Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Page 9

  “Like his sponsoring a Little Brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would he hide something like that? Wouldn’t he want people to know that he had a soft side?”

  “Not necessarily. Everyone has something in his past that he wouldn’t want other people to know”

  “Even you?”

  “Especially me”

  I stared at Sam for a few moments and found nothing but gentle contemplation in his gray eyes.

  “Dig deep enough, and you’ll find out why he was murdered. Just be careful. Whoever killed him could be a model citizen also hiding something.”

  “Light and dark?”

  “Of course … we’re all a mixture of the divine and the diabolical.”

  Even me? Mixed-up Mallie? Was I hiding part of myself? I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know the answer to that question.

  S am stayed for a little while longer-enough time for me to have nibbled on yet another donut and finished off my coffee. He promised to get back with me before the weekend was over.

  Then, he drove off in his ancient Volvo-a 240 which hasn’t been in production for over twenty years. It had that lumbering turtle-like quality Volvo used to have before they decided to get competitive with upscale import vehicles. Solid. Dependable. With a backseat full of power tools.

  He’d given me a lot to think about … more than I usually thought about anything. And I wasn’t certain I was ready to change from Mixed-up Mallie to DeepThinking Mallie. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I had it in me.

  I walked Kong, showered, and put on my favorite blue jean sundress. It had spaghetti straps and ended just above the knee. Perfect for the Florida heat. Even better, it had good vibes because I wore the dress on the day I quit working at Disney World.

  As I climbed into Rusty, I reached for my new sunblock with SPF forty-five, but realized my sunburned, peeling nose might not need it after all. The clouds had moved in from the west and now covered the sky like a slate-colored blanket of dust and grime. Churning up shadows and waiting to empty its pouches of rain.

  Brushing the damp curls from my forehead, I rolled down the window of my truck. It might not be sunny, but it sure as heck was humid-maybe even more so than when the sunlight dried everything out.

  I drove to the Starfish Lodge and parked right in front of one of the big windows, just in time to see Everett and Bradley deep in conversation right outside the Lodge’s entrance. Everett was gesturing wildly with his hands, then threw them up and stalked off. Bradley watched him leave and followed soon after.

  Hardly surprising.

  As I entered the Lodge, I spotted the group at their usual table. The dining room contained only one other couple-a middle-aged man and his wife wearing those STUPID and I’M WITH STUPID T-shirts. Enough said.

  Mercifully, quiet reigned in the dining room this morning.

  “Mallie, come on over,” Chrissy exclaimed. She wore a camouflage-print tank dress and was seated next to George.

  “How is everyone today?” I asked.

  “Betty and I are doing pretty good” Burt refilled his margarita glass. My eyes widened at the sight of the half-empty pitcher this early in the morning.

  “It’s non-alcoholic, honey,” Betty said to me, handing her empty glass to her husband.

  “I’m okay … I guess, considering I’m still in s … shock over Jack’s death,” George said, with just a trace of a stammer. His hair was brushed back, so I got a good look at his face. Not bad, I thought. Clear hazel eyes in a sensitive, finely chiseled face. His mouth was drawn in a tight line, though, as if suppressing strong emotion.

  “How about you, Chrissy?” I said.

  “Hanging in there.” She sighed. “We all still miss Jack.”

  Yeah, and pigs fly, I wanted to say.

  “Our critiquing isn’t nearly as good as it was when Jack gave us direction,” she continued.

  Before I could respond, a waitress appeared and placed a glass of water in front of me, inquiring if I wanted breakfast. I shook my head. After already downing three mouthwatering, vein-clogging donuts, I decided to stick with the water.

  I dropped my canvas bag on the floor with a distinct thud. “I thought all of you were upset over how he verbally assaulted your work-I know I was”

  “Yeah, but we learned from it.” Chrissy twisted a lock of her long, blond hair around her index finger. “I’m not saying that Jack couldn’t get outta line at times, but I really was growing as a writer. And if I want to eventually publish from my blog, I need to write the best poetry that I can”

  “Uh-huh,” Burt and Betty echoed their agreement.

  “I think more positive feedback is a better way of critiquing.” I sat down next to George. A strong, muskyscented aftershave emanated from him. The kind that was supposed to make you think of piney woods on an autumn day, but really conjured up images of dried tree bark and rotten leaves. I inched my chair away from him.

  “But Jack obviously helped you,” Chrissy said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She held up the copy of my article that I’d faxed over to the Lodge last night. “We thought this piece was loads better than your last one.”

  “Absolutely,” Burt chimed in.

  “It’s a g … great improvement,” George added.

  “Really?” I glanced around the table in surprise. Everyone nodded. “Maybe it’s the subject matter. A murder makes a much more interesting story than a disputed bike path”

  “True, but it’s not just that.” Burt took the story from Chrissy and paged through it. “The sentences are much crisper … no passive voice. Lots of human interest. Your voice is coming through”

  Betty lifted the story from her husband’s grasp. “I particularly liked the section about Jack’s life. You get a feel for who he was. It made you want to know him.”

  I listened in dazed delight as they went on complimenting my story. I probably should’ve stopped them when the words, “Pulitzer Prize,” began to be bandied about, but hey, it isn’t everyday that a girl gets to hear something like that.

  “So you see, Jack did help you to become a better writer in only one session,” Chrissy wound up the group’s effusive panegyrics.

  “I guess you’re right,” I admitted. Maybe they were right, but I still didn’t wholeheartedly agree with Jack’s methods.

  “Here’s to Jack” Burt held up his margarita glass.

  We all raised our glasses. “To Jack,” we echoed.

  After our toast, Burt and Betty passed around a short story they’d been working on: a western about two men, a woman, and a horse. I wasn’t sure if the men were fighting over the woman or the horse, but the descriptions of the desert were rather pretty. We critiqued them for about twenty minutes, then decided to take a break. When Chrissy excused herself, I waited a discreet interval and then followed her into the women’s restroom. Actually, the sign on the door said GULLS and the men’s room, not to be outdone, sported a BUOYS plaque. The Starfish Lodge took its nautical decor seriously.

  When I entered, my fellow gull was fluffing her long blond hair in the mirror.

  “Just needed to wash my hands,” I said, moving toward the sink.

  Chrissy smiled. She finished with her hair and began to trace the lines of her mouth with a tinted, all-natural lip pencil. Then she applied her coordinating lipstickone of those not-tested-on-animals brands that you buy in expensive health food stores.

  I glanced at my own pale, uncolored lips. I would’ve produced my lipstick, but it was a three-fifty cheapie full of unhealthy artificial dyes, and I didn’t want to hear a lecture.

  “Chrissy, if you don’t mind my asking, what was your relationship with Jack?”

  She paused ever so slightly in her lip ministrations. “Off the record?”

  I nodded.

  “Kiss and cuddle. Great while it lasted, but neither of us thought it would lead to anything permanent. I’m a vegan-he ate meat at every meal” She shuddered visi
bly. “Besides, that hard-bitten, hard-nosed, in-yourface writer routine got a little old, you know what I mean?”

  “You bet.” I took the opportunity to jump in. “But there was more to him than all that macho stuff. While I was doing research on Jack’s life, I found out he belonged to Big Brothers/Big Sisters and donated big time to the Island Museum”

  She tossed the lip pencil and lipstick into her purse. “I don’t know anything about the museum, but the thing with the kids doesn’t surprise me. He liked ‘em.”

  “He did?”

  “Oh, yeah. I know it’s hard to believe, but he told me he wanted to start a creative writing camp for kidsjust couldn’t afford to do it until next summer.”

  “But I thought his books sold well.”

  “They did, but he hadn’t published anything new except a couple of short stories in four or five years.”

  I locked eyes with her in the mirror. “You mean Jack was experiencing … writer’s block?”

  “He liked to call it a `creative pothole,’ but it was writer’s block all right. I don’t know what caused itmaybe all that meat-but he hadn’t been able to come up with a new book idea since Men on Death Row.”

  “That could also explain why he was doing the Writers’ Institutes-to make money.”

  “He had a lot of expenses-the sailboat, the sporty car, the upkeep on his house. It all added up.”

  “Was he still getting royalties on previous books?”

  “I’m not sure. If he did, it wasn’t very much.” She gave her hair another fluff and slipped the purse strap over her shoulder.

  “One last thing, what do you know about Burt and Betty aside from their penchant for margaritas?”

  “Not much. They’ve got a small ranch outside Tucumcari, and they’ve just about finished their collection of short stories. Burt likes horses, Betty likes to cook. They don’t have any kids, but he has an elderly mother who’s in a nursing home in Albuquerque.”

  My eyes widened in respect. “I’d say you’ve gleaned quite a bit about them”

  “I listen-that’s the key. Most people talk so much, they never take the time to really listen to what others have to say.”

  Ouch. Put me in that category with my motor mouth. But I was learning to put my engine in idle-at least some of the time.

  “I also have the feeling that they attended one of Jack’s Institutes before.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just the way they seemed to know his working patterns-they clued George and me in on them right at the beginning. Burt also taped the critique sessions, which I thought was odd. He said it was so he could play it back and learn even more, but I didn’t buy that. He was taping for another reason”

  “Such as?” I prompted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t trust Jack. Or maybe they were a bit paranoid. Writers can be like that sometimes.”

  “Even George?”

  A dreamy smile appeared on her face. “No, he’s a prince.”

  Shy, stuttering George? My, he had made some major headway with her in a short time. Maybe that was all part of his plan. Get Hillman out of the way and move in on Chrissy.

  She took one last look in the mirror and gave me a wink. Then she breezed out.

  I stood there a few minutes, contemplating what she’d said. She and Hillman had been close-no surprise there. And no motive to kill him-unless it was revenge at having had to see him bare-chested in the hottub. Reason enough, but not a real motive.

  I was more interested in her revelation that Hillman had financial problems. It opened up a whole world of possibilities. He might’ve been engaged in illegal activities, such as drug smuggling or goodness knows what. The ten thousand islands were only two hours away and that area was a nest for all kinds of nasty shenanigans, from Florida panther poaching to gun running.

  And where did Burt and Betty fit in? If they didn’t trust Jack, why did they take another Writers’ Institute with him? That didn’t add up. Unless they attended just for an excuse to guzzle down the margaritas.

  And George? Was he a “prince” or a jealous murderer? Had he wanted Chrissy bad enough that he was willing to get rid of Hillman-permanently?

  The questions hammered at my brain as I tried to piece together the puzzle. But no answers presented themselves. I splashed a little water on my face and, for good measure, fluffed up my own hair. I might not possess Chrissy’s gleaming golden tresses, but my red curls weren’t too shabby. I dabbed more sunblock on my peeling nose and slathered an extra layer on my freckled arms. I’d never have that healthy glow like Chrissy, but at least I could prevent my skin from looking like a boiled lobster.

  I left the restroom and returned to the table. As I approached, George said, “M … Mallie, we decided that we’re like that group of writers who called themselves the `Round Table’ at the Alg … gon-“

  “Algonquin,” Burt cut in.

  “The writers who met in New York City during the thirties?” I asked.

  “Yep.” George beamed. “We’re like them”

  I scanned the table, imagining Betty as Dorothy Parker-she certainly shared Parker’s affinity for booze, if not the same razor-sharp wit. But who would that make Burt? Chrissy? I couldn’t remember who the other writers were at the Algonquin, but none of them struck me as clones of our Coral Island group.

  “How long are you going to continue to meet?” I seated myself across from George.

  “I’m not sure,” Betty chimed in. “We have to stay on the island till we’re cleared as suspects-detective’s orders,” Betty supplied.

  “He indicated that it probably wouldn’t take all that long,” Burt added, “since we all have alibis.”

  “You never know.” George was gazing at Chrissy with the same adoration Kong lavished on me when he received one of his gourmet doggie treats.

  “True” I sipped my water, keeping a few chips of ice to chew on. It was a bad habit and the reason why I had six crowns on my molars, but I loved the sensation of crunching on hard, frozen water. “Burt, I noticed you didn’t tape today’s critique session. Don’t you usually tape them?”

  “Uh … no. Well … yes, I did tape them when Jack was presiding. But now that it’s just us, I decided to dispense with the recorder.”

  Betty said nothing.

  “Sometimes I’d forget Jack’s exact comments. The tape recorder helped because I could play it back later and listen to his suggestions a couple more times.” Burt avoided my eyes. He was hiding something. I could feel it.

  “Really?” I couldn’t resist lowering my brows in disapproval. “I’d walk through a patch of prickly pear cactus barefoot before I’ll listen to the tape of Hillman trashing my writing. Even if it helped my articles. I think there are nicer ways to make a person a better writer.”

  No one responded.

  “I think it’s time to hear my new works.” Chrissy opened the poetry portfolio from her blog. “This is one of my “Inspiration through Nature” poems.” She cleared her throat and began in a singsong voice,

  Through all life’s little ups and downs

  Especially when you’re going through chemo,

  Remember that vitamins and minerals abound

  And they’ll soon have you feeling so primo.

  Huh? There were a few more stanzas, but I think I blocked them out. Keats she was not.

  “What do you think?” she asked the group when she finished. “The poems each target a certain disease and how natural cures can help. That one was for people who’ve contracted cancer. I’ve also got ones for diabetes, stroke, ulcers, and heart attacks.”

  “Wonderful!” George enthused.

  “Charming.” Burt clapped.

  “Lovely,” Betty added.

  Gag me. I had to make a quick exit before she started reading inappropriately upbeat verse for stroke victims. “I’ve gotta go … sorry” I stood up and grabbed my canvas bag. “Thanks for the critique.”

  “When’s your story goin
g to be in the paper?” Burt asked.

  “The edition comes out on Tuesday.”

  “What about your next one?” George asked.

  “I’ll start on it this week-“

  “Don’t forget to bring it by for critiquing,” Chrissy reminded me.

  “I won’t.” I pivoted and moved away from the table.

  “Oh, Mallie, I forgot to tell you,” Burt brought me up short. “While you were in the restroom, some guy named Sam stopped by. He said he had some information for you.”

  I turned around. “Did he say what?”

  “Nope,” Burt said. “Said he’d get it to you later.”

  “Oh” Darn. Another lead shot down. “Thanks anyway.”

  As I moved toward the lobby, I caught snatches of Chrissy’s poem:

  Not to worry if you can’t get around,

  With a little enzyme therapy,

  You’ll be feeling safe and sound.

  Ohmygosh.

  When I reached Rusty, I spied a note clipped to the only working windshield wiper.

  Slowly, I unfolded the sheet.

  Talk to Nora Cresswell at the Seafood Shanty.

  Sam. Thank goodness. He’d taken the time to write out his message for me. I had a new lead after all.

  I drove to the police station first. I still had to drop off the transcript of my statement. When I walked in, the receptionist told me Detective Billie would be back in a few minutes, but I said I couldn’t wait. I wanted to get on the road to the Seafood Shanty as quickly as possible so I could mull over the morning’s revelations about Hillman.

  “But Nick said he wanted to talk to you,” she protested.

  “I’ll stop by later. See ya”

  I exited before she could say anything else and quickly drove off.

  As Rusty lurched along, I realized that Anita had been right when she told me to “follow the money” If Hillman had writer’s block for several years, he was probably financially strapped-a situation not unknown to me.

  That explained the Writers’ Institute. He recruited aspiring authors of varying talents (or lack thereof) and relieved them of their savings on the promise he could get them published. It was a quick way to earn some cash. And maybe only the tip of the iceberg. Who knows what else he was up to?