Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue Read online

  Of course, the presence of Madame Geri as my companion didn’t help things much. But I didn’t know what else to do with her. I was tempted to ask her to wait in my truck, but that seemed unfair, considering the nearfreezing temperature.

  As we strolled into the station, I caught my reflection in the mirror positioned above the water cooler. I plumped up my freshly washed curls. Okay, so I hadn’t taken just a “quick” shower. A little makeup and lip gloss never did a girl any harm. Or wearing a soft green sweater that made my red hair shine like a ripe apple.

  Vanity, thy name is Mallie.

  Detective Billie appeared in the doorway of his office, arms folded across his broad chest. “Uh-oh, this looks like trouble. Two women and a bird before ten o’clock.”

  “Hello, Nick. How’s life treating you?” Madame Geri inquired.

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Mercury goes retrograde in your sign today, so you’re likely to be frustrated. Just wait it out for a few days…:’

  “Thanks for the advice.” One side of his mouth curved upward, but otherwise he had no visible reaction to her prediction.

  “Could I talk to you?” I asked, looking at the coffeemaker with dismal realization. Stone cold empty. No delicious aroma emanated from it.

  “Sorry, the coffeemaker is broken-something electrical burned out after the last pot. But I’ve got a Thermos in my office if you’d like a cup”

  “Lead the way”

  He gestured for me to come into his office. I looked at Madame Geri.

  “Marley and I will stay here” She seated herself on the brown leather sofa, settled the parrot on her shoulder, and began to page through a Time magazine from 1999. “I need to catch up on world events.”

  I sent up a silent prayer of relief.

  Once in Detective Billie’s office, with a lukewarm cup of coffee in my hands, I found myself staring across the desk at his deeper-than-a-starless-night eyes. Everything went blank in my head for a few moments.

  “What’s up?”

  Get it together, girl. “I wanted to report … uh … an incident last night.”

  “Such as?” A lazy smile appeared on his face. “You and Madame Geri didn’t get rowdy with some bikers at the Seafood Shanty, did you?”

  “No” I flashed him a mean look.

  “Too bad. I was hoping to see you let loose.”

  What the heck does that mean? “If I do `let loose,’ you’ll be the first to know.”

  He leaned toward me. “I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you”

  My heart beat a little fast. Put the brakes on. You’re getting out of your depth. “I had something more serious to report. Last night, when I was driving back from Sally Jo’s house-“

  The smile faded. “What were you doing there?”

  “Wanda Sue asked me to check on her.”

  “Did you talk to Kevin?”

  I squirmed in my seat but said nothing.

  “Mallie, I thought I made it clear that I wanted you to stay out of this case…

  “Kevin and I didn’t talk about the murder-not very much, anyway. He said he heard a boat engine-“

  “I know. Let me handle this investigation.”

  “But I think-“

  “Don’t” He held up a hand.

  “Okay. Okay. That isn’t why I’m here. Well, maybe it is…. I mean, there was something sort of odd that occurred while I was at Sally Jo’s house. Maybe you wouldn’t exactly call it odd. It was sort of unexpected, I guess. At least I didn’t expect it-“

  “Will you come to the point?” he ground out.

  “Fine” I raised my chin in defiance. Good old motor mouth. It could always be called on to rev up when I least wanted it to.

  “I’m waiting.” He drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “I saw Sally Jo kissing Frank King.”

  He sat back and placed his hands on the arms of his chair. “They’ve been friends for years. Went to high school together.”

  “This wasn’t exactly the kind of kiss I’d give to a friend. It was very passionate.”

  His eyes kindled with interest. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

  “My vision is twenty-twenty, thank you very much.”

  “Duly noted. Thanks.”

  “So what do you think? Is it possible Sally Jo and Frank were having an affair?” I took in a deep breath. “That would give Frank motive to kill Tom. He told me that he couldn’t stand the way Tom treated his wife. If he loved Sally Jo, he might’ve wanted to get her husband out of the way.”

  “Whoa” He held up both hands as if I were a horse ready to bolt. “There’s no point in rampant speculating. I deal in facts”

  “Is Frank a suspect?”

  That muscle began working in his jaw. A sure sign he was debating whether or not to give me information or order me out of his office. “He is a suspect, yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “No comment.”

  “Jake Fowler? He’s got a hair-trigger temper and a mammoth case of resentment over the failure of their clam farm.”

  “You have been busy.” He drilled me with his stare. “No comment.”

  I threw up my hands. “Has anyone ever told you that you are the most irritating and stubborn man on earth?”

  He smiled again-a full-fledged grin. “Has anyone ever told you that you have hair the color of fire?”

  My heart revved again, but I wasn’t sure if it was in anger or excitement-maybe both. “Many times.”

  “Then I guess you don’t need to hear it again.”

  Somewhat mollified, I replied, “Compliments are always appreciated.”

  “Consider it given.”

  “Well, thanks” I resisted flipping my curls. That would be too much. “There’s something else. When I was heading back to the Twin Palms after visiting Sally Jo’s, I … I … was almost driven off the road”

  “What?” He snapped to attention as if he’d been doused with a bucket of ice cold water. “Give me the details. And please try to be brief.”

  “I’m always brief.”

  “Yeah, right.” A short bark of laughter erupted from him.

  I took a long swig of coffee to fortify myself. “Okay, here’s the story. I was driving along Cypress Road, just minding my own business-doing the speed limit, I might add.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I think that’s the maximum speed of your truck, isn’t it?”

  I ignored the criticism of Rusty. “This vehicle then appeared behind me. It came up really fast and close to my bumper-which, it just so happens, I’d recently replaced.” I grimaced. “Anyway, I thought he was going to pass. But instead, he rammed the back of Rusty.”

  “Rusty?”

  “Don’t you remember? That’s the name of my truck.”

  “How could I have forgotten? Go on”

  “I tried to pull over a little and then to outrun the other vehicle, but it rammed me again. Hard. I almost hit my head on the windshield.”

  He looked up again, and I thought I detected a swift shadow of concern passing across his face. “Were you hurt?”

  I shook my head. “Just shaken up”

  “What happened then?”

  “I floored it. Of course, as you know, Rusty couldn’t go any faster.” The image of those glaring headlights closing in on me filled my mind. My breath came in short gasps. “He was going to hit me yet again, but a car appeared in the oncoming lane, and he pulled back. Then I made a quick turn toward The Mounds and lost him.”

  Detective Billie’s face darkened like angry thunderclouds before a sudden tropical rain. “Could you make out the vehicle?”

  “No. The headlights were too bright. They filled my rearview mirror. I couldn’t see .. ” I snapped my fingers as something clicked in my mind. “Wait-it must’ve been a big truck or one of those SUVs, because the headlights were high off the road, much higher than a car’s. And Frank King drives a big truck” Was it possible that he had tried to hurt me?
/>   “So do ninety percent of the men on this island,” he responded dryly. “Including me.”

  “Oh” I sat back, deflated.

  “What about the driver?”

  “I couldn’t make anyone out” I took in a deep breath. “Do you think it could’ve been the killer?”

  “That’s a possibility.” He rubbed the back of his neck and leveled a weary glance in my direction. “Anything else?”

  I filled him in on the e-mail from the Salty Surfer.

  “It was a warning, and you need to heed it.” His voice was firm, final. “Stop asking questions about the murder, and let me handle it”

  “But I have a story to write, and-“

  “You can do that without snooping around for clues about the murder. I’m serious, Mallie. What happened last night should show you that you’re way out of your league. Tom’s killer might be willing to strike again.”

  I swallowed hard but remained silent. I debated whether or not to tell him about the fishing fly.

  “I know how stubborn you can be. But whatever promise you made to Wanda Sue isn’t worth risking your life for.” A low, compelling note entered his voice. “Let me do my job”

  “What about Kevin? In light of the incident last night, you’re not still considering him a suspect, are you?”

  “Can’t say for sure”

  I exhaled in frustration. “What can you tell me?”

  “I’m pursuing all possible avenues to solve the crime quickly.”

  “Gee. May I print that?” Sarcasm crackled out of my mouth like a whip.

  “Sure”

  I drained the rest of my coffee and stood up. At that moment I decided not to tell him about the fishing flyright now. I needed some kind of lead for my investigation, and he wasn’t supplying much of anything. The fly was my only clue.

  He rose to his feet. “I promise you’ll have the exclusive story after I make an arrest.”

  “That won’t satisfy Anita.” Or me.

  “It will have to do”

  We stood there, our eyes locked together. I must’ve been imagining the concern I’d thought I saw in his eyes a few minutes earlier-and the attraction. He was simply angry that I’d interfered in his case. Same old Detective Billie.

  “I’ve gotta go” I turned away.

  “Mallie, I don’t want you to be hurt-“

  I’d already exited his office and slammed the door. At that point Madame Geri held up the outdated magazine. “Did you know about Monica Lewinsky and President Clinton?”

  “Old news.”

  “He should’ve confessed at the beginning.” She tossed the magazine onto the table and heaved herself off the sofa. “It’s bad karma to lie. What goes around comes around”

  “Guess so” I held open the door. “We’ve got to see a man about a fishing fly”

  That wasn’t bad karma. I hadn’t made any promises to Detective Billie. But I had made one to Wanda Sue. And, by golly, I was going to live up to it.

  I had cooled down by the time we pulled up in front of Frank’s Fish and Bait Shoppe at the Trade Winds Marina. But I was no less determined to find Tom’s killer. Telling me I couldn’t do something was like waving a red flag in front of a charging bull. It inflamed me.

  During the drive, Madame Geri had been strangely silent. Ditto for Marley. But after I parked Rusty and was reaching for her rickety door handle, she placed a hand on my arm.

  “You can’t blame Nick,” she said. “He’s a wolf-“

  “Please, no more New Age junk” I jerked open my door. “Maybe there’s a simpler reason: He’s a control freak”

  “Suit yourself, but I’m rarely wrong.” She shrugged and took her hand from my arm. “A wolf can’t be tamed-only subdued, at best”

  I grabbed my canvas bag and slid out of Rusty, muttering to myself. Madame Geri really needed a big dose of reality. And maybe some intensive therapy to boot.

  Before she could fill me in on the details of Detective Billie’s lair, I strode into Frank King’s shop.

  My first impression was that I had wandered into a fisherman’s heaven. Dimly lit, the place was packed with every conceivable piece of fishing equipment that had ever been invented. Rods and reels of various sizes and shapes hung everywhere, suspended from the ceiling by neon-colored wires. Whole aisles were devoted to an impressive assortment of flies and hooks. Bait buckets, casting nets, and fishing vests occupied one whole wall. I didn’t know where to look first.

  Then I spied the signs-wooden plaques to put on your boat that expressed charming sentiments such as: SAIL NAKED or IT’S NOT How DEEP You FISH BUT How You WRIGGLE THE WORM. Classy.

  “Mr. King?”

  No answer.

  I peered around the fishing vests toward the far end of the store, where an old-fashioned cash register stood.

  He wasn’t there.

  I noticed the back door was open, so I moved toward it. Madame Geri followed close at my heels with Marley on his usual perch.

  “Something’s up. I feel odd vibrations,” she said.

  “Just keep that bird quiet,” I hissed.

  As I approached the door, Frank King suddenly rushed in carrying a small bundle of rags. He halted, redfaced and flustered, when he saw the two of us. “I … I wasn’t expecting you this early,” he stammered. “You said you’d be by this afternoon”

  “I forgot that I had to cover the fishing tournament later today.” I tried to make out what was inside the rags. It looked like a paintbrush.

  Frank’s glance moved from me to Madame Geri. His face took on that reverential look that everyone on the island seemed to adopt the moment they saw her. But there was something else lurking in his demeanor. A twinge of apprehension. Maybe psychics made him nervous. Or maybe he had something to hide.

  “I need a few minutes of your time,” I said, craning my neck to see what he’d been doing behind the store. The only thing I could make out was his truck parked in the garage behind the building. “Did I catch you in the middle of anything?”

  “No … uh, sort of.” A small paintbrush slipped out of his pile of rags and fell to the floor. Quickly he snatched it up.

  “Were you painting?” I asked.

  “Yeah” He stuffed the rags into a plastic bag, but not before I saw the paint color streaked across them. Dark blue. The same color as his truck.

  “Did you have an accident with your truck, or something?” I asked.

  “Not really.” He wiped the beaded sweat from his forehead. “I was doing a little touch-up. Someone ran a shopping cart against my passenger door when I was at the grocery store”

  Or maybe you damaged the vehicle when you rammed my truck last night. I gave him a hard stare.

  Frank went back outside, closing and locking the garage door before I could check out his truck. Then he resumed his position behind the counter. “Now, what about that fishing fly?”

  I was tempted to demand a look at his truck, but I’d tip my hand if I did. Instead, I smiled and reached into my bag for the fly. Two could play the cat-and-mouse game. And for once, I felt like the cat and not the mouse.

  I pulled out the fishing fly, protected by layers of tissue. As I unwrapped it, Frank drew in a sharp breath.

  “It’s incredible.” A touch of awe entered his voice, leading me to believe it was the first time he’d ever seen the fly. Or he was an incredibly good actor.

  “Madame Geri told me it’s a deceiver.” How fitting, I wanted to add, looking at a man who might be a “deceiver” himself.

  He nodded in her direction. “You know your flies, all right.”

  She plopped herself onto a stool. “Of course I do. I still stay in contact with my father, who was a fisherman”

  “Is he on the island?”

  “Nope” Madame Geri arranged the folds of her skirt. “Dad crossed over after he died, but we chitchat every so often”

  Frank’s eyes widened, and he looked around the room as if to assure himself that Madame Geri’s fath
er wasn’t hovering around the store. Apparently satisfied, he turned his attention back to the fishing fly. “You don’t see flies made with this kind of care too often today. It’s handmade with real feathers. Only master fly builders know how to do this.”

  “Is there anyone on the island who could make a fly like this?” I kept my tone friendly. “You, for instance?”

  He shook his head. “I’m good but not that good” Apparently lost in admiration, he sounded sincere.

  “What about Tom Crawford?”

  “Tom?” He gave a short bark of laughter. “No way. The most he could do was a standard buzzer.”

  “A what?”

  “Standard buzzer” He reached behind him and grabbed a small plastic packet from the assortment of flies on the wall. “This is one of the easiest flies to make. You just take the hook, twist some seal fur around it, and bind it with your line. Simple. You can make one in fifteen minutes.” He pointed at the hook, which appeared to be coated with black fuzz.

  “How many types of flies are there?” I studied the buzzer for a few minutes, then transferred my gaze to the multitude of fishing flies on the wall behind Frank.

  “There are maybe two dozen patterns-deceivers, buzzers, nobblers, beetles, nymphs-but each person who makes them can vary the design. So you could have hundreds or even thousands of variations on the basic designs.”

  “Oh, great,” I said without much enthusiasm. My only clue was turning out to be a bust. “So it would be unlikely that I could find out who made this fly? I might be doing a story for the Observer” So I stretched the truth a littleokay, maybe a lot.

  “Not necessarily.” He studied the deceiver in my palm again. “A lot of the unique handmade flies are registered. This pattern-the deceiver-was created by Lefty Kreh. Some people even call them Lefty’s Deceivers. But whoever made this fly tweaked the pattern” He touched the fly with reverence. “Notice the real feathers and how the tubing along the shank is hand painted? Beautiful.”

  My interest was kindled. “You think this one might be registered?”

  “I’ll check it out”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it-and my readers will too.” I took in a deep breath and asked him point-blank, “Mind if I look at your truck?”

  Instantly he stiffened. “Why?”