Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Page 7

  The two of them looked like prizefighters squaring off at their side of the ring. Not that they’d come to blows, but the verbal punches packed quite a weight.

  “Questioning people for a story is different from trying to get information about the murder out of them.” Detective Billie landed a right jab to the side with that one.

  Anita remained standing. “Interviewing people isn’t against the law. And in the course of questioning them, we can’t anticipate that everything they say won’t touch on the murder,” she countered with her own effective punch.

  “Revealing information that could tip off the murderer could blow my whole investigation.” He landed a double blow with that one.

  “Withholding information from the public could enable the murderer to strike again.” Anita went on the offense. “I’m sure that’s the last thing you’d want to happen”

  “Are you questioning my ability to protect the people of Coral Island?” He did a neat sidestep, but her last punch had obviously winded him a bit.

  “Nope. But people need to know the truth” Anita knew she had him on the run now and moved in for the kill. “Then they can protect themselves.”

  “This kind of murder wasn’t a burglary or theft. There’s no serial killer lurking in the palm fronds-and to suggest there is could incite people on the island to panic unnecessarily.” Detective Billie managed to land a verbal hit dead on target with that one.

  Anita turned silent. Detective Billie radiated triumph. I stood in awe. Sandy, of course, had missed the entire match and, unfortunately, I hadn’t had the time or forethought to videotape the whole thing for slowmotion replay later.

  “We’ll conduct ourselves with responsible journalism. I can promise you that” Anita’s thin-lipped mouth curved upward on one side, causing the mass of tiny wrinkles around her lips to deepen. She knew she had him. No matter what he threw at her, she’d still be standing.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Anita.” Detective Billie’s voice held a stern warning.

  “You’ve got it, buddy” She pulled out her pack of Camels and lit up.

  “What about Ms. Monroe?”

  “What about her?”

  “Yeah, what about me?” I finally found my voice.

  “You need to make sure that she understands the boundaries of what she can and can’t do on an interview.” He flicked a hand in my direction.

  “I told you, Everett volunteered the information he gave me,” I insisted, heartened by Anita’s recent victory. “I repeat, I didn’t badger him.”

  Detective Billie swung his attention back to me. His straight, black eyebrows were no longer leveled in an angry line. “Okay, Ms. Monroe. I believe you, but I’m also warning you to keep your interviews on the up and up-no information about the murder leaked to the public without police consent”

  “Sure” I nodded for emphasis.

  “All right, then” He adjusted his tie and yanked on the sleeves of his jacket. The motions were controlled, but I could sense the frustration behind his movements. He was a rock-with his hard-planed face and obsidiancolored eyes, but Anita was a scrappy, scrawny tree-the kind that bent in the wind, but then righted itself and slapped you in the face. She’d always win because she knew how to deflect the force that came at her. Detective Billie had a bull-like stubbornness that caused him to charge in, head down, face forward. He had integrity, but she had cunning. And cunning would always win out.

  “Well, now, that’s cleared up, do you have a statement for the press?” Anita inquired as she took a long drag on her cigarette.

  A long paused ensued. Then, surprisingly, a low rumble of laughter erupted from Detective Billie. “Nothing at this time.”

  “I hear you” She winked at him. “See you later, Nick.”

  “Not if I see you first,” he responded, humor still lingering in his face. “By the way, it’s illegal to smoke in a public building.”

  “Uh-huh.” She waved him off with her cigarette and returned to her office.

  Nick shook his head, then held out a folder in my di- rection. “I almost forgot. This is a transcript of the statement that you gave to me two days ago. Look it over and see if there is anything you want to change”

  “Right now?” I took it from him, carefully avoiding touching his fingers. “I’ve got a story that I’m on a deadline to finish.”

  He shrugged. “You can look it over and drop it by the station later.”

  “Thanks” I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the statement if he loomed over me. I was too aware of him, too distracted by the woodsy scent of his aftershave, too unsettled by his dark eyes.

  “Don’t let Anita persuade you into doing things that you know are wrong. A newspaper story is one thing but, when it comes to solving a crime, that’s police business-period.”

  “I’ve got it already. All right?”

  “All right.” He paused, as though he was going to say something else, but then changed his mind. “Are you doing … okay?”

  I clutched the folder to my chest. “I guess so-for someone who found a dead body.”

  “Believe it or not, I understand. Murder is never an easy thing to accept” A shadow passed over his features, completely erasing all traces of humor.

  “But you’re a cop-you deal with this kind of thing all the time.”

  “Not really.” He shook his head. “Killing people doesn’t happen on my watch-and I don’t intend to let it happen again.” His voice hardened as his glance caught and held mine captive.

  Something turned over inside of me. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. It could’ve been a spark of attraction. Or maybe a flicker of sensual excitement. Or maybe even indigestion. Who knows? But the tremor of emotion behind his words touched me in a way I couldn’t pinpoint.

  We stood there for a few moments, not moving, our eyes locked together.

  “Hey, Nick, how are ya doing?” Sandy finally broke the spell as she spun around in her chair and removed her iPod.

  “Fine-I was just leaving,” he answered. “Make sure you drop off that transcript, Ms. Monroe.” The reserved, by-the-book cop persona was back in place. He strode toward the door and was gone before I could say, “Have a nice day” Thanks a lot, Sandy.

  “Did I miss anything?” Sandy asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “Not really.”

  “Good.” Humming, she put her iPod in the top drawer of her desk. “I was so into a deep TM state that time. My new meditation tape is really wonderful-the guy who did it studied at some ashram in India.”

  “Wow.” I didn’t know the least bit about ashrams, but I figured it must have something to do with personal growth, weight loss, and/or both.

  Sandy’s features assumed their usual serene compo- sure. “I’m going to use the computer for awhile, all right?”

  “Sure. I have to see someone. Just save what I was working on to the hard drive.” I’d wrap it up later. Right now, I needed to talk to the person who I trusted more than anyone on the planet: my great aunt Lily.

  Minutes later, I was driving toward the southeast part of the island called Franklin’s Grove. My great aunt and several other families had moved there during the 1920s when it was a bustling little settlement, complete with a warehouse on the waterfront, a post office and school. Originally, Aunt Lily and her husband, with four other homesteader families, owned eighty acres. They produced some of the best citrus in all of Southern Florida.

  Unfortunately, when the depression hit in the thirties, Franklin’s Grove declined.

  Most of the families moved away and their groves fell into disrepair, but Aunt Lily stayed. She survived three hurricanes, a world war, and the loss of her husband. But she never gave up her land. About ten years ago, she replaced the citrus with mango and lychee nut trees, tapping the new market for exotic fruit. It wasn’t exactly a thriving venture, but she made a living. She got by.

  I steered Rusty down the shell and limestone road that led to her house. It stood smack
dab in the middle of her grove-a whitewashed, one-storied dwelling with a porch across the front and a tin roof. As soon as I saw the familiar structure nestled among the pine trees, a warm feeling flooded through me, and I remembered why I’d come to the island a month ago with my Airstream and my teacup poodle. This was the only place I’d ever felt a sense of peace as a kid.

  The memories of brief summer vacations spent picking fruit rose up in my mind. I could still smell the sweet scent of June bloom oranges as I twisted them off of the branches and tossed them into large wooden baskets. Feel the sensation of heavy, tropical rain when it would plaster my shirt against my chest. Remember what it was like to run barefoot all day and stay up half the night. Earthy. Elemental. Soul-stirring. I was never constrained by rules and manners and the “right” way of doing things like at home.

  Needless to say, my parents didn’t let me come here all that often and, when I did, they’d spend months “working the Florida taint” out of me.

  But now I was here-permanently living in paradise. Sort of. I did have the slight problem of working for a chain-smoking, hatchet-faced editor and being a suspect in a murder investigation. But this is a fallen world afterall. Who’s expecting perfection?

  I parked Rusty and, before I could shut off the engine, Aunt Lily appeared on the porch.

  “Mallie, I’ve been trying to call you for two days,” she exclaimed. A pair of Yorkshire terriers positioned themselves on either side of her and barked their own greeting. We also had something else in common: our love of canine companions.

  I climbed out of my truck and took the steps two at a time. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have an answering machine yet. I only got a phone hook up two weeks ago” I hugged her, savoring the warm feel of her strong, supple arms. All of a sudden, though, they felt a little thinner to me and I pulled back to get a good look at her. Thick, gray hair worn in a braid and fierce blue eyes. Faded freckles, now merged into the lines around her eyes. A wide, smiling mouth. It was all comfortingly familiar.

  But her face did seem a little drawn compared to a couple of weeks ago when I last saw her, the lines a little deeper. A twinge of guilt nagged at me. I hoped I wasn’t the cause of those deep worry lines on her forehead.

  “So what do you expect?” she asked, as though divining my thoughts. “I’m seventy-eight years old and worried sick about my favorite great niece.”

  “You don’t look a day over sixty.”

  “Pfffft” She waved a hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere” The dogs kept up their yapping. “Biscuits, Gravy, shut up”

  They instantly quieted down.

  “I guess I don’t need to ask whether or not you heard about Jack Hillman’s murder,” I said.

  “Dreadful man.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I remember the last time he gave a talk at my quilter’s group-right before the Mango Festival. He went on and on about how the island was becoming too commercial, that developers were ruining the Mounds, that the `real’ Florida was passing away. Hah. Like that’s such a bad thing. I’ll give him `real Florida.’ I remember when it took a whole day to walk to Mango Bay and we had to wear bee veils the entire way because of the mosquitoes. Those vile creatures were so big you could put a saddle on ‘em and ride ‘em. Bad roads, hurricanes, oppressive heat. You can have the `good old days.”’ She threw up her hands in disgust.

  Did I mention that my aunt also possessed the “motor mouth gene”? In fact, I probably inherited it from her.

  “Actually I’ve been doing some digging and I found out that he wasn’t a complete jerk after all. Did you know that he sponsored a kid with Big Brothers/Big Sisters? An island boy who’s in Miami now.”

  “I’d heard about him-Todd something or other.” She didn’t look impressed. “I guess everyone has a soft side.”

  “Anybody you know might’ve had a motive to kill Hillman?”

  She cast an ironic glance in my direction. “The real question is who didn’t have a motive for killing him. Maybe you ought to start from there and eliminate all the people who couldn’t possibly have committed murder”

  I sighed. “That would be a pretty short list just you and me.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “You, too?”

  “After ticking off my quilter friends? You’d better believe it, Carrot” A beeping sound went off inside her house. “Oh, just a minute, my cornbread is done. Did you have lunch yet?”

  “Nope” I smiled at Aunt Lily’s nickname. She christened me “Carrot” when I was a kid-for obvious reasons-and she was the only one I’d let call me that.

  “Well, settle yourself down and I’ll rustle us up something. I know how you like your food.” She winked at me and went into the house. Biscuits and Gravy stayed on the porch, occupied with the complex task of unraveling a ball of white cotton yarn Aunt Lily had left out as a playtoy.

  I slid into one of the high-backed wooden rockers, listening to quiet chirping of two scrub jays that perched on my aunt’s birdfeeder. They took their fill and then flew off.

  A short while later, Aunt Lily reappeared with a tray holding two enormous fruit salads and a generous helping of warm cornbread. She set it on a wicker table between the two rockers and handed me a glass of iced tea-Southern sweet, of course.

  “Nothing like a sweet tea on a hot day,” she commented as she took a long, deep drink.

  “Can’t argue with you there” I joined her and took a swig of my iced tea. Then I broke off a chunk of the cornbread and chewed it slowly. “De-lish”

  She smiled, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. “Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch”

  “Never.” I leaned my head back. “How did you find out about the murder?”

  “Wanda Sue told Emily Watson-she works at Whiteside’s on the day shift.” Aunt Lily arched her brows in delicate emphasis. “From there the story worked its way toward the Island Center where I heard it from the Jordan sisters-you know the two blonds with identical peace sign tattoos on their ankles? Anyway, I overheard them talking at the Island Hardware S tore.”

  I hadn’t met the Jordan sisters yet, but I’d be looking for those tattooed ankles.

  “All they had were the barest of details. So fill me in.”

  I took another swallow of my iced tea for fortification. “Let’s just say I’m working on a news story for the Observer about Hillman’s murder, and I’m between a rock and a hard place when it comes to Anita and Detective Billie.”

  “And what hard place would that be?” She smiled suggestively.

  “Aunt Lily-behave.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that our friendly island chief deputy is one good-looking man-tall, dark, and handsome, to use a cliche”

  “I’ve noticed.” I popped a juicy piece of mango into my mouth. “Not my kind of guy-too uptight. As attractive as Detective Billie is, he’s all business when it comes to dishing out information about Hillman’s murder. And Anita is just hard headed about the newspaper doing its own investigation.” I sighed and shook my head. “I’ve got to find a way to write my stories without pushing him to the point that he throws me in jail.”

  Aunt Lily was quiet for a few moments as she stared off toward two large weeping willow trees that arched over the driveway. Their branches actually touched as if they were reaching out to each other. “I’ve usually found when I’m being pulled in two directions the best thing to do is keep up a good front and just go my own way”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, find your own path. What do you want to do?”

  I paused, trying to find the words to voice what I’d been too afraid even to think. “I want to know what happened. It’s stupid. I’ve been at the paper only a month, and I’m totally inexperienced when it comes to this kind of investigative journalism. But it … intrigues me.”

  “Okay then.” She tapped her chin meditatively. “Work on the articles Anita assigns, say nothing to Nick Billie, and glean as much infor
mation as you can to piece together the truth of what happened that night.”

  “The whole truth? Is that possible?”

  “Maybe-I might be able to help.”

  “Oh, thank you, Aunt Lily.”

  “But we’ll need a little assistance.” She drained the last of her iced tea and dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin. “It’s time to bring in Sam.”

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “My handyman” She pronounced the last word as though it was a royal title-perhaps not a monarch, but at least a duke or earl. The Duke of Mango Bay? I swallowed a nervous laugh.

  “We might need more than a guy who can fix clogged drains,” I said.

  “Sam’s our man. He’s in and out of everybody’s house on the island, and he hears more in one day than you’ll be able to gather in a week of snooping.” She gave me a quick, reassuring smile. “Don’t fret, Carrot. I’ll go give him a call” She exited the porch.

  I picked up my fork, trying to squelch the doubts and guilt that suddenly assailed me. This was serious business and I couldn’t tell Aunt Lily the whole truth: I was a suspect in Hillman’s murder-and part of my desperation about writing the news story is that I was trying to stay out of jail. Ugh. The very word made me cringe.

  I stabbed at another piece of mango, but when I popped it into my mouth, it felt like a cold lump that I could barely get down my throat.

  I stayed at Aunt Lily’s for another hour, waiting to see if this all-knowing, all-snooping handyman, Sam, would return her call. He didn’t. She told me not to worry, that he would get back to her within the day. In the meantime, she called three quilters, one notably named Sally Burton, who drove the lone island taxi and was apparently privy to every tidbit of information that moved on the island. All of them agreed to put out an all-points bulletin to track down Sam.

  I have to say, my spirits revived a little at the considerable number of draftees my great aunt was able to summon in sixty minutes. Maybe I wasn’t really alone like I thought. People who didn’t even know me volunteered their services.