, age-spotted hand and then held up a cane. “It’s a hiking stick-I don’t really need any help to walk.” Uh-huh. He, too, wore binoculars.

  “Are you also a birder?” I inquired.

  “Yup.” He thumped his chest in pride. Unfortunately, he must’ve used too much force, because the blow caused a coughing fit that almost doubled him over. Angela slapped him on the back a couple of times, and he straightened again.

  “Now that we’re near to kin to one another, let’s kick up some sand and get moving.” Our intrepid Dixie Chick trail guide handed each of us a small green brochure. “As you can read, the trail is almost three miles-“

  “What?” Now it was my turn almost to double over, but in shock. Sure, I’ve been doing Tae Kwon Do a couple of nights a week, but a three-mile walk in Keds? No way. That was close to inhumane treatment. And in late June, with the heat and insects? Downright torture.

  “You’ll be fine. Just give yourself a good dousing with bug spray.” Angela dismissed my concerns and pointed at her brochure. “Listen up, everyone! As we’re hiking, follow along with the pictures and the explanations. They explain some of the wonderful sights we’ll be seeing.”