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

  My three elderly companions all nodded in happy anticipation.

  “I didn’t bring any insect repellent,” I protested.

  “Here you go, my dear.” Charley passed me his can of Bug Off!, and I layered it onto my arms and legs. The pungent smell of pine and tar assailed my senses.

  “Whew. This stuff is strong,” I mumbled, trying to hold my breath. I looked down at my attire in cautious hesitation. Since I’d had no idea I’d be on a sweltering, bug-infested trail walk when I dressed that morning, I had worn my standard uniform of denim shorts and T-shirt. My pale, freckled legs would be exposed to sun and bugs. I cursed Bernice under my breath.

  “Mosquitoes come up like a bad cloud this time of year on the island,” Angela added in a chipper voice. “But they have to live like every other creature, and I reckon we should respect them.”

  “As long as they’re not sucking every drop of blood out of us,” I quipped. Charley blinked. Mae and George shook their heads. Angela snorted. I sighed and accepted my fate.

  As added protection, I gave myself one last douse of spray.

  “I think you might need this too” Mae passed me a bottle of SPF 15 sunblock. It wasn’t high enough, but I slathered it all over my freckled face anyway in the vain hope of not getting sunstroke. I knew I probably looked like a kid pretending to be a ghost at Halloween, but I wasn’t taking any chances. My skin fried under a forty-watt lightbulb.

  “Once again, let me welcome y’ all to Little Coral Island,” Angela began. “This is a coastal wetlands area with a salt marsh and mangroves-“

  Just then a large black Mercedes drove up, and two young women alighted, talking and giggling.

  “Thanks, Dad.” A leggy blond leaned into the driver’s side window and placed a peck on the man’s cheek.

  He gave her a brief smile and an arm pat. “Have fun, girls,” he said. “Don’t forget to call on your cell phone so I know when to pick you up”

  “Will do.” The blond tucked her hair behind her ears and sauntered over with her friend. Daddy drove off, tires grinding on the shell road.

  “Are we too late for the tour?” her friend asked. She was striking, too, but in a different way. Raven-wing hair, brown eyes, and honey-colored skin. And lots of curves. Both girls wore T-shirts, cotton Capris, and high-heeled leather boots. Island hotties, for sure.

  “Nope” Angela motioned them forward. “We were just fixin’ to start out” She insisted that we introduce ourselves again, and I found out the blond’s name-Brandi, with an i, not y.

  “Don’t you know who this is?” Brandi the Blond gestured in the direction of her friend.

  “No, should we?” Mae adjusted her bifocals.

  “This is Gina Fernandez-Coral Island’s own Mango Queen this year.” She made the pronouncement as though she were introducing the queen of England. I looked around, half expecting to hear a trumpet fanfare. But I heard only a squawking bird overhead.

  Gina treated everyone to one of those model-perfect, beaming-headlight smiles, with teeth so white, it hurt to look at them. “Hiking the Little Coral Island trail is one of my first official duties as Mango Queen. It’s a pleasure to be here”

  A queen of mangos?

  Our little group was suitably impressed, especially me. I’d never met a Mango Queen before, and an interview with Gina might give my trail story a more interesting slant. “Could I get some quotes from you after the hike? I work for the Observer.”

  “Sure, I’d be happy to.” Gina donned a wide-brimmed straw hat with a printed peachy scarf around the brim. “Everyone on the island will want to know what the Mango Queen is doing.”

  “Oh, yes,” Brandi gushed.

  “And, of course, the comings and goings of the Mango Queen runner-up” Gina slipped an arm around Brandi’s shoulders. Her friend submitted to the hug, but for a moment I thought I saw a glint of envy in Brandi’s eyes.

  “Is this some kind of island pageant?” I asked.

  “Whaaaat?” The girls both turned toward me, arms akimbo. “You don’t know?” they asked in unison.

  “Guess not” I spread my hands in helpless appeal.

  Gina clucked her tongue. “Every year Coral Island has a Mango Festival, and an island girl is elected queen to preside over the festival and any island events.” She raised her delicate chin. “It’s a great honor.”

  “You betcha,” Charley chimed in.

  I could see an angle for my trail story taking shape. “Could I ask you-“

  “Time for interviews later.” Angela clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “All right,” I grumbled.

  We all trooped, single file, behind Angela as she led us through a narrow opening in the six-foot-high chain-link fence located at the entrance to the trail. Mosquitoes swarmed around my ankles, but the bug spray seemed to be doing its job-for now. I prayed the sunblock would keep my face from turning into a broiled lobster.

  Angela motioned to the right and then left, talking all the while. “Little Coral Island is the home for many types of wildlife-birds, rabbits, wild hogs, snakes-“

  “Will we be seeing any of those creatures today?” I cut in, panicked. I don’t like snakes or, for that matter, hogs or birds. I could barely tolerate rabbits. Nature Girl I was not.

  “Only the birds,” Angela said. “The other animals skitter out at night. But we’ll be able to look at their scat.”

  “Their what?” Gina asked.

  “Dung.” Angela pointed at a dried brown lump off to one side of the trail.

  Oh, goody. I was going to spend my morning looking at animal dung. I’d reached a new high in journalism. Maybe I should take pictures and have them blown up, poster-size, for Bernice.

  Gina and Brandi giggled. They pulled out their cell phones and took a few pictures.

  Angela leveled a severe glance in their direction. “Y’all notice we’re finishing up the wetlands restoration ‘round here. In the past, digging these of drainage ditches controlled the mosquitoes, but, unfortunately, it also caused the spread of melaleuca and Australian pines-“

  Mae’s hand shot up like a torpedo. “What’s wrong with those trees?”

  “They kill off the native vegetation.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mae shuddered.

  “Unlike this beautiful tree . . ” Angela patted a large trunk shaded by a canopy of leafy branches. It stood guard at the beginning of the trail. “That’s Old Blacky-he’s a grand black mangrove. Been there almost a hundred years, from what we can tell. He shelters palm warblers and other songbirds in the winter.”

  Everyone appeared suitably awed. I personally thought Old Blacky looked a bit like Old Decrepity but kept the thought to myself.

  “Let’s hit it.” Angela marched off down the trail, and, gamely, we followed. Charley clutched his can of Bug Off!; Mae and her husband, George, clutched their binoculars; Brandi and Gina clutched their cell phones; and I clutched my notepad.

  Within the next ten minutes, though, I knew I was in trouble. As we moved deeper into the wetlands, the ground became increasingly mushy. My Keds sank with each step, the mud almost to my ankles, as the sun beat down with unremitting heat. I cursed Bernice once more under my breath.

  After half an hour, we finally stopped near an outgrowth of long grass. Everyone was panting but Angela (of course) and Charley (amazing), who had taken the lead of our motley crew with his “hiking stick.”

  “That’s needlerush.” Angela pointed at a plant with long, stiff leaves.

  I reached down to touch it. “Ouch” Instantly, I jerked back my hand.

  Angela treated me to the severe glance this time. “Don’t touch anything on the trail unless I instruct you to. Needlerush is as sharp as a knife.”

  “Now you tell me” I grabbed a Kleenex out of my canvas bag and wiped the blood off my hand. That damn needlerush had sliced a thin cut along my palm-and it hurt like all getout. I gritted my teeth. Not a good sign. This was going to be the hike from hell.
/>   As we soldiered on, I wasn’t disappointed in my prophetic abilities. Angela stopped at every bush and plant for an exhaustive diatribe, including the names in both Latin and English. She even produced books out of her backpack to read us further Very Important Data to raise our awareness, adding her own genteel environmental southernisms.

  Another thirty minutes or so later, I was ready to take a bulldozer to the entire trail. I was sweaty, tired, and set to pack it in. My feet had turned into salty, soggy lumps, my hand appeared inflamed from the close encounter with needlerush, and my skin felt as if it were sizzling in a frying pan.

  Oddly, my companions seemed unfazed as they occupied themselves with other interests. The birders attempted to spot eagles, ospreys, or anything that had two wings and a beak. And the beauty queens produced a travel cosmetic kit and spent most of the hike debating the merits of powder eye shadow over cream eye shadow.

  I would’ve zoned out myself, contemplating my upcoming reunion with Cole, if I hadn’t had to take notes for my story.

  At the halfway point, we edged around a buttonwood pond and took a break to bird-watch. I almost broke into a round of hallelujahs. Since I couldn’t tell an ibis from a turkey vulture and, what’s more, didn’t care, I found myself huddling under the shade of a cabbage palm with Brandi the Blond and Gina the Mango Queen.

  To my dismay, they switched subjects to exfoliators and skin serums, neither of which I used. For a few mad moments, I contemplated rejoining the birders.

  But then Gina pulled out some trail mix and a plastic bag filled with fruit, and my interest perked up. I’d missed my Krispy Kreme run that morning and was starving, although I would’ve preferred my typical sugar-filled fare to this so-called healthy stuff. Still, hiking-trail beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Gina shared a handful of the trail mix and offered me some of the fruit.

  “Oranges?” I reached into the Baggie.

  “Mangos-sliced fresh this morning from the grove”

  Instantly, I pulled back. Being a fast-food, frozen food, or canned food kind of girl, I didn’t care for anything just off the tree-and mangos were last on my list of preferred fruit, right below the watermelon. Too watery and bland.

  “Try it. I promise you’ll like it,” Gina prompted.

  Doubtfully, I helped myself to the smallest slice of the peachy-colored, slimy-looking fruit.

  “You can’t live on Coral Island and not eat mangos,” Brandi said as she downed a large piece. “It’s like … against the law or something.”

  “It should be.” Gina savored a piece as if it were the finest delicacy. “You know, the mango originated in India. Its cultivation goes back four thousand years. The tree is practically worshipped there, and-“

  “Like we care,” Brandi teased, but I noted an edge to her voice. “You’ve already made Mango Queen, girlfriend. No need to keep on campaigning.”

  “I’m not” Gina pursed her mouth. “I happen to think it’s a cool fact that Mallie might want to use in her news story.”

  “Sure. I just might.” I flashed a phony smile as I took a tiny bite of the mango. The rest would be tossed into the pond the moment Gina turned her back.

  But mid-chew, I was amazed to find my taste buds melting under the delicious onslaught of flavors-hardly bland. Clove. Cinnamon. Coconut. Fig. Wow. Manna from heaven. “This is incredible.” I had eaten a mango only once, and it had tasted nothing like this one.

  “Told ya” Gina passed me the Baggie. “Here. You can have the rest”

  “Thanks” I grabbed the largest slice and gobbled it down in one swallow. “I’ve never tasted anything as sweet outside of doughnuts”

  “It’s a variety developed on Coral Island,” Gina said with a touch of pride in her voice.

  “Come on, ladies. This is a hike, not a picnic.” Angela fluttered past us with the birders, and we fell into formation once again.

  I placed the mango slices in my canvas bag and heaved it onto my shoulder. The respite was over-back to the sun, bugs, and scat. Oh, well, at least I’d had enough of a sugar rush from the mango to jump-start my flagging energy.

  Eventually, the interminable hike ended back where we’d started. I checked my Mickey Mouse watch-courtesy of my short, undistinguished tenure at Disney World. Amazingly, only a couple of hours had passed. It had seemed like ten.

  While we stood near the parking lot, panting in the heat and thanking Angela, everyone produced water bottles. My mouth dropped open, too parched even to drool. Of course I had no water, and I needed it-desperately. My mouth felt as dry as the cotton balls in Marlon Brando’s mouth when he played the Godfather.

  “Here, honey, take mine.” Mae handed me her bottle. “I’ll share with George”

  I couldn’t speak. My gratitude was beyond words. I guzzled down almost the whole bottle in a matter of seconds.

  “You’d better wash off your feet first chance you get,” Mae observed, eyeing my crusty Keds. “The salt water in the marsh can strip your skin bare”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Mae had turned out to be my fairy godmother of trail survival.

  “I’ve gotta run,” Angela called out as she waved good-bye and climbed into her Jeep Cherokee. “Y’all feel free to come back for another hike anytime you want,” she added, her head tilted out the open driver’s side window.

  I watched as she drove off, evaluating her vehicle. Some people like to psychoanalyze people. I liked to dissect cars. They told me a lot more about a person than the Myers-Briggs test. Dented, filled to the brim with hiking gear and environmental books-I didn’t need to push my analysis of Angela’s Jeep any deeper. It confirmed what I already suspected: Angela needed an intervention. She was addicted to the outdoors.

  After my elderly companions and I bid one another farewell, they drove away, leaving me with the beauty queens.

  “I told you that I decided to wait for Brett,” Gina was saying.

  “But Dad said he’d pick us up when we finished the hike.” Brandi whipped out her cell phone.

  “Pleeeeease. I’d prefer to wait for my fiance.”

  “It’s stupid to stand in the heat like this arguing. I’ll call Dad.”

  “No” Gina stamped her foot. She produced her own cell phone and pressed a few buttons in rapid succession. “I just sent Brett a text message-he’ll be along soon.” A triumphant smile spread across her lovely face.

  Brandi flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed-dial button. “Shoot-all I got was Dad’s voice mail.” She snapped the cell shut, glaring at Gina. “I’m going to walk up to the main road and try again.”

  “I’m staying right here.” Gina folded her arms across her chest.

  “Fine” Brandi spun on her heel and strode away.

  Gina gave an exclamation of disgust.

  We stood there in silence for a few minutes, the dueling island girls’ dispute lingering like a dark cloud.

  “You want me to drop you somewhere?” I finally spoke up. “Maybe I could interview you along the way.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here. I’m out of water and kinda tired.” Gina removed her straw hat and wiped a hand across her forehead. “Brett never keeps me waiting long.”

  I didn’t doubt her. “How ‘bout I get us some water and check back for a quick interview? If your fiance picks you up in the meantime, I’ll call you later with some questions.”

  “Great.” She gave me her cell phone number. “I’ll wait in the shade”

  I jumped into Rusty and revved off, windows open, trying for a bit of a breeze. My air conditioner puffed out meager breaths of cool air at best.

  I rolled past Brandi. “You want a ride?”

  She averted her head and motioned me on. I shrugged and turned onto Coral Island Road. I drove straight to the Circle K and bought four twelve-ounce bottles of water-two for me and two for Gina. Downing one at the checkout counter, I let the cool air in the store drain some of the heat from my body.

  The newly hired,
potbellied cashier, Benny, who always smelled of cheap, woodsy aftershave, handed me my receipt. “Sweetheart, your nose is the color of a beet”

  I touched it. It felt warm. “Oh, no”

  As I climbed back into Rusty, I checked my face in the rearview mirror. My eyes widened in horror. My skin was almost the same color as my hair. I drove to the drugstore, and, after a brief discussion with the pharmacist, I bought a small jar of healing aloe lotion. I slathered it on, using a mirror in the cosmetics department.

  After purchasing the lotion, along with an extra bottle of water, I checked my watch. Close to forty-five minutes had passed, but maybe Brett the Fiance had been held up.

  I headed back toward Little Coral Island, figuring Gina might still be there. En route, I become acutely aware of a growing discomfort in my feet. My Keds finally seemed to be drying out, but they also felt as if they were hardening in the process. I glanced down and grimaced. The salt water had transformed the canvas shoes into two solid, sandy blocks. I tried to curl my toes. Not even the pinky had enough room to flex.

  Gripping the wheel with one hand, I reached down with the other and tried to slip off my left shoe. It didn’t budge. I’d need the Jaws of Life to get the darn things off my feet. Great. Just great.

  A few minutes later, I turned into the empty parking lot near the Little Coral Island trail. Scanning the area for Gina, I spied her sitting under the black mangrove tree. Grabbing the water and my notepad, I set out to do the quick interview.

  “Gina!” I waved at her.

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’]] trade you a water for a couple of quotes,” I joked, holding up the plastic bottles.

  Still no answer.

  Quickening my pace, I rounded the chain-link fence. “Are you okay? This heat is killing me-” I broke off as I noticed the total stillness of her body. Her arms lay limp at her sides, her head tilted back, her eyes set in a glassy stare. A syringe nestled in the grass next to her hand.

  My breath caught in my throat as I dropped the water bottles.