Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves Page 9

  Sandy perked up, her eyes kindling with hope. “Where is she? Is she coming back soon?”

  “Well, there’s good and bad news. The good: Anita is on vacation with … Mr. Benton”

  “Anita and Mr. Benton? Barf city.” Sandy motioned toward her open mouth with a finger in a mock gagging motion.

  “My sentiments exactly. I guess they must have become … friendly last year when she finally persuaded him to hire Jimmy to paint the office. Or maybe it was a long-standing affair. Who knows?” With great effort, I blocked the image of Anita and Mr. Benton out of my mind. “More good news: I didn’t get the impression they’d be gone too long.”

  “But what about Bernice?”

  “That’s the bad news.” I sighed. “Anita put her in charge, all right. And Benton must’ve gone along with it. I tried to tell Anita what was going on, but she didn’t want to hear it. She said, among other things, that we had to `hang in there.’”

  “So we’re on our own with the boss from hell.” Sandy’s eyes dulled once more with despair.

  “Looks like it,” I replied.

  “Hey, I’ll get my mom over here,” Jimmy piped up. “She’ll know what to do”

  “Does she have any voodoo dolls?” I asked, imagining a tiny version of Butthead Bernice that I could attack with a pin. Nothing fatal. Only enough pinpricks to incapacitate her until Anita grew tired of her middle-aged tryst with Mr. Benton.

  Jimmy stood up, a slight expression of indignation on his open features. “As if Mom would resort to black magic. You know her better than that. She’ll do a tarot reading or ask the spirit world for guidance. And she’ll find some answerstrust me”

  “Really?” Sandy clutched his hand.

  “Sure” He smiled down at her with adoring eyes.

  I refrained from groaning. Adding Madame Geri to the mix was like pouring gasoline onto a fire. “I’m not sure-“

  “About what?” Bernice strode out of her cubicle, another lollipop in her mouth. Her attire still had the nautical theme, with an electric-blue striped top, but it was paired with very tight black leggings, revealing sags and bulges in places where I didn’t want to go.

  “About … uh … some of my interviews for the `Terror on the Trail’ article.” I shot Jimmy a warning look.

  “If you’d get in here at a reasonable hour, you might get some work done. We’re not running a bank here, Miss Priss.” She patted the stump. “You need to finish the trail story and Gina’s obituary. I’m going to run them side by side. That’ll really spike up the emotion a notch”

  “But obituaries run on their own page … separate from the other stories. We don’t want to seem to be exploiting Gina’s death just to sell papers” I watched her pat the stump with a smile of approval.

  “Of course we are. That’s the point.” She strolled forward. “We’re doing reality journalism, and that means every dark area of life has to be exposed. The naked truth. That’s what I want. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be true, as long as it’s sleazy.”

  I clenched my teeth. “I’ll finish up the trail story this morning. Then I’ll talk to Gina’s fiance and her mother for the obituary. But it’s going to be respectful. After all, she was the Mango Queen. People on Coral Island aren’t going to want to see her name dragged through the mud”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn about human nature, Miss Priss,” she informed me in an irritating, know-it-all tone. “The higher they are, the more readers delight in seeing them taken down a notch. Why do you think they sell so many tabloids about actors in rehab or actresses getting caught shoplifting? Get real. There’s nothing that sells papers like seeing how far the mighty can fall.”

  “Maybe so, but this is a hometown island girl, not some Hollywood bimbette. Gina grew up on Coral Island, and people loved her.”

  “Are you refusing to follow my orders?” Bernice slowly removed the lollipop from her mouth.

  “I am.” I stood firm, not flinching as her wrinkled, leathery face inched closer to mine.

  The office became very quiet. I heard my heart thumping in my chest like a series of sonic booms. But I wasn’t going to give in. Bernice could fire me. I knew it, and she knew it. But I would not let her turn Gina’s death into some tawdry eventnot after seeing the grief of Mama Maria and Rivas. They deserved to have Gina’s memory honored.

  All of a sudden, she stepped back. “Okay. I’ll give you the tasteful obit for next week’s edition of the Observer But after that, I want a full investigative story for the next edition.” She scowled at me. “No holds barred”

  “Agreed” I managed to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Fine” She threw a T-shirt at me and marched back toward her cubicle. “Wear it.”

  I caught the shirt, not even needing to look at it. So I had to promote Steve’s Stupendous Stump Removal. Who cared? I’d finally won a battle with Bernice the Butthead. Yahoo!

  Bernice slammed the door.

  andy clapped her hands silently, joy lighting her face. “Mallie, you’re a marvel. How did you find the courage to stand up to that old bag?”

  “I don’t know what got into me” I pulled out my rickety wooden chair and collapsed into it.

  “Sheer chutzpah,” Sandy breathed.

  “Spirit energy,” Jimmy added.

  “Shameless stupidity.” I took in a couple of deep breaths.

  “No, you were heroic.” Sandy reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a package of cookies, half a dozen minicakes, and a bag of peanut M&M’s. “And I can be too” She dumped all the sweets into the trash can.

  “Sweetie, I’m so proud of you.” Jimmy planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “Me too.” I smiled, pleased with both Sandy and myself. “We might be on our own here, but this is our turf. Bernice is the interloper. What we need to do is get proactive and beat her at her own game”

  “You’re right.” Sandy mulled this over for a few minutes. “Bernice wants new advertisers. But the only ones she seems to rope in are people she knows from hanging out at the Seafood Shanty-bait dealers, stump removers, and so on. What I need to do is find some people who want to advertise with us who run more … uh … upscale businesses. Attorneys, accountants-that kind of person. Chances are, they wouldn’t want us to wear T-shirts or deposit a stump in the middle of the office”

  “Yes!” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Brilliant. Call Aunt Lily. I’m sure she knows some people on the island who don’t chew tobacco or eat with their fingers who’ll want to advertise with us”

  “Gotcha” Sandy picked up the phone.

  “Mallie, that reminds me, I’ve got a message from Mom” Jimmy scooted his chair toward my desk.

  “Oh?” Not a Madame Geri pseudo-prophecy. They had caused me nothing but trouble in the past.

  “She said that since Gina died, the mango balance is off.” He spoke with solemn gravitas.

  “Okay.” I motioned him with my fingers. “Give it to me: What’s the `mango balance’?”

  “The whole aura that surrounds the island and makes it possible to grow the mangos. You know, our island is worldrenowned for its varieties and quality. There are very few places that produce the kinds of mangos we have here. But it’s a delicate balance between man and nature” He paused and leaned forward. “Gina was the Mango Queen, and now she’s dead, so the balance has been disturbed.”

  “Let me get this straight: I not only need to get my aura cleansed-as per Wanda Sue’s instructions-the whole island does too?” I gave a laugh of disbelief. “Brandi was the runnerup. I’m sure she’ll take on the duties before the Mango Festival next weekend. Then the balance will be restored.”

  “That’s what I said to Mom, but she told me the spirit world is disturbed. Something is off-kilter.”

  “Regarding Gina’s death?”

  “I don’t know. She wants you to call her.”

  I rubbed my forehead with a weary hand. Stumps. Bernice the Butthead. Mango balance. Madame Geri. And it wasn’t even lunch
time yet. “I don’t know, Jimmy. When your mother gets involved, things have a way-“

  “She knew you’d say that” He nodded with a smile. “She told me to tell you that if you want to know what happened to Gina, you need to phone her ASAP.”

  I frowned. That crazy clairvoyant had a knack for knowing what I wanted almost before I did. Not that it made her a psychic. She was just … perceptive.

  “Do it, Mallie.” Sandy covered the phone receiver with her hand. “It helped me to keep on the Ozone Diet. Just wanting to lose weight wasn’t enough. I had to get rid of all that negative energy that kept me diving headfirst into high-caloric foods and-“

  “You lost weight because of pure willpower,” I corrected her.

  “Uh-uh. It was the aura-cleansing. Trust me. In fact, after we get Bernice outta here, I’m going in for another cleansing.” She patted her stomach. “I’ve got to clean out my M&M cravings.”

  “Waving good-bye to Bernice’s backside should do it°” I cleared my throat in a pointed effort to change the subject.

  “Ooops …” Sandy removed her hand and spoke briefly into the receiver.

  “Did Aunt Lily give you any names of potential advertisers?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t in. I left a message on her answering machine.”

  “Good. She knows everybody on the island. There’s got to be some better potential advertisers than Steve the Stump Remover.”

  “About that aura cleansing …” Jimmy began.

  “I’ve really got to work on my `Terror on the Trail’ story.” I swiveled away from him and flipped on the ancient Dell computer that Sandy and I shared. Unfortunately, the shaky chair legs creaked from the sudden movement, and one of the wheels flew off, causing one side to thump down to the floor.

  Jimmy caught the rolling wheel under his foot, picked it up, and handed it to me. “See? This is what happens when your aura is cloudy.”

  “No” I snatched the wheel from him. “This is what happens when your employer is too cheap to buy decent office furniture.”

  I turned my attention to the computer.

  Auras be damned.

  After a couple of hours, I sat back, careful not to make too sudden of a move in my rickety chair. “Not bad,” I murmured aloud as I scanned the story. No one answered. Sandy and Jimmy had left for a low-cal lunch at Subway, and Bernice had exited several hours ago, presumably to knock back a few beers at the Shanty. Hooray. At least the office was quiet for a little while.

  The phone rang, and I picked up. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Hel-LO!”

  Heavy breathing greeted me at the other end.

  “If you’re the same person who called me at home, I’m not impressed.” I slammed the received down.

  Turning back to the computer, I noticed a tremor in my hands. Okay, this heavy breather was beginning to spook me a bit. How did the caller know I’d be the one to pick up the phone at work? Was someone watching me?

  Slowly I peered over my shoulder toward the front window. Only dirty, dingy glass stared back at me. I laughed in nervous relief. Get a grip. Nothing’s going to happen at the Observer office. Too many people around. A deli was located on one side and a florist on the other. Someone would notice if a marauder came into the office.

  I took in a couple of deep breaths and said my Tae Kwan Do mantra: “Mugatoni.” Most people chose something Zenlike; I chose something ziti-like. It instantly calmed me-and made me hanker for a plateful of pasta.

  The phone rang again. Chewing on my lower lip, I stared at it this time. I wouldn’t have to hear the breathing if I didn’t pick up. But then again, it could be important news. This was a newspaper, after all.

  With a hesitant hand, I picked up the receiver but said nothing.

  “Mallie? It’s Madame Geri.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” I gushed. “Thank goodness”

  “No need to thank me. Marley was the one who told me not to wait but to call you today.”

  “He has my gratitude.” I heard Madame Geri murmuring words of praise to the turquoise-feathered, beady-eyed bird who was her constant companion. He squawked, and I rolled my eyes. “Madame Geri? Are you calling to file next week’s horoscopes or to talk about the `aura cleansing’?”

  “I already gave the astrology readings to Sandy yesterday, and I’m telling you, they weren’t good. Mercury is in retrograde for the next ten days, which means all forms of communication are going to be messed up. Also, don’t make any big decisions. Mercury affects your ability to think clearly.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good. Now, to the aura cleansing.” Her voice turned deadly quiet. “This whole `mango balance’ thing is really disturbing me. The island is in shock. Fruit is withering on the treesjust drying up as if the life juices have been sucked out of them”

  Pleasant image.

  “This is an extremely serious situation,” she stressed. “We may not have any mangos for the Festival next weekend, and if we don’t, a lot of the growers could end up bankrupt. They depend on the Festival to sell most of their produce”

  I clutched the receiver for a few moments, not sure if I wanted to be drawn into her New Age nuttiness. But if something was affecting the mango groves on the island, I guess it qualified as news. “So you think Gina’s death is causing this … uh … imbalance?”

  “Absolutely. She was the Mango Queen. The island chose her. She was born here, her father raised mangos, and her grandfather raised mangos. No one could’ve been a better choice. Mangos are in her lineage.”

  “I thought a panel of judges picked the Mango Queen” I heard a deep sigh at the other end of the line.

  “Mallie, they were guided into making the choice.”

  “Who could’ve-“

  “The spirit world chose her. They guided the judges.”

  Jeez, Louise. “Okay, let’s just say for the moment, that’s true. Then the spirit world also chose Brandi as the runner-up, because she’s the next rightful Mango Queen. Sort of like the divine right of succession in England.”

  “Only if Gina’s death were from natural causes”

  The words reverberated through my head. I clutched the receiver and said nothing.

  “All I know is, the spirit world is in turmoil, and it’s somehow connected with Gina.”

  I hated it when she did that. She’d get me all riled up, then refuse to give any specifics. As far as I was concerned, that spirit world was irritating as all get-out. Or maybe it was just that Madame Geri was loony. “Thanks for the tip. We’ll know for sure how she died when Detective Billie gets the autopsy results back”

  “Mark my words. If her death isn’t resolved, the Coral Island mangos will continue to die.”

  “I’ll be certain to pass that on to my temporary editor, Bernice. I’m sure she’ll be interested.” When pigs fly, I added to myself.

  “I’ll tell her myself when I come in to cleanse your aura tomorrow-“

  “No way. My aura is fine. It doesn’t need cleansing, buffing, or even refinishing.”

  “Trust me. I know when an aura needs cleansing.” Her voice turned firm, final. “See you in the morning.” She hung up before I could answer.

  I started to call her back, but then a mental picture rose up in my mind: Madame Geri meeting Bernice. Bonkers vs. Butthead. I smiled. That encounter could potentially cause the earth to reverse its orbit. At the very least, time would stand still for a few minutes, and I’d have more entertainment than I could get from a lifetime of Seinfeld reruns.

  Still grinning, I read through my story one more time. When I reached the part where I found Gina’s body, my smile faded. What was the cause of her death? Maybe Madame Geri was on to something-not that I believed that junk about the spirit world. But something about the way Gina died struck me as unnatural. Sure, it could’ve been drugs-an overdose. Things like that happened all the time.

  But to someone as happy as Gina? The Mango Queen?


  It seemed doubtful.

  I saved my “Terror on the Trail” story to a flash drive and shut down the computer, my thoughts still on Gina. I’d promised Aunt Lily I’d dig around for information, and, since I still had an obituary to write, it wouldn’t be off-limits to talk to Gina’s fiance. Even Detective Billie should understand thator not.

  After checking my notes for Trish and Bryan Palmer’s address, I headed toward Sea Belle Isle Point. Located on the southern tip of the island, it was the farthest point away from the Twin Palms RV Resort, where I resided. No doubt the planners of this exclusive community had had that in mind when they built it. They wouldn’t want their luxurious residences anywhere near trailers, fifth-wheelers, or, in my case, antique Airstreams. Too low-end. Some of the commonness might rub off.

  Each of the Sea Belle Isle Point houses sat on half an acre of carefully manicured land. No wild bougainvillea bushes or spreading sea grape here, thank you very much. The name of the game was control and order. Wide canals stretched behind the houses, with huge boats docked at attention. Rarely used, they provided status for the owners.

  I could almost feel horrified, surgically enhanced faces peering out of windows, riveted on Rusty’s offensive exterior as we crept down Hibiscus Court, looking for the Palmer residence. Okay, my truck wasn’t a Lexus, a Cadillac, or even a high-end Buick. But it was reliable and could pull a 4,225pound Airstream. I’d like to see anyone try that with one of those fancy cars.

  I scanned the mailboxes one by one, then slammed on the brakes as I almost passed the Palmers’ mail receptacle. It wasn’t one of your run-of-the-mill mailboxes with a wooden base and rounded container at the top. This elaborate contraption resembled a dolphin, its body curving up from the ground, mail-slot “mouth” agape and sealed by a hinged door. Presumably, the mail was shoved in there. Cute.