I pulled into the driveway and slid out of my truck, straightening my flamingo T-shirt with a defiant tug. Following the tiled walkway toward the front door, I took in the magnificence of the house. Two-storied, Spanish style, with arches and curved tile on the roof, it puffed up as proudly as the proverbial peacock-a testament to money and power. My mother would love it, which meant I hated it.
As I reached the front screen door, the automatic sprinklers erupted with a stream of sulfur-smelling water. I jumped back, but not before I was drenched from head to toe. Great. Just great. I shook the water out of my curls and wiped down my arms and legs. There was nothing I could do about the water spots on my T-shirt and jeans. They’d have to dry in their own time.
Raising my head high, I opened the screen door and strolled down a narrow, enclosed entrance area. I rang the doorbell. Instantly I heard dogs barking from within. I shrugged. Maybe the Palmers weren’t so bad after all. If they were dog people, they had to have some redeeming qualities.
The glass-etched front door swung open, and out came two huge German shepherds, teeth bared, advancing on me with woman-eating eyes.
I was done for.
lowly, I backed up, my Birkenstocks heel to toe, making silent contact on the tile. “Good doggies. I’ve got one of my own, you know-a nice little teacup poodle.” The image of Kong’s sweet brown eyes and moppet face appeared in my mind. It occurred to me that those features might be the last things I remembered before my life was taken by these two growling hounds from hell.
“Naomi, Neelum, stay!” a forceful masculine voice ordered.
Instantly, the dogs stopped in their tracks, still keeping a wary eye on me.
Poised inside the front door stood a handsome, middleaged man with one of those tawny George Hamilton tans that bespoke many hours on the beach or in a tanning booth. It was the same guy who’d dropped Gina and Brandi off at the Little Coral Island trail-Brandi and Brett’s dad.
“Mr. Palmer?” I asked, edging around the watchful canines.
“It’s dangerous to wander into someone’s house. Didn’t you see the doorbell outside the screened porch?” His thick silver eyebrows slanted downward like two arrows aiming for his nose.
“No, sorry.” I reached inside my canvas bag and pulled out one of my cards. I held it out as if it were a talisman. “I’m Mallie Monroe from the Observer.”
“A reporter?” His tone turned nasty. “You’re not welcome here”
“If I could just have a few minutes.” I’d almost made it around the devil dogs. “I’m writing an obituary on Gina Fernandez, and I need some information-“
“Don’t move; the dogs are trained to kill!” he exclaimed.
The dogs tensed and growled low in their throats. I, too, tensed.
Dry-mouthed, heart pounding, I now knew how postal workers and meter readers felt when they had to enter dog-patrolled territory to do their jobs. At least if I had a mail sack, I’d have something to fight off those monstrous teeth that looked the size of those in a prehistoric dinosaur display. My canvas bag provided only minor protection.
“Weren’t you on the trail hike yesterday?” His frown lifted a fraction.
I nodded vigorously, still not daring to speak.
“You were with Brandi … and Gina.” He paused, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of letting a disheveled journalist into his house. Pro: he’d find out what happened on the trail yesterday. Con: his daughter was one of the last people to see Gina alive.
I waited.
“I’ll give you ten minutes.” He mumbled something in a foreign language to the dogs. They scrambled away from me and sat down.
Taking in a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and moved toward him with a pseudo-confident step. “No-good mutts,” I muttered under my breath.
“Pardon me?”
“I said … `Good little dogs.’”
His features relaxed into a glow of pride. “They’re from a special drug-sniffing bloodline and are trained to sniff out terrorists on a dime.”
“A useful quality for Coral Island.” Duh. The worst transgression to hit last week’s section of Crimebeat in the Observer was some drunk guy pedaling down Cypress Drive in a vinyl poncho-and nothing else. Big deal.
“You never know where criminals are hiding.” His mouth tightened as he motioned me in. Then he uttered another foreign phrase to Nucklehead and Numnutts, and they trotted off to another part of the house. Hopefully, somewhere with a cage.
“They have interesting names” My sandals squished on the pristine, shiny white tile.
“Naomi and Neelum are types of mangos. The Naomi is a new variety grown in Israel-big and bright red. The Neelum has been around for a while. It’s raised mostly in India and China-smallish and bright yellow. No blush. Cuts well into cubes”
“Sounds delicious. I was never a big mango fan till I tried some yesterday and-“
“You don’t like mangos?” Shocked disbelief threaded through his words. I felt as if I’d said something un-American.
“Didn’t. Past tense. I’ve reconsidered my position since I tasted a Coral Island mango”
“I should think so” He led me into a step-down, plushly carpeted, white-on-white living room-the kind that was supposed to look very high class but always made me think of hospital rooms. Sterile and colorless.
“Have a seat.” He pointed at an overstuffed, ivory leather sofa. I sank into it, hoping my damp jeans wouldn’t leave stains on the cushions.
He remained standing, which was, no doubt, a power play. I rose to my feet again. Then he seated himself in a matching leather armchair. I slid down into the Jell-O sofa once more.
“So, what do you want to know about Gina?” His hands rested on his upper thighs, palms flat, but the fingers curled into his neatly pressed trousers. “She was engaged to my son, Brett, and that’s about all there is to it.”
I reached into my canvas bag and pulled out my notepad. “Did she know Brett long?”
“They grew up together on the island but, of course, went to different schools. Brett attended private academies on the East Coast”
“So they were childhood sweethearts?”
“I’d hardly call them that. Passing acquaintances, maybe. They weren’t in the same … social circles, you could say.”
Yeah, I’d say that.
“When Gina did a decorating job on our neighbor’s house last year, she and Brett got reacquainted and began to date” He said the last word as if it were an expletive, biting out the last consonant.
“And she was good friends with Brandi, too, from what I saw yesterday.”
“I guess so. They were both involved in that Mango Queen thing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How is any of this relevant to her obituary?”
“I need facts about her life. This won’t be a brief obituary, since she was an island girl and the Mango Queen to boot. It’ll probably be a half page, so I need a lot of … details.”
An expression of distaste crossed his features. “I don’t want my family put through any more trauma. Please keep us out of the `details’ as much as possible.”
“I’ll try, but Brett was her fiance” Was Bryan Palmer concerned about his family? Or did he have something to hide? He seemed as tense as a horse straining at the start line. Maybe I’d jiggle his gate a little. “Let’s see now…” I flipped through my notepad. “You dropped off Gina and Brandi at the trail yesterday. Had you met them at Mama Maria’s? I know they had breakfast there in the morning.”
His eyes narrowed, but then he flashed a smile of white teeth again. Against his tan, they blazed in all their neon glory. “I had breakfast with them.”
I made a mental note to check that with Mama Maria. “Was Brett with you?”
“No, he had an early meeting with a client. He’s an attorney, you know.”
“And Gina was … just a decorator,” I couldn’t resist adding.
“What are you getting at, Ms. Monroe?” The smile vani
shed.
“It’s well known that you didn’t like the fact that your son was engaged to Gina. After all, her grandfather was a migrant worker.”
“Just because her grandfather worked for my father doesn’t mean a thing. She was a lovely girl. And Brett-“
“Her grandfather worked for your family?”
“In our mango groves. We have over a hundred acres cultivated on the island,” he revealed with obvious pride. “The land’s been in my family for three generations.”
“How nice.”
He pushed himself to a standing position. “I think I should inform you that the Palmer family has quite a bit of influence on this island, including that little rag of a newspaper you work for. And if you impugn my family’s reputation in any way, I’ll slap a lawsuit on you faster than-“
“Dad, what’s going on?” A slim, young man with patrician features and close-cropped brown hair appeared.
“Nothing, son. Just having a little talk with Ms. Monroe”
“Mallie” I stretched out my hand and moved toward him. “I work at the Observer.”
He shook it. “Aren’t you the one who … found Gina?”
I nodded, noticing the red-rimmed eyes. At least one person in this family was sorry that Gina had died.
“She didn’t suffer in any way, did she?” His voice cracked as he asked the question.
“Not from what I could tell-“
“There’s no point in speculating,” Bryan broke in, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You don’t want to torture yourself needlessly.”
He pulled away. “Dad, my fiancee is dead. You got it? She’s the one woman I’ve ever loved, and I’ll never see her again.” His eyes filled with tears. “I can’t imagine going on without her… He slid into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.
Bryan’s only response was a tightening of his features. “You’ll have to excuse my son-he’s not himself.”
Annoyance rose up inside of me like a jagged burn. “Anyone would be upset at such a loss. I think you need to cut him some slack-“
“Mind your own business. This is my family, Ms. Monroe. And we don’t need your interfering in matters that don’t concern you. My son is my concern-“
“Dad. Will you shut up!” Brett lurched to his feet and glared at his father.
“Brett, I’m only trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not. You never liked Gina. I knew it, and she knew it. Oh, you pretended all right. But inside, you never accepted her, and I’ll never forgive you for that” He shoved past his father and stumbled out of the room.
Bryan Palmer turned to me, his face thunderous. “See what you started? I want you out of this house, now.”
A tall, matchstick-thin woman appeared. As deeply tanned as Bryan, she nonetheless hadn’t fared so well in the wrinkle department. Deep lines fanned out from her eyes in spite of the unnaturally taut facial skin. Undoubtedly, she’d had plastic surgery, but it hadn’t erased the sun damagejust stretched it out like leather over a drum.
I vowed to up my SPF to the highest level known to humankind.
“Darling, please keep your voice down. We don’t want the neighbors to hear.” She looked at me with wary green eyes. “I’m Trish Palmer.”
“Mallie Monroe from the Observer. I didn’t mean to upset anyone, but I’m working on Gina Fernandez’s obituary.” Eying her immaculate ivory silk top and skirt, I looked down at my T-shirt and jeans. They were almost dry but still sticking to my skin in some spots.
Her eyes darkened momentarily. From grief? Or something else? “I don’t think we can help you much. Our son was engaged to Gina, but we didn’t know her all that well.”
“But she grew up on Coral Island, and her mother runs one of the most popular restaurants. Surely you were more than passing strangers.”
Trish’s face assumed a mask of patronizing graciousness, including a phony smile and thin, arched eyebrows. “Of course we were more than strangers. I simply meant we didn’t know any … intimate details about Gina’s life. You’ll need to speak with her family for that kind of information.”
“Could I talk to Brandi?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her voice was soothing, gentle. “She is very upset right now. Perhaps in a few days-“
“Forget it,” her husband cut in. “And forget trying to talk with Brett; he won’t want to be interviewed-ever. That chapter of his life is closed, and there’s no point in making him relive it through memories he needs to put behind him.”
“Gina just died yesterday.” Creep.
Trish moved to position herself between her husband and me. “You’ll have to excuse my husband. Our whole family is still in shock, Ms. Monroe. We each deal with grief in our own way.”
Yeah, I’ve seen more grief over roadkill.
“Let me show you out,” Trish continued. Grasping my arm in a surprisingly firm grip, she steered me toward the front door. “Come back in a day or two when we’ve had a chance to calm down. Then we’ll have a statement for the paper.” She gave me an encouraging little pat on the shoulder, swung open the front door, and whisked me out in one smooth motion.
I found myself standing in the screened walkway, the front door closed behind me. Talk about the bum’s rush. Did I get that treatment out of their grief? Or was it my shabby appearance?
I shoved my notepad into my canvas bag and let myself out of the screened area, keeping a close watch on those oscillating sprinklers. When they arched the farthest away from me, I dashed for my truck. Just making it in time, I closed the door. Unfortunately, I hadn’t rolled up the window, and I took another hit of sulfur water in the face-one last indignity before I lit out of there. Obviously, I was not welcome at Sea Belle Isle Point and never would be. Bryan and Trish Palmer had made that very clear. Almost too clear. As if they had something to hide. But what?
I cranked up Rusty and headed for Mango Bay. I needed the comfort and security of my Airstream. I needed to hug my teacup poodle and have him look at me with adoration. Most of all, I needed a shower to get rid of this darn sulfur smell that now clung to me like a used match.
I took one last look at the Palmer house. Bad vibes all around.
I drove off.
As I approached my shiny silver Airstream, I took in a deep, cleansing breath. The site was exactly as I had left it. My blue and white striped awning flapped in the slight breeze coming in off the Gulf. My picnic table was positioned underneath, my beach paraphernalia stacked neatly to one side. Ah, home.
I eased out of Rusty, and my moment of nirvana dissolved. A blast of yet more Rolling Stones geezer rock assailed my ears.
Ugh.
Yanking open Rusty’s door, I strode over and beat on the side of the aging RV next door. “Turn the music down!”
Laughter erupted from inside yet again.
I rapped on the yellowed siding once more. “I’ll call the maintenance guy, and he’ll make you turn it down.”
More laughter. Okay, I’d probably laugh at that one too.
They’d probably met Pop Pop Welch and knew he was about as much of a threat as a toothless guard dog-a fitting metaphor, since he rarely remembered to put in his dentures.
I kept banging on the RV with both fists.
Finally, the occupants lowered the music.
I headed back to my Airstream, muttering to myself. First chance, I was going to call Wanda Sue and insist that she get hard-nosed with those dippy, aging hipsters. If she had to hook a stun gun onto Pop Pop’s cane, those people were going to abide by the Twin Palms RV rules-or else.
As I was reaching for my door, a tall blond guy in Hawaiianprint swim trunks approached from the beach.
A huge grin spread across my face. “Cole!” I ran toward him.
He swept me up in his arms and spun me around, both of us laughing.
“Hiya, babe” He planted a long, lingering kiss on my mouth.
Wow
or a few minutes, I reveled in t
he kiss. My arms slipped around Cole’s neck, my feet barely touching the ground. All of my senses sprang to life with a surge of excitement. Heart pounded. Toes tingled. Tremors shot through me. It all felt so familiar and so right.
Eventually, he pulled back and set me on my unsteady feet. We stared at each other, grinning madly. I reached up and brushed back the tendril of blond hair that fell across his forehead-something I always used to do. He caught my hand and kissed the fingers-something he always used to do. I sighed happily.
“I’ve missed you” So much for playing it cool. But looking at his tawny gold hair, boyish features, and psychedelic-orange board shorts, I was totally caught up in his surfer-dude good looks. Cole was an open book. Nothing hidden. Nothing held back-unlike Nick Billie.
“I’ve missed you too.” He dropped another swift kiss onto my more-than-willing lips.
I placed my hands against his chest to steady myself. “When did you get in? I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet. I mean, I thought you were still working on that wildlife-refuge gig in New Mexico. Speaking of that, I loved the postcard you sent. It reminded me of all the times we’d drive to Daytona Beach and soak in the sun, even though I couldn’t really get any rays. Remember how I’d have to cover up with pants, shirt, hat, and sunblock? Oh, last year I discovered a new block with this incredible SPF. It really helps so I don’t get a zillion new freckles every time-“
Cole began laughing.
“What? What?”
“Same old Mallie. That motormouth hasn’t slowed down one bit.”
“It must be genetic. Unless they come up with an antimotormouth medication, I’m pretty much going to be a lost cause.”
“I wouldn’t say that” His soft blue eyes twinkled.
“You know, I should be mad at you. It’s been over two years since you left to `find yourself.’”
The twinkle dimmed. “I sent postcards”
“Not much of a substitute.”
“I know.” His voice turned regretful. “I’m sorry, Mallie. I was all kinds of stupid to leave you like that in Orlando. But things were getting heavy between us, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I’d never felt that way about anybody before, and it scared the hell out of me. So I took off … but I never got you out of my mind.”
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves Page 10
