Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves Read online

  “Too bad I can’t say the same” I toyed with his T-shirt. “I forgot you the moment I met Mickey.”

  He tensed. “You found another guy?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was waiting in the wings for you to leave.” I was enjoying the look of dismay on his face. “A small guy, with whiskers and little white gloves. I saw him at work every day at the Magic Kingdom.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mickey. As in the Mouse?”

  Realization dawned on him, and his mouth quirked up on one side. “Okay, I deserved that.” Cole flashed me a sheepish look. “If not forgiven, at least I wasn’t forgotten, huh?”

  “Not completely.” My motormouth might still run, but my heart was parked in a lower gear. “A lot has happened since the last time I saw you. I … I’m a different person now.”

  “Is there … anybody else in your life?”

  “Could be” Now, why did an image of Nick Billie flicker in the back of my mind? It wasn’t as if we’d ever even gone out on a date.

  “Now, I am getting worried-“

  A small scratching sound interrupted him.

  Cole inclined his head. “You still have Kong?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  “Silly me.”

  I extricated myself from his embrace and opened the door to my Airstream. Kong leaped out as if he were a heat-seeking canine missile, and I caught him. He licked my face with lavish adoration.

  “Hiya, Kong,” Cole greeted him.

  My teacup poodle’s ears immediately perked up. He turned his stubby snout and sniffed. Apparently, he remembered Cole, because he began to treat him to the same vigorous tongue worship.

  “Traitor,” I teased.

  Cole rubbed Kong’s apricot furry head. “Loyal pooch”

  I couldn’t help smiling at two of my favorite males. “Where are you staying?”

  “Right next door.” He pointed at the previously empty spot on the other side of my Airstream. I’d been so preoccupied with my close-encounter-of-the-unpleasant-kind at the Palmer house, I hadn’t even noticed the small, neatly kept van conversion parked in the adjacent site.

  “Coz”Y.

  “It can’t compete with your Airstream, but I call it home” He patted the silver hull of my RV. “How ‘bout I treat you to lunch, and we get caught up?”

  “Sure … no, wait, I can’t. I have to interview Mama Maria.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s Gina Fernandez’s mother. Yesterday I found Gina dead under Old Blacky-a mangrove tree at the entrance to the Little Coral Island trail-and I have to write her obituary because I work for the Observer. That’s the island paper. My boss’ sister is the temporary editor, and I’m really under all kinds of pressure to write a sensationalized story, but I refused-“

  “Whoa. You need to fill me in slowly. It’s been a long time.”

  “Sure. Perhaps I can give you the condensed version on our way to Mama Maria’s. Let me give Kong a quick walk, take a shower, and then we can drive over to her restaurant together.”

  “You’re on, babe” He touched my face. “The shower would be especially nice. I hate to tell you this, but you smell like a matchbook. Weird.”

  “Sulfur sprinklers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” In spite of my stinky state, my heart sang out. Just for now, I wanted to forget about Gina’s death. Forget about Bernice the Butthead. Forget about the callous Palmer family.

  Cole was back.

  In ten minutes, we were zipping along Cypress Road, the main drag of Coral Island. I’d showered, fluffed up my curls, and dressed in a fresh white cotton blouse, fresh jean cutoffs, and my best pair of Birkenstocks. Not bad.

  “It’s nice to see you’re still driving Rusty.” He patted the faded dashboard. “I’ve got a lot of good memories connected with this of truck.”

  “Oh, yeah. My personal favorite was when he broke down during that tropical storm in Orlando, and we had to walk four miles in the pounding rain.”

  “Just an inconvenience.” He waved a hand dismissively.

  “It took me two days to dry out”

  “But you looked pretty cute with your curls all wet and tangled-like a sea nymph.”

  Heat broke out across the back of my neck. I rolled down my window even farther. Time to change the subject. If Cole intended to stay for any length of time, I’d need to get Rusty’s air conditioner fixed pronto, or I’d be in a state of constant semi-meltdown.

  “So what’s been happening in your life, babe?”

  I put my motormouth into high gear and filled him in on my job (elevating it a little), the murder cases I’d been involved in (downplaying them a little), my new friends (no embellishment needed), and my Tae Kwon Do skills (lots of embellishment needed).

  “Who’s this Detective Billie?”

  “Uh … just the local chief deputy.”

  “You seem to run into him a lot,” he observed matter-offactly.

  “Only when I’m working on investigative stories.” I felt a blush rising to my cheeks. “And maybe at Town Hall meetings, or the Circle K when we’re both getting our morning fix of Krispy Kremes. And maybe-“

  “Whoa. Now I really am getting worried. Sounds like I’ve got some competition in the field, and he’s got the home advantage”

  I couldn’t resist a smile. “Our relationship is strictly professional. He tries to solve his cases; I interfere and drive him crazy.”

  “Ouch” Cole winced, as though punched in the stomach. “It’s worse than I thought. Anytime a woman drives a man crazy, he’s interested.”

  “Male logic?”

  “Nope-primitive male instinct. I’d fight him for you, but I’m a pacifist. So I guess I have to cut him out in other, more subtle ways-like by showing you what a responsible guy I’ve become”

  “You’re just not the kind of guy who stays.” I turned into Mama Maria’s parking lot as mixed feelings swirled through me.

  A long pause. “Maybe I’ve changed too”

  I didn’t respond. Could a leopard change his spots? Could the moon change its orbit? Could Cole become the man of my dreams?

  We sat in the truck for a few minutes in silence.

  “Let’s save this conversation for later, okay?” I finally said. I needed time to take in that Cole was here, and I didn’t know how or if he could fit into my life on Coral Island.

  He nodded.

  I slid out of Rusty and scanned the parking lot. In spite of the trucks and cars lined up in the front spots, a hot, dusty, deserted feeling still surrounded the place.

  “Bad vibes.” Cole moved to my side.

  “Uh-huh” We entered the restaurant. The small dining room seemed more normal than yesterday, with a few patrons and a faint smell of fajitas and tacos. An older couple sat near one of the window tables, talking quietly. Two teenagers occupied the table next to them, both occupied with rapid-fire textmessaging. I didn’t know any of them. But seated on one of the stools at the back counter was none other than Everett Jacobs, the island curmudgeon with whom I’d had a couple of run-ins. Cheap and crotchety, he had no relatives and few friends-mainly because he was such a pain in the butt. Sure, he’d sort of saved my life a year ago, but I think he did it more to spite the murderer than to help me.

  He turned as we entered, saw me, then just swiveled back around on his stool without saying a word.

  “You know him?” Cole asked.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “That’s another long story. I’ll save it for later when we’ve got the time.”

  “Go for the short version,” Everett tossed off over his shoulder. “When she starts talking, you’ll have to wait for the cows to come home before she finishes.”

  How the heck did he hear me? I approached his aging, bent form, hunched over his coffee cup. “I guess the term `private conversation’ is sort of lost on you, huh?”

  He gave a short exclamation of contempt-or maybe he was clearing his throat, ready to spit. I halted a
nd motioned Cole to do the same. My shoes had been the recipients of Everett’s expectorate in the past, and it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Got myself a brand-new pair of hearing aids.” He turned around to face us again, pointing at both ears. “And they’re on maximum volume. I hear everything now-even stuff that people don’t want me to hear. I’m in the catbird seat,” he added with a smug smile.

  “I can only imagine.” Considering how disagreeable he was most of the time, he probably heard the words old coot at least a dozen times a day. “This is my friend, Cole.”

  “Hiya.” Cole put out his hand. Everett stared at it for a few seconds, then sighed and reluctantly gave him a slight shake as if he were touching a leper. “Have you lived on Coral Island for long?”

  “Long enough to know not to spend time with newcomers”

  Cole’s friendly demeanor didn’t diminish. “I’d think you would want to show people your island and-“

  “Too many people here already. The island don’t need anybody else.”

  I rolled my eyes, thinking he couldn’t hear that. “How’s Mama Maria doing?”

  Everett’s bushy gray eyebrows slanted down in a deep frown. “She’s struggling to keep going. I asked her if she needed any help, but she’s proud and wants to keep busy so the grief don’t eat her alive. Poor lady.”

  I blinked. Were those words coming out of Everett the Crusty Curmudgeon? Could it be he had a soft side after all?

  “So don’t go riling her none, missy.” He leveled a stern glance at me. “You stick your nose into other people’s business for that damn rag of a newspaper and it does nothing but make problems.”

  That sounded more like the Everett I’d come to know and dislike.

  “I have no intention of upsetting her,” I declared, wishing it were permissible to kick old men in public. “She wanted me to come by today to talk about Gina and gather information for her obituary.”

  “So that’s why you’re here” He transferred his eyes to Cole. “What about surfer boy?”

  I gritted my teeth. “He’s … a friend.”

  Everett scoffed. “This isn’t the time for you to be cozying up to some beachcomber, when a lady has lost her daughter.”

  “Look, Everett, it’s none of your business who I spend my time-“

  “Mallie, chica.” Mama Maria emerged from the kitchen, wearing a black dress and apron. Her eyes still appeared redrimmed from crying. Her face was sagging with sadness, but she seemed more in control-no broken glass.

  She hugged me, and then I introduced her to Cole.

  “Buenos dias. Welcome to our island.”

  Cole shook hands with her.

  “Do you want to take a table?” Mama Maria gestured to a secluded corner of the restaurant.

  I touched her arm gently. “We were going to have some lunch, but could I talk to you about Gina first for the story? That is, if you’re up to it.”

  “Si. Come with me.” Her mouth tightened into a resolute line, and my admiration for her soared. Every ounce of her strength was being mustered to keep herself from breaking down.

  “You two go on,” Cole urged. “I’ll stay here and have a cup of coffee with my new friend.” With a beaming smile, he slapped Everett on the back.

  “I’ve got nothing to say.” The old man grimaced.

  Cole winked at me as he took the stool next to Everett.

  I winked back. Everett might be the most disagreeable man I’d ever met, but Cole was the most agreeable. A battle of wills was about to begin, but I felt confident that my erstwhile boyfriend would come out on top. He had the power of boyish buoyancy. Everett’s barbs and jabs would bounce off Cole like sand fleas popping against a porch screen.

  I followed Mama Maria out through the kitchen and toward a separate house that was located behind the restaurant. Lush foliage kept the place partially hidden, but behind the bougainvillea bushes, palm trees, and sea grape, I spied a modest-sized, typical Florida cinder block house. It was painted the same bright color as the restaurant and was kept up with the same meticulous neatness.

  She didn’t speak as she entered the house and led me through a tiled, simply furnished living room, down a hallway lined with family pictures, and into a bedroom.

  “This was Gina’s room.”

  I took a moment to look around. I’d met Gina only briefly, so I didn’t know quite what to expect. But as I took in the antique four-poster bed, mahogany dresser, and subtle colors of the bedspread and “accent pieces,” as my mother would call them, I realized Gina must’ve been a talented decorator. Certainly, I could’ve used her help with my Airstream and its mishmash of colors, cheap fixtures, and general lack of any sense of style.

  “This is lovely.” I ran a hand over the soft green bedspread decorated with tiny palm trees.

  She sighed, her eyes tearing up. “Gina could make any room look bonita. She redid this whole house and the restaurant after she became a decorator. They came alive…

  But Gina was dead. The words were left unspoken, but we both knew what Mama Maria was thinking.

  I strolled around, noticing the framed picture of Gina and Brett on the bedstand-both of them wore huge grins and straw hats as they held up some kind of tropical drinks. They looked so happy.

  “That was taken when they were on a cruise earlier this year.”

  “Nice” What could I say? A pang shot through me at the image of all that youth and happiness. Gone. All gone.

  On the bed lay a large, thick volume. Mama Maria picked it up and handed it to me. “This was Gina’s scrapbook. She kept all her special pictures and favorite fabrics in there, and lots of other things too. I thought you might like to see them”

  I sat on the bed and opened the ornate cover. Mama Maria seated herself next to me. As I paged through the scrapbook, she filled me in on Gina’s life. Her early years as one of the few Latina girls at the island school, her stint in Miami getting her decorating degree at Florida International University, her partnership with Isabel, her favorite fabric swatches from completed jobs, and, of course, her engagement to Brett. It was all there, in one place-a whole life between the covers of a scrapbook.

  “Gina was a very special young woman,” I said in a gentle voice as I finally turned the last page.

  “R” Her head sagged against her chest.

  “I’ll write the best story I can about her life. I promise you that”

  “Gracias. She would’ve liked that.” She took in a deep breath and rose to her feet. “Feel free to look around. I’m going back to the restaurant” With slow, halting steps, she headed for the door.

  I slid off the bed, clutching the scrapbook against my chest.

  Moving around the room, I noticed all the girly items on the dresser: fancy perfume bottles, silver comb and brush, tiny china figurines. Pretty and delicate.

  Then, something else caught my eye. Amid the feminine ornaments was a small white box, with a syringe on top.

  “Mama Maria, what’s this?” I pointed at the box.

  She was almost out of the room but turned back. “That was Gina’s testing kit. She was a diabetic.”

  Oh.

  ow bad was the diabetes? Did she have it long?” I picked up the insulin tester and the syringe and looked them over. That’s why the needle was next to Gina’s body. She must’ve been giving herself an insulin shot.

  “Since she was a teenager. It came on very sudden, very fast. She almost went into a coma before we could get her to the hospital. But they saved her. Once she got back on her feet, the doctor told her how to check her sugar levels and give herself a shot when she needed it.”

  “That must’ve been a pretty hard adjustment to make for someone her age”

  Mama Maria shook her head with a tiny smile. “Not for Gina. She saw it as just another challenge. It didn’t slow her down one bit.”

  “Did a lot of people know about it?”

  “Only family and a few close friends. She said she didn’t want people t
o pity her.”

  “But it was serious?”

  “Enough to kill her? Si.” A tear slid down one side of her face. “She could get very sick, very fast, if she didn’t time her two shots-morning and evening.”

  “Yet Rivas said-“

  “Stupid talk,” she muttered with a frown. “Gina was never well. She wouldn’t let the disease slow her down, but it always was there, waiting to strike her down. I told her to take things easy, not push herself so hard, but she was stubborn, headstrong. Then, the whole Mango Queen contest stressed her out-she was up all night when she got crowned. And I knew, once she became the Mango Queen, it was just the beginning-she’d have to do things like that stupid trail thing. I think it took her to the limit.”

  “She seemed pretty lively during the hike,” I pointed out.

  “Gina put on a brave front. She was not well.” Tears started welling up again in Mama Maria’s eyes. She shook her head and left the room.

  I stared down at the monitor and syringe, my thoughts in a jumble. This revelation put a whole new spin on Gina’s death. Was it possible that Aunt Lily and Rivas had let their grief overshadow the very real possibility that Gina’s disease had killed her? And why hadn’t either of them mentioned it? Wouldn’t they have known?

  There was one person in particular I needed to share this knowledge with: Detective Nick Billie. With our new relationship based on openness and honesty, I had to get this information to him pronto.

  I placed the monitor and syringe in my large canvas bag and exited, allowing myself only one backward glance. The room still seemed to have a sense of Gina’s presence. Palpable. Real. And sad.

  With a sigh, I moved down the hallway, letting my glance trail down the wall of framed pictures-some in color, some black and white. All different sizes and shapes, they appeared to capture the history of the Fernandez family on Coral Island.

  All of a sudden, I stopped. A familiar face stared at me from an old, yellowed photograph. Sure, she was much younger, but there was no mistaking the red hair and freckles: my Great-Aunt Lily. She stood positioned between a Latino man and a young girl who appeared to be about twelve years old. Was that Mama Maria? But who was the man? Maria’s father? And why was Aunt Lily in the picture? The photograph emanated an atmosphere of … intimacy, almost like that of a family.