Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves

by Marty Ambrose

  “Sandy?” I scanned the office again, a trickle of fear running down my spine. Had Bernice finally pushed her beyond the brink and she’d quit?

  “She’s out to lunch.” Speak of the devil-or, rather, Bernice. And I mean devil. Bernice stood in the doorway to her office and looked like hell. Her hair was matted, her eyes redrimmed, her crow’s-feet trotting all the way down her cheeks.

  “Are you … uh … okay?”

  She rubbed her eyes and forehead. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone who’s tied one on the night before? Good Lord, I must be getting old. I used to be able to drink anyone under the table. All I had last night was a six-pack, and I can barely hold my head up today-after spending most of the night worshipping the porcelain goddess.”

  Charming image.

  “What have you been up to, Miss Priss?” She slumped into Sandy’s chair.

  I turned away, stalling for time. “Just working my story on Gina. I interviewed Mama Maria this morning.”

  “And talked to Nick Billie, right?”

  Jeez. How did she find out so fast? Glad that my back was to her, I grasped a few moments to come up with an answer. “He gave me an official statement about Gina’s death” I pulled out my notepad and faced her again. Flipping a few pages, I pretended to scan my notes and comment in an offhand manner: “Detective Billie’s formal statement was … `suspicious death.’ That’s all I know.”

  “Good enough for our purposes-yessiree.” She thumped Sandy’s desk in excitement with one hand. Then she groaned and placed her palms on either temple. “That was a mistake. My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  Too bad. Anyone who would take pleasure in Gina’s death was beyond compassion, even if she had a megahangover. I slammed my heavy canvas bag onto the desk, noticing that Sandy had left a message for me from Gina’s decorating partner, Isabel. The thud reverberated around the room, causing Bernice to groan again. Hah.

  “Write the obit the way you want, Miss Priss,” she managed to get out. “But play up a possible murder angle on the `Terror on the Trail’ story. It’s a front-page dream”

  “Bernice, how about a little respect? Gina died under suspicious circumstances. I’d hardly call it a dream-more like a nightmare.”

  “It’s all a matter of perspective.” She flipped open a cola and unwrapped a lollipop. “Sure, murder is a terrible thing, and I sympathize with the family, but I’ve also got newspapers to sell. The business of life goes on.” She slid the lollipop into her mouth.

  I had no response to that. Was Bernice a heartless old bag or just a realist?

  “Get to work. We’ve got a deadline to meet tomorrow. Both stories have to be done by then. Chop-chop” She pushed herself upright again and threw a T-shirt at me. “Here, this is from our newest advertiser.”

  I held it up and rolled my eyes. Get a Grease Job at Charley’s Garage. Simple and tackyjust like Bernice. “Don’t tell me. Charley was your drinking buddy last night.”

  “Of course” She grinned. “Most business deals are done over meals and, more important, beer.”

  Just at that moment, Sandy strolled in with her fiance, Jimmy, and his mother, Madame Geri, the island’s freelance psychic. Now it was my turn to grin, especially when I spied Madame Geri’s turquoise parrot, Marley, on her shoulder. I could hardly wait for the clash of crazies that was about to take place, so I sat down and tipped my chair forward in anticipation.

  “Bernice, I’d like to introduce Madame Geri,” Sandy began in a chipper voice. “She writes our astrology column for the paper.”

  “Are you joking?” Bernice blinked a couple of times as she beheld Madame Geri’s appearance: blond dreadlocks, Betty Crocker-style dress, and small cigar-box-style purse. A retro Rastafarian.

  “Nope, she’s the real deal,” I cut in with a jaunty bob of my head. “And she helped me solve a murder last year,” I added with a second jaunty bob of my head.

  Marley let out a piercing squawk, and Bernice howled and winced as if given an electroshock. She held out her lollipop as if to ward off an evil goblin. “Keep that damn bird quietand away from me”

  “Marley is not a bird. He’s my link to the spirit world,” Madame Geri clarified in a calm voice. She then halted about three feet in front of Bernice. They stared each other down. It was quite a sight: a hungover hag facing a New Age nut. But neither backed down.

  “This office is sacred space and shouldn’t house this kind of junk” Madame Geri pointed at the grease-soaked engine part on the floor. “It’s bad karma”

  “Says you” Bernice included a rude hand gesture.

  Madame Geri ignored both responses. “There are bigger things going on than you realize.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Like what?”

  Madame Geri raised her chin, keeping Marley close. “The mango balance is off. The island is in mourning for its dead queen”

  “Huh?” Bernice’s mouth pursed, causing her wrinkles to deepen.

  “The island chose its queen,” Madame Geri explained, glancing at me with a solemn expression, then back at Bernice. “Now that she’s dead, all the mangos are shriveling on the trees, as I told Mallie. Our Mango Festival will have no mangos if the balance isn’t restored.”

  .,So?”

  “The island’s economy depends on the mangos. People will suffer. Your paper will go down because no one will have the money to buy advertisements.”

  Bernice started. That hit a nerve. Bravo, Madame Geri.

  “Oh, my, yes. The mango balance must be restored” Madame Geri closed her eyes briefly as if to confirm her pronouncement with the spirit world. I guess it was like tuning into a radio station for the top-forty hits. Once you had the frequency, you got all the tunes.

  “What am I supposed to do about it?” Bernice said, keeping a wary eye on Marley.

  “Let Mallie do her job-unobstructed. She’ll find the murderer.”

  Every eye in the room fastened on me, pinning me to the wall like J. Alfred Prufrock in the Eliot poem. I squirmed just as he did in his mind when “fixed in a formulated phrase” What had gotten into Madame Geri?

  “Who said it was murder?” my temporary editor asked.

  “I did.” Madame Geri stroked Marley. “I was told the day it happened”

  “By the killer?” Bernice’s face kindled in excitement.

  “The spirit world.”

  “Jeez, spare me,” Bernice muttered, throwing her hands up. “This kind of hokum might work with the dimwits who live on this godforsaken island, but I’m not one of them. Mango balance? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fruit, you idiot. As for Gina’s possible murder, we’ll investigate it like any other story.”

  Madame Geri turned deadly quiet.

  “You stick to what you know best: phony astrology predictions. And I’ll do what I do best: dig up advertising dollars for this rag of a newspaper.” Bernice waved her lollipop in Madame Geri’s face.

  Marley lifted his wings and let out another loud squawk.

  Bernice covered her ears and shrieked: “Keep that thing quiet!”

  “Shh. It’s okay, my darling.” Madame Geri soothed her bird, then handed him to Jimmy, all the while watching Bernice. Then she opened her cigar-box-style purse and pulled out a dainty crystal on a silver chain. She began murmuring in a low voice.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Bernice asked, when she finally dropped her hands.

  Madame Geri kept up the singsong little chant.

  “Uh-oh,” Jimmy said. “You’re in trouble now.”

  Bernice transferred her gaze from mother to son. “Get her outta here, will ya?”

  “Sorry.” He shifted Marley to perch on his arm. “I can’t till she’s finished with her curse”

  “What?”

  “Her curse” A touch of awe entered Jimmy’s voice. “My mother is putting curse on you.”

  Sandy and I gasped. Even I wouldn’t brave that, and I was a nonbeliever in Madame Geri’s mystic twaddle.

  Madame G
eri’s curses were well known around the island. When her neighbor, Emmie Samwick, refused to keep her crazy Doberman, Bubba, away from Marley, Madame Geri put a curse on her. Within six weeks, Emmie’s roof began to leak, her car broke down repeatedly, and her hair began to fall out in clumps (to be honest, that last one might have been the cheap hair dye). After three months of a leaky roof, nonfunctioning car, and increasingly bald head, Emmie finally relented and chained up Bubba when she was at work.

  Presumably, Madame Geri then removed the curse, and all was well. But it was still another month before Emmie’s hair was restored to its former glory.

  I rolled my chair backwardjust to make certain none of the curse wafted in my direction.

  Finally, Madame Geri stopped and put away the crystal. “It’s done. You’ll never know another moment’s peace till you set things right again,” she warned Bernice.

  My foolhardy boss snorted, but I could tell she was secretly a bit shaken. It’s not every day you wake up to a hangover and a curse-all in the space of twenty-four hours.

  Bernice chomped down on her lollipop. “Ow!” She pulled out the empty stick and then poked at her cheek. “I can’t believe it-I think I cracked a crown”

  Madame Geri’s mouth curved upward.

  Leaving Bernice swearing and holding the side of her face, Madame Geri pivoted and sailed out of the office, Jimmy in her wake with Marley.

  He blew Sandy a kiss. “See ya later, sweetie.”

  But Madame Geri had one parting salvo for me before she left: “Mallie, the secret lies in the mangos. That’s where it all began, and that’s where it will end.”

  “Secret?” I inquired.

  She nodded. “You have to find out what happened to Gina, or the mangos will never ripen again.”

  “But-” Too late. The island’s Oracle of Delphi was gone.

  “What a loon,” Bernice muttered, flexing her jaw back and forth.

  “She is not,” Sandy retorted as she skirted the greasy engine and took her place at the desk near mine. “Madame Geri is well respected on this island, and her curses are not to be taken lightly.”

  “I’m shaking in my shoes” Bernice made her legs quiver in faux fear.

  “You will be. The broken crown is just the beginning of the curse” Sandy grabbed a chocolate bar from her drawer and wagged it for emphasis. She started to rip off the wrapper, paused, then thought better of it. Tossing the chocolate back into her desk drawer, she took in a deep breath of selfsatisfaction.

  “Good for you, Sandy.” I gave her a thumbs-up. Madame Geri’s curse and Jimmy’s support had given her the courage she needed. “You don’t need food as a crutch anymore”

  “I sure don’t-even if I have to smell engine oil and wear crummy clothing promoting `grease jobs.”’ She held up her Charley’s Garage T-shirt. “I refuse to take refuge in candy therapy.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little motor grime,” Bernice quipped.

  “You have no idea how `grimy’ it’s going to get,” Sandy promised.

  Bernice blurted out an expletive and flung her cracked crown into the trash. “That was just a coincidence.” She stomped into her office and slammed the door, but it didn’t shut. The hinges popped off, and the whole thing crashed to the floor with a thunderous clatter.

  “Holy hell!” Bernice screamed. “My head is splitting!”

  Sandy sighed in contentment.

  Talk about Madame Geri magic!

  Humming to myself, I went back to work. Two hours later, I’d placed the final touches on the “Terror on the Trail” story and finished my obituary on Gina Fernandez. Maybe the engineoil odor had actually inspired me, but I’d never written articles that quickly. Or maybe it was the continual cursing coming out of Bernice’s office as her stapler broke, her chair leg cracked, and her computer went down. You go, Madame Geri.

  I set the hard copies on Bernice’s desk, chitchatted for a few minutes, and wished her a good evening, knowing her hell had just begun.

  Doing a joyful little dance all the way back to my desk, I began to pack up, noting that Sandy had just finished printing out several pages on the creaky laser-jet printer.

  “After what Madame Geri said, I decided to research the Observer archives for any information relating to mangos on Coral Island.” She handed me a small stack of articles. “The last reporter who was here did a series on the history of growing mangos on the island.”

  “The one who went berserk in the Dairy Queen drivethrough?”

  Sandy nodded. “She wasn’t a bad writer.”

  “I’ll bet” I shoved my notepad into my bag. “I’m going to swing by Island Decor and see what Isabel wanted”

  “Wait” She shuffled through the afternoon mail. “With all the upheaval going on, I forgot that this letter came for you”

  She handed me a legal-sized manila envelope. I opened it and shook out the contents on her desk. “What’s this?” It looked as if someone had taken a photo and cut it into pieces.

  Sandy shuffled the fragments into a semblance of the original picture. Her hand went to her mouth. “Cripes! This is the picture of you that ran in the Observer when Anita hired you.”

  A cold chill snaked through me.

  Someone had sliced up my picture-and made sure I saw it.

  On the short drive to Island Decor, I tried to rationalize a motivation for the cut-up photograph.

  People got ticked off with reporters all the time. This was a small island, and I was the main reporter for the Observer, so I took most of the flak.

  Right from the beginning of my employment at the newspaper, readers had called and complained about my storieslike the one on the bike path. One reader felt I was too “pro bike,” and another one felt I was too “anti bike.” Then there were the usual gripes about media bias-blah, blah, blah.

  This was probably nothing more than a disgruntled Ob server subscriber who posed no more of a threat than Everett Jacobs the Curmudgeon.

  What about the hang-up phone calls?

  My sweaty hands clenched the wheel. So much had happened today, I’d forgotten about the calls. Was is possible that whoever was calling me and hanging up had decided to kick it up a notch and send me a perverse, Picasso-like version of my picture?

  But who?

  The only stories I was working on right now were those connected with Gina Fernandez’s death-or, rather, murder.

  My nerves tensed tighter than a guitar string tweaked for an evening’s performance. Someone didn’t like my sniffing around for information about Gina. And that someone could be her killer-maybe even a person I’d already questioned in regard to her death.

  I ran through a list of whom I’d talked to in the last two days.

  Rivas-the angry brother. He certainly had the temperament to kill but a doubtful motive.

  Brandi-the rival for Mango Queen. She had motive, that’s for sure. But was she a killer?

  Trish and Bryan Palmer-the snobby potential in-laws. They seemed to hate Gina for having the audacity to become engaged to their son, Brett. But was that a motive for murder?

  Isabel Morales-the business partner who owed Gina money. Could she have been so desperate that she wanted to wipe clean the debt by eliminating having to pay it back?

  My thoughts raced from one suspect to another like a frenzied hamster on a wheel, spinning around and around and around. But the constant mental motion produced no answers. I took in a deep breath and exhaled, trying to settle my mind. That cut-up picture had shaken me, that’s for sure.

  Keep it together. Isabel was waiting for me.

  I pulled into the parking lot of Island Decor and did my “mugatoni” chant for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure if it helped or not, except that it sparked a sudden hunger for spaghetti.

  As I entered, the door chime tinkled, and the vanilla scent wafted toward me. It was certainly better than the smell of dead fish or engine oil at the newspaper office. Maybe I could persuade Isabel to advertise with the Observer, so we could fi
nally have a pleasant odor to counteract Bernice’s stinky clients.

  “Thank goodness you came” Isabel came rushing toward me, her dark hair flying behind her. I spied the wildness in her eyes and heard the panic in her voice. Something was obviously very wrong.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I have to show you. Come into the back room” She led me past the flowered-chintz sofa, the delicate armchairs, the carefully placed bronze ornaments, and the flowery artwork toward the back room. When we entered, I found myself taking a step back in surprise. Unlike the carefully arranged front room, this space was cluttered from top to bottom with fabric and boxes of assorted sizes. In the middle stood an oak rolltop desk.

  “There” Isabel pointed at the desk.

  I scanned the messy top. It looked like the rest of the room. “Is there something amiss?” An understatement.

  “I’ll say.” She gave an exclamation of impatience. “That’s Gina’s desk. She was a neat freak. Not a single paper was ever out of order.”

  “It certainly doesn’t look very tidy now.” Order forms and papers were strewn every which way.

  “My point exactly-it was organized until today.” She hugged her arms around herself in a protective stance. “Someone was in here between the time I left yesterday, at around five, and this morning.”

  “Any sign of forced entry?”

  She grimaced. “No, but a good wind could blow open that back door. We kept meaning to get it fixed, but we just never got around to it.”

  “Was anything stolen, from what you could tell?”

  “Uh … no. I did a quick inventory this morning, and everything appears to be here, including all of our pricey antiques, expensive knickknacks, and artwork. Nothing’s missing. That’s why I didn’t call the police. How could I tell Detective Billie that someone came into the place and messed up Gina’s desk? I’d sound like a fool.”

  “Maybe not.” Especially with the latest information on Gina’s death, I added to myself.

  Isabel’s whole face crumpled into an expression of despair. “Why did all of this happen?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I looked down at the desk and debated what to do. Considering this was a potential crime scene, Detective Billie would kill me if I got fingerprints anywhere on Gina’s desk. “Could you get me a pencil with an eraser?”