Coastal Corpse Page 5

  I guess it was true that politics did, indeed, make strange bedfellows.

  Half an hour later, I pulled into my beachfront luxury abode at the Twin Palms RV resort. Actually, the “beach” was only a small strip of sand on Coral Island Sound, just about wide enough for a handful of picnic tables, a volleyball net, and an illegal fire pit, all of which had been placed near the surf. And the “luxury” part wasn’t exactly true, either. I lived in a refurbished, 4,220-pound, silver Airstream, but it seemed spacious enough for my teacup poodle, Kong, and me. And its massive, submarine-type hull would survive a flood, hurricane, or hailstorm—whichever came first.

  As I parked Rusty under my blue and white awning, I took a quick glance at the camping van next door. Cole had parked it there six months ago, proceeded to make a life for himself on Coral Island—and woo me back.

  Successfully, I suppose, since now we were engaged.

  I swallowed hard and flexed my fingers on the steering wheel.

  Oh, no.

  My hands were bare.

  Panic surged inside of me as I realized that I’d left the diamond ring in my desk drawer at the Observer office. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. How could I have left something as valuable as a diamond ring in an unlocked desk? The office woes must’ve shaken me up more than I thought.

  Quickly, I started to shift my truck into reverse, when it occurred to me that it had been almost six hours since Kong had a walk. In all fairness to my pooch, I couldn’t drive back to the Observer until I had given his tiny bladder a break. After Kong did his thing, I could hotfoot it back to the Observer, retrieve my ring, and race back here, without Cole ever knowing the truth about my irresponsible behavior.

  There was no sign of life at his campsite, so I figured he was still at his photo shoot for our seasonal mid-island produce stand, Casa de Veggie.

  With any luck, my retrieval plan just might work.

  Jogging toward my Airstream, I jerked open the trailer’s door, and my gray, curly-headed poodle torpedoed into my arms, barking and licking my face as if he hadn’t seen me in a year.

  Doggie devotion at its best.

  “I missed you, too, but I’m in a major rush, Kong.” Giving him a quick hug, I plugged in my cell phone to recharge it, then grabbed his leash and fastened it onto his collar. As we headed for the shore, I kept glancing back at Cole’s van. Then I noticed a fifth-wheel travel RV had been positioned on the other side of my Airstream: spanking new, with multiple slide-outs and a Toyota Tundra parked in front. I stood there for a few moments, admiring the shiny black RV, with a tropical mural of the Everglades painted on the back, and wondering as to the identity of my new neighbor.

  A big-bucks snowbird?

  Then I spotted the Dade County Miami license plate and “music freak” decals.

  An in-state singer glitterati?

  Before I could come up with possible owners for the luxury recreational vehicle, Kong barked in protest and pulled me in the opposite direction from the beach. I uttered a threat and tugged on his leash. After almost two years, he still didn’t like the water; but, that’s where the sea oats were located—and one of our main options for Kong to find a private spot. Once I reached the sand, I kicked off my Birkenstocks.

  “Come on, Kong.” Fortunately, his diminutive size made it easy for me to yank him along. As he occupied himself with finding just the right location, I tapped my toes in the sand, feeling the gritty particles against my skin. Please let Cole’s photo perfectionism keep him away a little longer.

  Taking in a few calming breaths and muttering a “muggatoni mantra” for good measure, I tried to focus on the cool breeze against my face as I gazed out over the Gulf of Mexico. Light, choppy waves were rolling in with the surf. It would probably be high tide tonight as the harvest moon rose and the temperature dropped—a weather roller coaster.

  Just like life.

  I blinked at the depth of my own self-reflection for the second time in one day.

  “Hey, Mallie!” a familiar geriatric voice wafted across the hilly sand dunes between the RV park and the shoreline.

  I turned. Pop Pop Welch, the RV park’s septuagenarian handyman, hobbled over on his spindly legs and waved something in one hand while wheeling his portable oxygen tank in the other. “I’ve got your mail. Looks like you got another comic book.”

  “It’s a graphic novel,” I exclaimed. Okay, so much for newfound depth. “Hey, a girl on the brink of matrimony needs some light distraction like ‘Batgirl: Kicking Assassins’.”

  Pop Pop grinned, revealing a ghastly set of yellowed dentures, but at least he had them back in place again after losing them in the maintenance shed last week. I won’t tell who found them.

  “Thanks. Just set the mail on my Airstream steps, please,” I said in a loud voice. “Kong is taking his good time to finish his business.” Mostly, I didn’t want to get into a conversation with him about Cole. A few months ago, I’d taken Pop Pop with me to a couple of restaurants when I was reviewing them as the temporary Observer Food Critic. Unfortunately a murder took place at one of the eateries (yet another story) and, even more unfortunately, he still saw himself as my fallback boyfriend. So I tried never to give him the slightest reason to think Cole was anything but a perfect fiancé, but Pop Pop kept trying.

  I had to give him points for persistence, but . . . seriously, dude.

  “Don’t forget, I still have discount coupons for our hoagie date at the Circle-K if he leaves you at the altar!” Pop Pop took a whiff of oxygen.

  “Will do.” I gave him a thumbs-up.

  He wheezed a few times and tottered off.

  After Kong finally did his thing, I refilled his food and water dishes and zipped back to the Observer office, hoping against hope that Bernice was out covering the nefarious bicycle bandit, and that Madame Geri was interviewing Joe Earl about his eerie violin.

  I didn’t feel like dealing with either of them right now after the uproar at the town hall flare-gun incident and my nail-biting nervousness over the forgotten diamond.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed neither Bernice’s nor Madame Geri’s vehicle in sight. Yippee. I could retrieve my ring with neither of them being the wiser, and I’d even have time to sketch out a short piece on the election antics. It wasn’t headline material, but would work nicely as a second-page story.

  I let myself into the office and raced right over to my desk.

  Yanking open the drawer, I looked down and found—nothing.

  The ring was gone.

  Shoving back my curls, I frantically sifted through the junk of office supplies in the drawer, pulling out each item one by one and shaking out the stapler box, Scotch tape dispenser, and scissors, hoping that the ring might have miraculously attached itself to one of them and would drop out.

  But I came up empty.

  Ramming the drawer shut, I slumped into my desk chair, tears of frustration stinging at my eyes. How could I have been such a thoughtless idiot? Cole would never forgive me, and I couldn’t blame him.

  Was Mixed-up Mallie back in spite of my being the Senior Reporter and Temporary Editor?

  My cell phone dinged, and I dug it out of my hobo bag. Glancing at it, I groaned as I saw Liz Ellis’s name pop up. Reluctantly, I clicked on the message.

  The plant killer has struck again. If you think I’m crazy, take a look at this photo.

  A picture of a withered Florida leather fern was attached.

  Any more deaths are going to be on your head.

  Liz Ellis

  Jeez. I started to flip my phone shut, but decided instead to forward the e-mail to Nick Billie with a “Plant Killer Loose on Coral Island” tag. I couldn’t help a little smile as I imagined his reading Cray Cray Liz’s text message.

  Just then the phone on my desk rang, loud and shrill, and I jumped.

  Crossing my fingers that it wasn’t Liz, I reached for it. “Observer newsroom.”

  “Mallie, it’s Wanda Sue. I just left a message on your
cell phone: I found Bucky McGuire’s body, and I’m going to be arrested for killing him. You’ve gotta help me!”

  “What?” My head shot up. “Are you sure that Bucky is dead?”

  “Tarnation, girl! I’m looking at him right now, and he’s stiff as a board,” she drawled, panic threaded through her voice. “What should I do? Lordy, I’m about ready to keel over myself.”

  I clutched the phone and tried to make sense of what my landlady was saying. “Wh-where are you?”

  “At the town hall. I drove home to the Twin Palms to change into my casual outfit but had to come back here ’cause with all that ruckus, I lost one of my rhinestone earrings—you know, the ones from the Famous What’s-Her-Name Movie Star Collection that I bought online a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Focus, Wanda Sue!”

  “Sorry, hon. I can’t think straight right now with this body in front of me. There. I’m turning around, so I can’t see him.” Her breathing came through in short, staccato bursts, as if she’d run a marathon. “Okay, that’s better. Anyway, when I got here, I knew something was wrong. Things felt off; then, I realized Bucky was lying on the floor on top of the smashed-up fish tank.” She swallowed audibly. “He was drenched in water with glass all around him—”

  “Did he fall on the tank?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Could he have drowned in the water after he fell over?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  “Does it look like—”

  “I don’t know!” she screamed. “Just get over here—pronto!”

  “All right. Try to keep cool,” I replied, trying to quell my own rising anxiety. “I’ll call Nick Billie.”

  “Madame Geri already d-did,” Wanda Sue stuttered.

  “You called her first?”

  “She’s number one on my speed dial, and I wasn’t thinking straight,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. She already knew about it ’cause the spirit world had told her this morning that somebody was going to die from foul play—”

  “On my way.” I dashed out the door, still holding the cell to my ear. “Don’t say anything to Nick if he arrives before I do.”

  “Whadaya mean?”

  Climbing into my truck, I managed not to drop the phone. “If Bucky is dead, and the cause is suspicious, you might be a . . . uh . . . under suspicion.”

  “But why?” Wanda Sue wailed.

  “You found the body.” I closed my eyes briefly and counted to ten for patience. “Not to mention, only a few hours ago you pointed a flare gun at Bucky during the town-hall meeting and, then, fired it at the ceiling.”

  “He was the one who said I aimed the gun at him, but it’s not true. You know that.”

  “Not really. I was face down on the floor, but the operative word is ‘gun’.” I enunciated the last word as I cranked the engine. “Got it?”

  She paused, then let out a shaky exhalation. “Guess so.”

  “Don’t touch anything. Better yet, wait outside till the paramedics and Nick arrive.”

  “You’re a good friend, Mallie,” Wanda Sue said, “especially in a crisis. You’re going up to the top of my speed dial.”

  As I revved out of the parking lot, my confidence spiraled upward. I might’ve bungled my first day in charge on the job and misplaced my diamond ring, but I’d never let a friend down.

  I was now Numero Uno Mallie.

  By the time I arrived at the town-hall building, a small army had already descended on the place: emergency vehicles stood parked sideways near the entrance, and uniformed police swarmed like bees attending to an ailing hive. Red lights flashed. Sirens blared. Rushing medics barked out orders.

  Total turmoil.

  In the midst of it all, I noticed a tall, dark-haired man directing the activities with a sense of absolute authority: Detective Nick Billie, the island’s chief detective, and one of the sexiest hunks ever. He possessed an air of command that he wore like a comfortable designer suit, and everyone looked to him for direction. His hard-planed features that bespoke his Miccosukee background remained impassive, with only a small muscle working in his cheek, betraying his inner concern.

  Slowly, he turned as if sensing my presence, his black eyes piercing the distance between us. Everything and everyone melted away, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him and the soulful power of a man I couldn’t expel from my thoughts.

  Nick.

  A timeless moment passed, then I looked away for a few seconds, and he disappeared up the stairs. The sounds and the sights of the emergency scene came rushing back, along with Wanda Sue, who barreled into me, sobbing and moaning.

  “Mallie, what am I going to do?” She hugged me in a desperately tight clutch that almost cut off my windpipe. I eased back a fraction and patted her giant beehive hairdo, which, miraculously, had remained intact in spite of the trauma.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said in a soothing voice, still slightly muffled by Wanda Sue’s tightening grip again. Extricating myself completely from the stranglehold, I stepped back and took stock of my landlady: tear-stained face, pinched mouth, pale skin.

  Not good.

  A cold knot formed in my stomach. Wanda Sue rarely lost her buoyant personality. In fact, the only time I’d actually seen her worried was when her grandson, Kevin, had disappeared, but I had found him for her and all had turned out well—sort of (that’s yet another story). And the time I’d had to take her to the ER because she’d had an allergic reaction to a jar of bee cream (too many stories to count).

  Otherwise, she was an upbeat, island-style, Dixie gal.

  “Sorry I ain’t myself.” Wanda Sue sniffed, mouth trembling as she smoothed down her leopard-print tunic over skintight leggings. The Joan Rivers rhinestone earrings were back in all their dangling glory. At least Wanda Sue looked like herself.

  “Okay, let’s go through the whole story.” I led her over to a white, wrought-iron settee near the front steps and sat us both down under a large, flowering jacaranda tree. Its arching branches and delicate, white flowers had a sweetly tranquil feeling, and I thought it might help to ease some of Wanda Sue’s anxiety. “Start from the beginning.”

  After a few shaky breaths, Wanda Sue explained how she’d returned to find her earring (smart), spied the body (upsetting), and called Madame Geri (dumb).

  “It was not a dumb decision to phone me,” Madame Geri said, having sidled up next to me.

  I clenched my jaw. How did she read my thoughts? “Don’t you have that Joe Earl story to work on?”

  “The eBay violin?” Wanda Sue’s eyes widened and Madame Geri nodded. “I heard it’s haunted by the image of Old Abe.”

  “More like some cat clawed the wood like a scratching post,” I scoffed.

  “I think Joe Earl has a kitten,” Wanda Sue pointed out.

  “Two of them.” Madame Geri pulled up a decrepit wicker chair and huddled in close. “But neither of them caused the face of Abe Lincoln to appear—”

  “Can we get back to what happened to Bucky McGuire?” I cut in, not even trying to disguise the annoyance in my voice. As quietly as the morning had started, this day was turning into a nightmare, and I didn’t want to hear any more talk about the Great Emancipator haunting a violin when a dead body lay inside the building next to us.

  Wanda Sue’s mouth began to tremble again. “I found Bucky lying there next to the smashed-up fish tank. He must’ve fallen on it, making it tip over—the water spilling everywhere. Just an awful mess. Especially with the poor little white fish flopping around him—”

  “The tilapia from the tank were still alive?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Some of them,” she grimaced. “When the paramedics came in, they scooped up the ones still moving and put ’em in the back kitchen sink.”

  “Quick thinking.” I flipped open my notepad, giving Wanda Sue another reassuring pat. “Did anything seem unnatural about Bucky’s death? Other than the fact that he fell on a fish tank? I mean, did he have any wounds—like he was shot or s
tabbed—from what you could tell?”

  Wanda Sue paused for a few moments. “I don’t think so but, honey, I didn’t get closer than I would to a skunk.” She shuddered. “Death cooties.”

  “So it’s possible he might’ve just had a stroke or heart attack and fell on the fish tank.”

  “He was killed.” Madame Geri’s blunt voice sliced through the air. She crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “The vibe is off. Bucky didn’t die a natural death, trust me. I told you this morning that a death was imminent.”

  Damn. I was hoping she’d forgotten about her possibly right-ontarget prediction.

  It wasn’t that I trusted her so-called “spirit world” messages—not at all. But something about Bucky’s demise felt off to me, too. He seemed the picture of good health only a few hours ago when he was beating Travis with a tilapia carcass—and now he was dead. Men his age didn’t just bite the dust without some kind of warning.

  Besides, the last two years had taught me that sudden deaths were almost always suspicious.

  Madame Geri gave me a knowing nod that I did my best to ignore.

  “It wasn’t m-me that killed him,” Wanda Sue stammered as she held up the flare gun. “See? It’s empty. I used my last cartridge during the town-hall meeting.”

  “Put that thing away!” I grasped her arm and lowered it none too gently.

  “What?”

  “The last thing you want is for the police to see you waving a gun around right now,” I hissed.

  Instantly, she shoved the flare gun back in her purse. “Sorry. Mallie, I’m still freakin’ out from the seeing the dead body. Bucky wasn’t my . . . favorite person, but I sure didn’t want to see him die like that with only stinky ole fish to buddy him off to the next world.”

  I shivered myself. Dying alone was one thing, but dying with only fish companions seemed worse—and bizarre.