Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Page 2

  “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” He poured the pale green liquid into two large frosted glasses and handed one to Betty.

  “And you’ve already met Chrissy,” Hillman inter- jected, his arm snaking around the blond’s waist.

  “I’m writing eco-conscious poetry. You know, like Thoreau. A lot of people don’t realize he wrote verse, but he did, and it was great stuff. Jack said the best way to break in is through an environmental poetry blog with lots of my own poems.” She gave a satisfied smile. “Isn’t that way cool?”

  “Totally.” I was sort of impressed. It sounded plausible.

  “I’m George B … B … Barret,” a young man standing off by himself stammered. Thin and wiry, he had long hair that partially obscured the upper section of his face. The lower half was covered by his slender hand, thus making it difficult to hear him very well. He mumbled something else that I couldn’t quite make out.

  “Georgy here is working on a nonfiction book on overcoming shyness,” Hillman said. He strolled over to George and thumped him on the back a couple of times. “Yessireee. He’s going to be putting out the next best-seller.”

  Okay.

  George coughed each time Hillman slapped him between the shoulders, but managed a small nod in between hacks.

  “And that’s our little group,” Hillman continued.

  “What about you, Mallie? What are you working on?” Chrissy asked.

  All eyes riveted on me. “I … uh … I’m not working on anything as ambitious as the rest of you. I just started a new job as a journalist and I’m trying to learn how to write better news stories.”

  “There are no little goals,” Burt spoke up and everyone else joined in to chant the last half: “Only little writers.”

  Hillman clapped his hands. “Good work everybody. We’ll teach Mary how to motivate herself.”

  “It’s Mallie.”

  “Oh … sorry, Milly.”

  Close enough.

  The Institute might not be large, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in enthusiasm, and Jack was like the benign, genial pater familias. Maybe this whole thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Hillman motioned everyone over to a large oval table, and it seemed as if the mood instantly changed like an atmospheric shift before a sudden, violent storm. My fellow writers settled into their seats, and I followed suit, setting my hundred pound canvas bag on the floor.

  “Now, since Milly is new to our group, let’s start with a recent story her editor sent over” He passed out copies of last week’s Observer. “This is one of her latest articles on the bike path. It’s typical of a small-town paper, but there’s still room for improvement, don’t you think?”

  Everyone nodded.

  Uh-oh.

  I suddenly had this feeling of being back in third grade when my mother grilled me over making a “B” in English grammar. I loved literature but hated nitpicking sentences apart. She had waved the report card around, demanding to know why I was letting my whole future slip away because I couldn’t seem to conjugate irregular verbs. Of course, the real culprit today was my hardnosed editor. Damn her anyway!

  Hillman picked up a yellow highlighter. “Let’s go through the article paragraph by paragraph” He sliced the marker across the title as if wielding a knife. “Look at the title: `Bike Path Decision in Flux’.” He laughed. “How can a path be in flux? That’s a hackneyed phrase if I’ve ever heard one. It’s like something you’d expect a high school journalism student to come up with.” All of the other writers dutifully whipped out highlighter pens and repeated his motion on their copies of the Observer.

  And that was just the beginning. He tore into every paragraph with fiendish delight, chopping and slicing at my every word until there was nothing left except a few bits and pieces of sentences that somehow survived, gasping for life.

  I was in a state of shock. My mouth had turned to cotton, and my heart thumped in my chest like a hammer hitting an anvil. Where had that genial, albeit halfnaked, host gone? He had somehow turned into a fault-finding, vicious critic of the worst kind just like my mother. All of a sudden, I regretted not having taken Burt and Betty up on their offer of a margarita.

  As I glanced around the table, no one looked up. Not one pair of eyes met mine to offer even a glimpse of sympathy. I felt like roadkill on the highway to news writing paradise.

  And then I found out why the group had turned mute to my plight. I was the first person in the hot seat that morning. Each took turns as the recipient of Hillman’s verbal assault-even Chrissy. One by one, we submitted ourselves to cruel jabs, mean taunts, and nasty ridicule. And no one left the room-except for Betty. She took a short hiatus, probably for a straight shot of tequila, but returned within ten minutes still able to walk.

  The critiquing went on for most of the day-with only a brief break for lunch. I could only presume that this was business as usual at the Institute, and everyone thought learning by humiliation the best way to become a successful writer.

  Jack appeared to relish his role as a hard-nosed writing teacher, letting each of us have it on the chin with both fists. I spent much of the time fantasizing about slamming him back with my own knuckle sandwich of literary criticism. Small comfort.

  It was early afternoon before we broke up, and I could only hope my all-day, roll-on deodorant lived up to its promise. I’d moved way beyond the cold sweat stage.

  “That about does it for today” He slapped both of his heavy thighs. “Do your editing work tonight and then bring back what you have for tomorrow’s sessionespecially you, Chrissy. That last poem on global warming really sucked” He rose from his chair, stretched his arms overhead, and exhaled in a long sigh of contentment. “I’m going for a quick dip in the hot tub. Anyone care to join me?”

  George shook his head, followed by Betty and Burt.

  “Maybe later,” Chrissy managed between trembling lips. A tear slid down the side of her heart-shaped face, but she brushed it away with a quick swipe of her hand.

  “Okay. Later, dudes and dudettes” Hillman swaggered off, actually whistling a little tune under his breath.

  Chrissy let out a sob and ran from the table, leaving the rest of us, sitting there, stunned.

  “Does this happen every day?” I finally found my voice.

  “P … P … P … pretty much,” George closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

  Burt held up his third margarita. “Betty and I fortify ourselves. It’s the only way we make it through these daily sessions.”

  “But why subject yourself to this kind of torture?” I asked, amazed.

  “We want to b … b … become b … b … better writers,” George said. He covered his mouth with his hand and added something else that I couldn’t make out. But I thought I heard him murmur Chrissy’s name.

  “I’m surprised someone hasn’t wrung his neck before this. Or at least told him off.” I was getting my wits about me again.

  Betty and Burt just took another swig of their margaritas. George shook his head.

  “I, for one, have had enough of Hillman’s kind of help, thank you very much.” I grabbed my bag and my last shreds of self-respect and left the table.

  I’d stomped halfway to my truck when I remembered that I still had to interview Hillman for my article on the Writers’ Institute. Groaning, I went around to the back of the house and spied Hillman sitting in the hot tub, drink in one hand and neon pink cell phone in the other. When he saw me, he started slightly and ended the call. Then, he turned his attention toward me. “What can I do ya for, Milly? Care to join me?” His eyes fastened on my hair. He ran his tongue across thick lips.

  “No, thanks.” I swallowed hard. He was bare-chested again. Yuck. “I need to do a brief interview with you about the Institute-for my article.”

  “Sure. Love to” He took a long swallow of his drink. “You can bring in the finished version for an editing session later this week”

  Fat chance.
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  “Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll be ready for you” The cell phone rang and he waved me off.

  Grateful to get away before another proposition, I hopped in my truck and drove off just as Chrissy was coming out in a skimpy bright yellow-flowered bikini. Her shoulders were squared and her mouth drawn in a thin line. She’d probably turned angry by now. Good. I hope she really gives it to him, I muttered to myself as I revved away. As I looked back, I shivered in spite of the heat. Jack wasn’t conducting writers’ workshops-it was more like a little shop of horrors. And I wouldn’t be back-except to get my interview.

  I drove to the main road and made my way to Mango Bay-the largest town on Coral Island, located on the north tip. Although calling the smattering of buildings a town could be construed as gross exaggeration, Mango Bay nonetheless functioned as the hub of the island.

  It included a small clapboard general store called Whiteside’s, which had been there since the homesteading days on the island at the beginning of the century. Slightly bigger than a Circle K, the store included a post office in back, dry-cleaning pick-up at the counter, and various tourist items like shell-encrusted ashtrays and bright green rubber alligators. Aside from Whiteside’s, the tiny island village also boasted a small art gallery, a bait shack, and a seafood restaurantCapt’n Harry’s. Mostly retirees and fishermen lived at Mango Bay but, since it overlooked a picturesque view of the water, some larger homes had recently sprung up between the trailers and fishing shacks. I was temporarily staying at the Twin Palms RV Resort-the trailer park right on the point, and the only place on the island with a small beach.

  The main attraction for me right now was Capt’n Harry’s-a rustic restaurant decorated on the outside with old fishing nets and yellowed buoys. Dismal nautical decor aside, it faced the water and served the best crab cakes I’d ever eaten. I ordered the seafood basket, which I took outside to the long, wooden dock that stretched out into the bay. I sat for an hour or two, watching the pelicans and trying to figure out how I was going to tell Anita I wouldn’t be attending the Writers’ Institute. I didn’t want to jeopardize my job, but I couldn’t go back there and let Hillman rip me up and down simply because he got some twisted thrill from seeing people squirm.

  I had enough of that in my life. As the youngest child, I’d been endlessly compared to my brother, a corporate attorney, and my sister, a top-notch design engineer. Not only was I not a top-notch anything, I couldn’t seem to settle into any profession longer than a year or two. In between jobs, I’d substitute teach and hook up with boyfriends who liked the same carefree, gypsy lifestyle. I had my truck and my antique Airstream trailer and, when things got dull, I’d just pick up and move to another city. I’d started out in St. Louis, Missouri, where I was born, and kept moving south. I never got bored, and I never got stuck in a rut. But I never felt like I belonged anywhere either.

  A huge brown pelican wheeled overhead and then dropped down in sudden descent to scoop up an unsuspecting fish. I’d just have to tell Anita the truth. I’d do the article about the Writers’ Institute, but I wouldn’t attend any more of the workshops. One was plenty. Old hatchet-face’s criticism of my articles would have to be enough.

  As I rose to my feet, the seabreeze lifted the curls off the back of my neck. I turned my face to the water and closed my eyes. For a few moments, that habitual burning restlessness inside me settled, and I felt a moment of peace.

  A pair of seagulls squawked in a loud, mocking cackle. My eyes snapped open, and the moment vanished like a dream in the dawn. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly paradise, but at least I wasn’t in Orlando substitute teaching by day and taking tickets at the entrance to Magic Kingdom by night.

  I checked my Mickey Mouse watch (courtesy of my tenure at Disney World). Almost seven-thirty. I’d do the interview, edit my bike path story for tomorrow, and call Anita to break the bad news to her that I was officially a Writers’ Institute dropout.

  I climbed into my truck and drove back to Hillman’s house on the shell mounds. With evening drawing near, the sky exploded off to the west in vivid shades, ranging from soft rose to a crimson stripe of color near the horizon. It splayed across the sky like a blood-red gash of color before the darkness set in. All of a sudden, I shivered and turned away.

  Parking my truck, I noticed all the cars were gone except the Viper.

  I clanged the captain’s bell on the front porch. No one answered. I knocked on the screen door. Still no answer. “Mr. Hillman?” I called out, peering through the screen.

  He didn’t appear. It was quiet, deadly quiet. No droning of a television, no music, nothing-except the steady hum of evening crickets. I pushed the screen door open and stepped inside. “Mr. Hillman?”

  I walked through the house and into the Florida room, my footsteps falling on the wood floor with a soft clump. Eyeing the table where we had sat earlier for our individual assassinations, I shuddered. It was empty, but the memories of this morning lingered.

  Maybe Hillman had forgotten that he’d agreed to do an interview with me and gone out. But then again, his car was still in the driveway.

  Looking out the widows of the Florida room, I checked the hot tub. Nope, not there either. I placed my hands on my hips and sighed. Where the heck was he? I had to do this interview.

  I passed through the kitchen and glanced down a wide hallway at a home office, separated from the rest of the house by curtained French doors. One door stood open, and I could make out floor to ceiling bookshelves. Slowly, I approached the open door, warning bells go ing off in my mind. Something was wrong, really wrong.

  Hesitantly, I peered around the door. Sheer, black fright swept through me. I must’ve screamed, but I’m not exactly sure what sound came out of my mouth. It might’ve been a shout, a scream, or a loud gurgle. All I knew was that Jack Hillman’s body was flung backward in his desk chair, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and blood seeping from the would over his heart.

  He was dead.

  For a few long moments, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I stood frozen to the spot. Then, my legs began to shake, every muscle seized by quaking tremors. My throat tightened, and my chest felt as though it would burst.

  “Keep calm,” I heard a voice say as if from a long distance away. It took me a second or two to realize that it was mine.

  “Call nine-one-one-that’s what you do in an emergency.

  Maybe the paramedics could revive him.

  I took another glance at Hillman. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Make the call. Now!”

  Willing my feet to move, I stumbled out of the room and located a cordless phone in the kitchen. I made the emergency call, and within ten minutes, the medics, the police, and the firefighters all descended on Hillman’s house with the force of a tropical storm. It was a blur of activity for a short while, with various men and women shouting orders at each other as sirens blared outside and cell phones rang inside. When they approached me, all I could do was point my shaky hand down the hallway toward the room and Hillman’s body.

  A young woman with a stethoscope around her neck finally noticed my dazed state and took my arm. She led me into the Florida room and sat me down on the sofa. “Are you all right?” She took my pulse.

  “I … I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a dead body before. At least not a person. I’ve seen a couple of roadkills, but they were just small animals-and not very close up. I passed them in my truck, you know-on the road. Oh, and I had an uncle who passed away three years ago and I saw him in the casket during the funeral service, but he was … uh, embalmed,” I babbled. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was something I did whenever I was nervous. I kept talking and talking and talking like my brain was an engine jammed in high gear. Eventually, I ran out of steam, but not until I covered a lot of ground and a copious amount of unrelated topics.

  “Your pulse is a little fast, but I’d expect that under the circumstances.” Her tone was a soothing balm on my frayed
nerves. “Take a couple of deep breaths and let them out slowly.”

  I complied, but exhaling was difficult. The air came out in jagged fits and starts. After a couple of tries, though, it grew easier and my breathing steadied. Whew.

  “That’s better. Let yourself relax”

  “You must deal with this kind of thing a lot,” I managed between breaths. “Dead bodies-hysterical people”

  “Not all that much. Most of our calls are from elderly folks who’ve fallen or parents whose kids have broken an arm on their brand-new bicycle.” Her mouth curved upward in a kind smile.

  “Is this the person who made the call?” a brusque, masculine voice cut in.

  “Yes” The young woman rose to her feet. “I’ll leave her in your capable hands” I detected a note of respect, and looked up in time to see an expression of admiration on her face. I transferred my gaze in curiosity.

  My eyes traveled up long legs encased in black trousers, slid past a powerful set of shoulders that strained against the fabric of his white short-sleeve shirt and tie, and ended on a darkly handsome face. He towered over the other men in the room, so much so I that I had to tip my head backward to look at his face.

  “I’m Detective Nick Billie.” He held out his hand. I just stared. Partly, I was still in shock. But the other part of me was stunned by his compelling good looks. Black hair flowed from his forehead like a crest, and smooth olive skin stretched over high cheekbones. But it was his eyes that were most mesmerizing. Obsidian deep and dark pools of shadows and hidden dreams.

  “Mallie Monroe.” I shook his hand, feeling the firm strength of his fingers.

  “What’s your connection with Jack Hillman?” he asked.

  “I … uh, just met him today-actually this morning. I work at the Observer, and my editor sent me over to do a story on his Summer Writers’ Institute.”