Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves

by Marty Ambrose

  “Homer Finch-my law office is next door.” He blinked several times in rapid succession. “I didn’t know her very well, but she was lovely.”

  Isabel nodded mutely.

  “If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” he said to Isabel. He stood there in awkward silence for a few moments and then exited.

  I turned back to Isabel. “Can you give me any more information on Gina?”

  “Here’s the brochure we give to potential clients. It has a short bio on each of us”

  I flipped open the glossy white document. Pictures of Gina and Isabel dominated it, each posing on various lushly colored pieces of furniture. “Distinctive photos”

  “They were Gina’s idea. She always said that first impressions count”

  “Thanks.” I gave her one of my cards. “Call me if you have anything else you want to pass on”

  She gave a brief nod.

  I exited Island Decor to the tune of the tinkling chime. I hadn’t found out much, except that, as I’d suspected that morning, Brandi might’ve been pretending to be Gina’s best friend. Apparently she had coveted the Mango Queen crown.

  Enough to want to kill Gina?

  It was late afternoon by the time I returned to the Observer office. For a few minutes, I stood outside the door in the suffocating heat and humidity, preparing myself for whatever unpleasantness would greet me once I entered. The words that Dante wrote about hell in the The Divine Comedy came to mind: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

  I tossed my curls in defiance and pushed open the door. This was no time to let my comparative-literature imagination run away with me. Maybe this wasn’t paradise, but it wasn’t exactly the inferno, either.

  Not yet.

  The first thing I noticed was the smell. Uh-oh. The standard office aroma usually contained a combination of odors from Sandy’s burned low-fat popcorn, burned snacks, and burned coffee. But a new, strange scent permeated the air. I sniffed, trying to pinpoint it: fish. Raw fish.

  I looked at Sandy. She sported a miserable expression and a too-tight T-shirt that read Hooked on Bait. Next to her desk sat a large white cooler with the lid flung open.

  “What’s going on?” I approached her desk, and the fish smell grew stronger.

  “Bernice’s new idea. Advertisers with the paper get to display their products here-she thinks we get enough foot traffic from people coming in to pay for their subscriptions to make it worthwhile. Danny from the Bait Shack bought a quarterpage ad, so Bernice said he could keep some of his best shrimp bait here for people to sample.” She pinched her nostrils and groaned. “I’ve never had to smell something so vile. What’s more, she’s got me wearing this hideous, too-small T-shirt.” She pulled out the sides, but the thin cotton fabric snapped back and outlined every generous curve. “I ate two more candy bars since the cooler arrived, and I can’t seem to stop. If I keep going at this rate, everything I own will be too small pretty soon. I’ll be back to shopping plus women’s sizes, and-“

  “Sandy, calm down. That’s not going to happen”

  She released her nose, then wrinkled it again as the odor penetrated her nostrils. “It’s just so humiliating to sit here next to shrimp bait. This is an office, for goodness’ sake”

  “At least it used to be,” I quipped, trying not to step too close to the offensive source of the fishy smell. “Did you find out anything yet on Anita’s whereabouts?”

  “Nope. And now Mr. Benton seems to have gone AWOL too. His secretary called back and said he took a sudden outof-town trip.”

  “Benton?” I frowned. “He never leaves town. He’s worse than Anita about taking vacations-too cheap for even a bus trip”

  “I know. Just when we need him, he takes off too”

  “Keep trying Anita’s voice mail-at home and on her cell phone. She’s got to check her messages sometime.”

  “Do you think if I just left a scream on both, it would sound too desperate?”

  Inhaling the fish bait again, I staggered slightly. “Go for it.”

  Sandy started to punch in Anita’s number, then paused. “What did you find out about Gina?”

  “Nothing concrete.” True enough. Everyone I’d talked to today had given me only speculations as to the cause of Gina’s death. I mentally reviewed the list. Aunt Lily thought Brandi did Gina in for the Mango Queen title. Gina’s partner, Isabel, agreed. Gina’s brother, Rivas, however, thought Brett’s parents had gotten rid of her so their precious son could find a more suitable bride. All were plausible.

  “Poor Gina,” Sandy commented.

  “I did learn a couple of things: I had no idea the Mango Queen thing was such a big deal or that Coral Island has its own snobby social scene” I plopped my canvas bag onto my desk.

  “A lot of people didn’t like that Gina was elected Mango Queen,” Sandy concurred. “You haven’t been here all that long, but I grew up on this island, and I’m telling you, there’s a class pyramid here just like everywhere else. At the top are the wealthy people at Sea Belle Isle Point; then you’ve got the middle class like Jimmy and me; then the fishermen who barely eke out a living; and at the bottom are the migrant workers. Gina’s family raised their position a little when Mama Maria opened the restaurant, but everyone remembers that Gina’s grandfather picked mangos for a living.”

  “I can’t believe that would matter in this day and age-“

  “To a snooty family from Sea Belle Isle Point?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “You’d better believe it matters”

  “What matters?” Butthead Bernice appeared in the doorway to “her” office.

  “Nothing,” I muttered as I switched on my computer. “Turns out my lead didn’t know anything about Gina’s `secret life.’”

  “You wasted a whole afternoon and got nothing?” She placed both chubby hands on her hips.

  I swiveled my crooked wooden chair around and faced her with a bland expression. “Sometimes journalism is like that. You track down leads that go nowhere. Anita would understand.”

  “My sister is an idiot. I intend to get the lowdown on Gina. In the meantime .. ” She reached into her office for something. “I know how to turn a buck. In fact, I just landed another advertiser myself. Here” She handed me a white T-shirt.

  “I refuse to promote the Bait Shack.”

  “You don’t have to” A grin overtook her features. “I said I just landed another advertiser.”

  I held up the shirt. Blazoned across the front were the words Feast with Me at the Frozen Flamingo. A large pink flamingo curved around the slogan, holding an ice cream cone in one of its claws.

  My heart sank.

  didn’t have the energy to argue with her. I just grabbed the offensive T-shirt and made a quick exit, mumbling something about working on my story at home. Of course, I had no intention of doing that, but I had to get out of that office before I said something really dumb, like “I quit.”

  I couldn’t leave-not now.

  I’d been at the paper for over a year. My longest record for holding down a job had been my eighteen-month undistinguished tenure at Disney World, where I sold Epcot passes, sang “It’s a Small World” until my throat ached, and swept up cigarette butts after the nightly fireworks display. If I could stand that kind of labor, I could stand anything. Besides, I had Kong, my teacup poodle, to consider. He couldn’t take another move.

  Bernice would not defeat me. If she wanted me to be a walking billboard, so be it. There were worse things in life: like being broke and unemployed.

  Absolutely not an option.

  With renewed determination, I drove toward Mango Bay, my air conditioner turned off and my truck windows open, letting the hot air blow the panicked thoughts out of my brain like loose sand in a summer breeze. It didn’t matter that Rusty was only a few degrees cooler than a sauna without the air conditioner chugging its meager puffs. I needed the calming whiff of humidity.

  As I pulled into my spot at the Twin Palms RV Resort, I heaved a sigh
of relief. My gleaming silver Airstream with its blue and white striped awning seemed invincible, all 4,225 pounds rooted in its familiar location under a palm tree and within sight of the small beach. Coral Island ran north/south, tucked inside a string of ritzy barrier islands, so it didn’t boast the kind of beach that one normally expects in Florida. This was only a dollop of gray sand, with a few sea oats or shells, but I loved it just the same.

  Most days it felt like nirvana.

  All of a sudden, I remembered my sunburned face, and I touched my hands to my cheeks. They still felt warm. I could almost hear the popping of new freckles beneath my fingers.

  I reached for the aloe bottle and ducked under the shade of my awning while I applied another layer. I slapped some on my raw feet, too, just to play it safe.

  While doing so, I noticed an RV had parked in the space next to mine, although calling it an RV was like calling Rusty a Cadillac. It appeared more like a tattered tenement on wheels. Dirty yellow, with the snub-nosed front popular twenty years ago, it stood like a crumpled beacon of used-up aluminum.

  Not that my Airstream was new by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d meticulously restored it and kept the silver hull buffed and shiny. My Airstream was historic; this RV was a hunk of junk.

  Someone opened a window, and loud, sixties “geezer rock” emanated from within the yellow horror. Oh, no. Aging hip pies. I’d had their kind parked next to me before at the Twin Palms, and it was a nightmare. All day and night they’d crank up old Bob Dylan and Rolling Stones songs, singing along with them, strolling around in love beads, tie-dyed T-shirts, and bell-bottoms. I shuddered to think what I was going to be subjected to over the next few days.

  First thing in the morning, I’d talk to Wanda Sue, the owner of the Twin Palms RV Resort, about moving them. And I’d enlist the aid of Pop Pop Welch, the park’s ancient, semimummified handyman, to keep an eye peeled for any infraction of the rules that might encourage them to move south toward the Keys.

  “Could you keep the music down?” I called out.

  Laughter emanated from the ramshackle RV, and the music volume spiked up a couple of notches. Here we go with the Sixties Hit Parade.

  I wrenched open the door to my RV, and Kong leaped into my arms.

  “How’s my buddy?” I buried my face in his soft apricot fur while he licked my ear. Ah, the unconditional love of a teacup poodle. That was something-especially when the current men in my life either blew hot and cold (Nick) or traveled to and fro (Cole). Don’t think about that now. I sighed and reached for Kong’s leash, then fastened it to his collar. “Come on, let’s hit the beach”

  At the dreaded word beach, Kong tucked his head under my arm. Even after a year, he still recoiled from the water. I’d tried coaxing him with treats, playing soothing New Age music, even consulting the doggy psychologist in Orlando who’d suggested I name him King Kong in the first place to compensate for his inferiority complex caused by his diminutive size. She proposed that I deal with his “water issues” by showing him movies of beach scenes where people were having fun. So for two months I’d rented corny movies like Beach Blanket Bingo and made him watch them. That still didn’t help. And I got so sick of seeing Annette and Bobby in one smarmy love scene after another, I could’ve screamed.

  So now we’d resorted to doing his business under an areca palm, followed by a brief stroll down to the surf. As I splashed in the waves to rinse my poor, dried-out feet, he kept a discreet distance, skittering away from even the tiniest drop of salt water.

  After I filled him in on my day, we retreated to the Airstream, windows rammed shut, air-conditioning blasting in vain hopes of shutting out the aging hipsters’ music.

  I fed Kong his special gourmet organic doggy food and tossed a TV dinner into the microwave for me, too weary to do anything more ambitious. Actually, I never cooked even when I did have the energy. Fast and frozen food were my way of life.

  The phone’s melodious ring interrupted my activities. Ah, music to my ears. With my newfound financial stability, I’d traded up from my cheapie “deluxe” phone with a ring so shrill that Kong’s fur would stand up, to a purring cordless with an answering machine.

  Still, I picked up the receiver cautiously. This was usually the time my mother called with yet another update on my successful sister and equally successful brother. I wasn’t in the mood. I’d found a body this morning and was staring into the possibility of having another murder on my hands. I needed to regroup, not regress.

  “Hiya, kiddo,” a familiar raspy voice greeted me.

  “Anita? Is that you?”

  “No, it’s the First Lady,” she chortled. “The White House is holding a reception for you”

  My jaw clenched. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on va-cay-tion.” She enunciated each syllable with noticeable sarcasm. “Didn’t Sandy tell you?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.” I paused, holding on to my patience. I needed her to come back-soon. “And … so did your sister, Bernice.”

  “She’s been in already? Good”

  “What!” I exclaimed, letting my irritation out. “She doesn’t have any journalism experience, she doesn’t know the first thing about editing, and she’s obsessed with bringing in these tacky advertisers.” I took in a deep breath. “For Pete’s sake, Bernice runs a charter fishing business. I don’t think she’s even read a newspaper. She probably uses them to wrap up fish for her customers like some crummy little fish-and-chips joint. I can’t imagine what possessed you to have her step in while you’re gone. Sandy and I are at our wit’s end, and it’s only the first day, and-“

  Another cackle emanated from the other end of the phone. “I see Bernice hasn’t found a way to stop your motormouth”

  “This isn’t funny, Anita. We’ve worked hard to maintain the integrity of our paper. It might be only an island weekly, but we publish good stories, and people respect what we do. A week of Bernice could seriously damage our reputation-“

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, kiddo. Bernice may have some good ideas… “

  “Like having Sandy and me wear T-shirts for anyone who buys advertising?” I gave an exclamation of disbelief. “How is that going to improve our paper?”

  “That Bernice. She always did know how to make a buck”

  “Anita! I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough” I glanced at Kong for reassurance; he was licking a paw. I decided to take another tack with my MIA boss. “Is this something they’d do at the Detroit Free Press? What would your colleagues think of you if they knew what was going on at our paper?”

  “Hah! Most of them have traded in their ideals for stock options and retirement plans.”

  Okay. That one wasn’t going to work. Time to bring out the big guns. “I didn’t want to tell you this and ruin your vacation or anything, but it looks as if we might have another murder on the island.”

  “What? Who?” Her voice grew more interested.

  “Gina Fernandez, the Mango Queen” I filled her in on the details in a motormouth minute waltz.

  “Sorry to hear that about Gina. She was a good kid who worked hard. Mama Maria must be cut to pieces.”

  “She is.”

  “All I can tell you is, keep your focus, kiddo. Follow the story, and press Nick Billie for details when you can”

  “Bernice might make that difficult to-“

  “You can handle her.”

  “But-“

  “Kiddo, you’re what we used to call a `body magnet.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whenever there’s a body, you seem to be there. Don’t worry-it’s a good quality for a reporter. Some journalists go their whole lives without ever seeing so much as one corpse. You’ve seen three now, and it’s only been your first year on Coral Island.”

  “Lucky me” What the heck was I doing wrong?

  “I’ll say. I’ve only seen half a dozen in thirty years.”

  Le
ave it to Anita to keep a head count. “Does Mr. Benton know you’ve put Bernice in charge?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, he knows”

  I detected another guffaw in the background. A masculine one. All of a sudden something clicked in my brain. Benton was gone. Anita was gone. Had they gotten that chummy when the office was being repainted last year? Double yuck. “All right, Anita. Fess up. Is Mr. Benton with you?”

  “She wants to know if you’re here with me,” Anita said, directing her voice away from the receiver.

  The man laughed again, and she hung up after instructing me to “hang in there”

  Ohmygod. Anita and Benton. Hadn’t my world been rocked enough today? Now I had to deal with the mental image of my skinny, gum-cracking, sixtyish boss hanging out with Mr. Benton, a short, stout, balding cheapskate.

  I replaced the receiver and slowly sank onto my kitchen chair.

  The phone rang again, and I stared at it, not daring to pick up. After five rings, the answering machine kicked in, and I listened.

  “Mallie? Are you there? It’s Sam. I wanted to remind you to bring your sparring gear to Tae Kwon Do tonight and-“

  I snatched up the receiver as if it were a lifeline and not just Sam, the island’s metaphysical handyman and my Tae Kwon Do mentor. “I’m here. I was screening calls.”

  “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “It’s been one of those days-the kind where you want to curl up under the covers and hide for the rest of the week”

  “It’s only Monday. You’re not going to do that,” he replied with thinly veiled amusement in his voice. “Come to class tonight. You need it. And you can tell me all about your day.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup. See you in an hour.”

  As I hung up, my mood lightened. Sam was one of the smartest people I knew-and the most patient. He’d help me make sense of today.

  My glance fell to the tee from the Frozen Flamingo where I had flung it onto the table.

  That might be too much, even for Sam.

  An hour later, I strolled into the Island Health and Fitness Center, wearing the white pants from my Tae Kwon Do uniform, called a dobok, along with the Frozen Flamingo T-shirt.