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  A Mango Bay Mystery

  Other Books by Marty Ambrose

  The Mango Bay Mystery Series:

  Peril in Paradise

  Island Intrigue

  Murder in the Mangroves

  Marty Ambrose

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

  I would to thank my Mom, the real “Delores,” for all her help and support during my writing career. She is simply the best mother one could ever wish for. Many thanks to my husband and sister for always being there with editorial advice as well.

  My sincere gratitude to my editor, Lia Brown, whose suggestions improve my books on every level.

  Last, but not least, are my heartfelt thanks to my agent and friend, Roberta Brown. My writing career is largely due to her positive support of me as a writer.

  “I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead.”

  -Oscar Wilde

  We need to shake things up-now!” my editor, Anita Sanders, pronounced as she breezed into our newspaper office. “It’s almost Halloween, and we’re still doing stories about hurricane season preparedness. Boring!”

  “You mean you don’t like this article on `The ABCs of Disaster Supply Kits’?” I pointed at my computer screen. Okay, so it was a big yawn. Our little southwest Florida island had officially hit the early-fall doldrums-and so had the front-page stories on our Coral Island weekly paper, the Observer. Not that I wanted a hurricane to hit-far from it. But Anita had a point: we needed something fresh, new, and exciting to jazz up our headlines. And to keep me from falling asleep at the keyboard.

  “Spare me. All I need after a hurricane is a jar of peanut butter and a bottle of bourbon.” Her mouth twisted upward in a slight smile, deepening the lines in her thin face. Hard-edged, fiftyish, and a former reporter for the Detroit Free Press, Anita had little patience with people who lived cautiously-or who didn’t ravage their appearance with cigarettes and booze. She’d popped out of the womb as a three-pack-a-day smoker, having stopped only recently. But the damage was done.

  “Let’s see … how about my interview with Harry “the Hurricane Boy” Torino, who was selling boxed emergency kits at the island center?” I offered, swiveling my new chair in her direction. Now that Anita was dating Mr. Benton, the old cheapskate had finally funneled a little money into the office-stress the word little: some paint, an indoor-outdoor carpet in pea green, and secondhand, instead of thirdhand, furniture. At least I didn’t have to worry that the rollers might fall off my chair every time I leaned backward. And my refurbished Dell computer was only three years old, not ten.

  “Pffffft. Harry is a scam artist. All those kits have in them is dried fruit, SPAM, and waterless shampoo. That’s going to be a big help after a hurricane.” She sat on the corner of my desk and pulled out a tube of lipstick from her purse. Lipstick?! She coated her mouth with a bright orange swipe of color. Yikes. Then I scanned her face more closely and realized that she was also wearing foundation and mascara. Of course, the makeup had settled in her smoker’s wrinkles, and the mascara had smudged under her eyes, giving her a raccoonlike look. Double yikes.

  “Anita, are you wearing … uh … cosmetics?” I said in disbelief.

  “Yup.” She pulled out a compact and swept the puff across her cheeks in a thick line. “I went into town and had a makeover. Bought myself the basics. I gotta keep up now that I have a boyfriend.”

  I swallowed hard. Mr. Benton was close to seventy and looked like Mr. Potato Head with a bad toupee. But, hey, if having a man made Anita a little nicer, I’d buy them a gift certificate for dinner at the Starfish Lodge-Coral Island’s nicest restaurant (translated: you had to wear shoes).

  “And I’m not stopping with the makeover. I’m going to the next level: the heavy-duty stuff,” Anita continued as she slapped a brochure onto my desk. “The island dermatologist is now offering full-service rejuvenation.”

  I glanced down at the tri-fold paper brochure with the caption: Beauty Is in the Eye of the Bee Holder! Underneath were “Before and After” pictures of a woman who looked eighty, and then twenty, courtesy of a miracle bee cream, some kind of injectable gook, and (in my opinion) major heavy-handed Photoshopping.

  Uh-oh.

  “I’m starting with the bee cream tonight. The main ingredient is one hundred percent pure, island-grown bee pollen-right from the hives.” She held up a small jar and opened the lid.

  I sniffed and then gagged. It smelled like an old shoe. Anita scooped out a lump and dabbed a small amount on the crow’s-feet next to her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup. Then she rubbed the rest on her neck. “It’s supposed to smooth out all the lines in a week.”

  A sandblaster might help more, but I kept that thought to myself.

  “Okay, enough about my getting gorgeous.” She replaced the lid and tossed the cream and lipstick into her purse. “Let’s talk about spicing up our October stories enough so I don’t have to prop my eyes open with sticks to read them.”

  I clicked on my computer calendar that listed all of the upcoming island events. “We’ve got the Halloween facepainting contest at the elementary school.”

  “Yawn”

  “How about the Fall Fish Toss?”

  “Asleep.”

  I sighed. “I guess we’re down to the Autumn Book Fair.”

  “Comatose.”

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest, sighing. Coral Island was a twenty-mile-long strip of land that ran north-south inside of the coastal barrier islands, which meant only a tiny beach, few tourists, and even fewer happenings that didn’t involve kids, fishing, and Rotary Clubs. “I’m out of events … except this food thing coming up-“

  “Jeez, how could I have forgotten?” She rapped herself on the forehead. “It’s the first annual `Taste of the Island’ next weekend. Perfect!”

  “Great.” I managed a weak smile, but even I could hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. I wasn’t a big foodie, to say the least. Mostly, I survived on coffee, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, fast food, and the occasional chocolate energy bars when I thought I needed something healthy.

  “Listen, kiddo, this is a biggie. Every restaurant on Coral Island will have a booth, and people can sample their trademark food all day. Then they’ll vote on the best restaurant. Benton filled me in, since he’s in the island Chamber of Commerce that planned it-a real family event.”

  “And you liked the idea?” I could feel my eyes widen. Anita hated wholesome, even more than she disliked dull.

  “Hell, no” She stood up. “But I love the idea of all the island restaurants competing for the honor of winning Best Sauce, Best Appetizer, or Best Dog Chow at the event. I’m sure they’ll do anything to win: steal recipes, spy on one another’s waitstaff, find ways to spike a competing chef’s food with ingredients that make people sick. Oh, yes, I love it.” She rubbed her hands together with glee.

  Only Anita would be excited at the thought of people with food poisoning. “I guess I can interview a few of the restaurant owners this week-“

  “No. No. No.” She shook her head each time she repeated the word. “You’re going to visit each restaurant and sample the food; then you can write about it. You’ll have a blog this week as the new food critic for the Observer, and then do updates twice a day.”

  I gasped. The Coral Island restaurants weren’t exactly Maxim’s. My least favorite, Le Sink, served (from what I’d heard) only charred hamburgers in its open-air serving space and had ceramic sinks littered all around the yard.

  “Let’s start with Le Sink.”

  Of course. �
�But, Anita-“

  “No buts.” She held up a hand. “This is just what we need to spice things up, literally.” Cackling at her own pun, she strolled into her tiny office, as she smoothed another layer of the bee cream onto her arms.

  Just then Sandy, our receptionist-cum-secretary-cumanything, strolled in carrying a stack of wedding magazines. She halted and sniffed. “What’s that weird smell?”

  “Bee face cream.” I tilted my head in the direction of Anita’s office. “She’s on some kind of weird beauty kick to keep Mr. Benton `forever panting, and forever young.”’ I couldn’t resist the Keats quotation. I’d majored in comparative literature-a degree that opened the doors of the underemployed at every junction of my journey from the Midwest to Florida. But at least I could always come up with a catchy quote.

  Sandy picked up the brochure and nodded sagely. “Love will do that to you. I know I always want to look my best for Jimmy.” A soft glow lit her sweetly featured face. “You would think it was spring instead of fall with all the love in the air.” She grinned, tucking a strand of nut-brown hair behind her ear.

  I couldn’t help smiling back. Sandy had gotten engaged over the last summer to Jimmy, the son of our freelance island psychic, Madame Geri, and her life had turned golden. Sandy had found the man of her dreams, lost twenty pounds, ditched the Coke-bottle glasses for contacts, and started making extra money writing obit uaries for the newspaper. If I didn’t know better, I would swear Madame Geri had put a happy spell on Sandy.

  “What about you?” Sandy asked as she set the magazines on her desk that faced mine. “Isn’t it great having your boyfriend back?”

  I paused. My ex-boyfriend, Cole Whitney, had made a summer appearance at the Twin Palms RV Resort where I had parked my Airstream trailer and teacup poodle, King Kong, two years ago. I’d missed Cole terribly right after he had taken off from our place in Orlando to “find himself” out west, but after all my adventures on Coral Island, someone new had appeared on the horizonNick Billie, the local island cop.

  “I like having Cole around again, but, well, it’s just different.” I shrugged.

  “Now that Detective Billie is in the running,” she added with a knowing grin.

  “That’s not true exactly. And it’s not a race. More like a crawl.” Sighing, I leaned my head in my hands. This whole relationship thing between old boyfriend and possible new boyfriend seemed like getting stuck in a sand hole on the beach. I couldn’t see it coming, and I didn’t know how to get out-or even if I wanted to. “I can’t be bothered with figuring out men. Cole is like a butterfly, and Nick is like a granite bust both just as frustrating. I think I’m going to stick with Kong. It’s a lot easier.”

  “So you say.” She seated herself at her desk. “Just remember: it’s no fun snuggling up to a dog on a hot, tropical night.”

  True.

  “Some women would think you’re in the catbird seat: torn between two handsome men,” Sandy continued as she turned on her computer. “Not me, of course. Jimmy is all I need in my life.”

  “He’s a gem.” I wasn’t lying or even stretching the truth. Stocky, good-humored, and hardworking, Jimmy really was a gem.

  “Thanks, Mallie.” She picked up the brochure about the bee cream and scanned it. “You know, I might try some of this stuff. I want my skin to look perfect on my wedding day.”

  “But it’s only two weeks away. I’m not sure what kind of results you can get that fast,” I pointed out, eyeing those phony before-and-after pictures again. “Worst case scenario, your skin might turn yellow.”

  “Or I might grow wings.” She laughed.

  “Just so you don’t fly away. Jimmy would be devastated.” I snatched the brochure back. “The only thing Anita seems to have grown is a stinger-right in her-“

  “Okay, I’ve got the picture. But she had that before she tried the face cream.” Sandy laughed, waiting for her ancient computer to fire up. Mr. Benton hadn’t updated all of the technology in our little newspaper office, but maybe that was next, especially if Anita turned into some kind of middle-aged siren for stingy bosses.

  Fat chance.

  “Maybe you should buy some of the cream; it might help, since you’re always complaining about your freck les,” Sandy said, eyeing my pale, freckled skin.

  “I’ve changed my opinion over the last year that I’ve lived in Florida. I now prefer to call them beauty spots.” I fluffed my wild profusion of scarlet curls that accompanied the typical redhead’s skin. “I read somewhere that skin without freckles is like a sky without stars.” Hey, it sounded good, and what was the use in fighting my skin under the tropical sun? Besides, I’d already tried freckle removal cream, freckle fade cream, and freckle laser removal. (Okay, I’d only thought about the last one-I didn’t have the money to give it a try.) None of them worked. In fact, I now had more freckles.

  “Just as well,” Sandy said. “I like ‘em. They suit you.” She tapped on her keyboard and then fastened her glance on the screen. “What’s on your calendar this week?”

  “Hold your breath-my main story isn’t logged in yet.” I paused for effect. “I’m the Observer’s new food critic for the upcoming `Taste of the Island.’”

  “Oh, wow. What I wouldn’t give for that assignment. I’m so sick of writing obits.” She glanced down at her midsized thighs with a sigh and gave them a little pat. “But with only two weeks before my wedding, I couldn’t be a food anything-I’d never fit into my dress.”

  “Before you get too nostalgic for your triple-chocolate ice cream days, you might want to know where I’m having lunch.”

  “The Starfish Lodge?”

  I shook my head at the name of the island’s best restaurant.

  Don’t I wish.

  “The Seafood Shanty?”

  “Nope.” Their specialty-warm beer and peanutssounded good.

  She held up her palms in baffled anticipation.

  “Le Sink.”

  “No!” Sandy gasped and swallowed audibly. “I thought the Board of Health closed down their kitchen.”

  “I guess they opened up again.”

  “You’d better lay in a stock of Pepto-Bismol. I’ve heard the hamburgers are … well, hard to digest.” She grimaced.

  “You’re being diplomatic,” I said. “I’ve heard the food can burn a hole in your stomach as wide as the Gulf of Mexico. Kind of gives a whole new meaning to `junk food.’ And that’s pretty strong talk coming from someone like me who eats three doughnuts for breakfast with a half gallon of coffee for a chaser.”

  “Well, maybe you could just take a nibble and then write the review,” she offered with an encouraging nod. “That might not be too bad.”

  “I think I’ll have to eat more than just one bite to write a review.” I groaned, closing my eyes for a brief moment. “Why is it Anita always comes up with an assignment that seems more like a prison sentence?” I’d been working at the Observer for over a year, and I still covered mostly senior-center events and cutesy-kid sto ries. No matter what I did, it was never good enough for her. Just like my mother.

  Oh, jeez. Where had that come from? Was that why I stayed? To prove myself?

  Okay, too heavy. I made a practice of no self-analysis before lunch-or after. I liked to take life just as it comes-at face value.

  “She can’t help it, Mallie. Remember what Madame Geri said about Anita? She’s a Gemini and likes to do things her own way, even when it seems like a whim to everyone else. You have to ride out her craziness.” Sandy gave a knowing wink. “Now that she’s dating Mr. Benton, maybe he’ll rein her in a bit.”

  “Since when did you get so wise?”

  “Hey, I’m marrying Madame Geri’s son-I’ve got a pipeline to the psychic truth.” She tilted her head upward as if her prospective mother-in-law were some kind of divine presence. “I feel almost like I’m marrying into royalty.”

  More like a noble nutcase.

  “I know you don’t always agree with Madame Geri,” Sandy contin
ued, focusing on me again. “But you have to admit, at times she’s really awesome.”

  I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Madame Geri, though worshipped on the island like some kind of tropical Oracle of Delphi, made predictions one step up from a fortune cookie. Still, she occasionally hit the mark-and that scared me. One of my many jobs had been at a psychic hotline, and I was a total sham. Just listening and responding with “uh-huh” and “oh, no” was the extent of my mystic abilities. Most of the people who called knew what they wanted to do; they just needed a willing ear at $1.99 a minute.

  But one woman who’d worked with me, Irene, had stunned me with her “reads” over the phone. She always knew the truth behind every caller’s dilemma-totally intimidating.

  In fact, I’d been tempted to call her many times after I’d left yet another job, but I didn’t want to know my future.

  That scared me even more.

  Sandy glanced at me, still waiting for a response.

  “Yeah, Madame Geri is a … piece of work all right,” I managed to get out.

  Sandy shook her head. “You’ll agree someday. She’s generally right on target.”

  “I hardly need a prediction to know how my first dining experience as the Observer food critic is going to turn out.” I turned on my computer and Googled Le Sink, while Sandy clicked away on an obituary. Surprisingly, they had a Web site with a picture of the actual restaurant (and I use that term loosely). It appeared to consist of an open-air counter with “picnic table seating” and variously colored old ceramic sinks littered around the yard. “Do you think they clean these tables?” I turned my computer screen toward Sandy.

  “Rarely,” she answered without a glance. “I went there once with Jimmy. We had to wait two hours for our dinner, and it was … Well, you’ll see.”

  I groaned again.

  “Oh, and don’t use the Porta Potti. It’s beyond nasty. You could slap a saddle onto the palmetto bugs and ride them out of there.”