Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (14 page)

“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.

I pulled into the driveway and slid out of my truck, straightening my flamingo T-shirt with a defiant tug. Following the
tiled walkway toward the front door, I took in the magnificence of the house. Two-storied, Spanish style, with arches
and curved tile on the roof, it puffed up as proudly as the
proverbial peacock-a testament to money and power. My
mother would love it, which meant I hated it.

As I reached the front screen door, the automatic sprinklers
erupted with a stream of sulfur-smelling water. I jumped back,
but not before I was drenched from head to toe. Great. Just
great. I shook the water out of my curls and wiped down my
arms and legs. There was nothing I could do about the water
spots on my T-shirt and jeans. They’d have to dry in their own
time.

Raising my head high, I opened the screen door and strolled
down a narrow, enclosed entrance area. I rang the doorbell. Instantly I heard dogs barking from within. I shrugged. Maybe
the Palmers weren’t so bad after all. If they were dog people,
they had to have some redeeming qualities.

The glass-etched front door swung open, and out came two
huge German shepherds, teeth bared, advancing on me with
woman-eating eyes.

I was done for.

lowly, I backed up, my Birkenstocks heel to toe, making
silent contact on the tile. “Good doggies. I’ve got one of my
own, you know-a nice little teacup poodle.” The image of
Kong’s sweet brown eyes and moppet face appeared in my mind.
It occurred to me that those features might be the last things I
remembered before my life was taken by these two growling
hounds from hell.

“Naomi, Neelum, stay!” a forceful masculine voice ordered.

Instantly, the dogs stopped in their tracks, still keeping a
wary eye on me.

Poised inside the front door stood a handsome, middleaged man with one of those tawny George Hamilton tans that
bespoke many hours on the beach or in a tanning booth. It was
the same guy who’d dropped Gina and Brandi off at the Little
Coral Island trail-Brandi and Brett’s dad.

“Mr. Palmer?” I asked, edging around the watchful canines.

“It’s dangerous to wander into someone’s house. Didn’t you
see the doorbell outside the screened porch?” His thick silver
eyebrows slanted downward like two arrows aiming for his nose.

“No, sorry.” I reached inside my canvas bag and pulled out
one of my cards. I held it out as if it were a talisman. “I’m
Mallie Monroe from the Observer.”

“A reporter?” His tone turned nasty. “You’re not welcome
here”

“If I could just have a few minutes.” I’d almost made it
around the devil dogs. “I’m writing an obituary on Gina Fernandez, and I need some information-“

“Don’t move; the dogs are trained to kill!” he exclaimed.

The dogs tensed and growled low in their throats. I, too,
tensed.

Dry-mouthed, heart pounding, I now knew how postal workers and meter readers felt when they had to enter dog-patrolled
territory to do their jobs. At least if I had a mail sack, I’d have
something to fight off those monstrous teeth that looked the
size of those in a prehistoric dinosaur display. My canvas bag
provided only minor protection.

“Weren’t you on the trail hike yesterday?” His frown lifted
a fraction.

I nodded vigorously, still not daring to speak.

“You were with Brandi … and Gina.” He paused, no doubt
weighing the pros and cons of letting a disheveled journalist
into his house. Pro: he’d find out what happened on the trail
yesterday. Con: his daughter was one of the last people to see
Gina alive.

I waited.

“I’ll give you ten minutes.” He mumbled something in a
foreign language to the dogs. They scrambled away from me
and sat down.

Taking in a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and moved
toward him with a pseudo-confident step. “No-good mutts,” I
muttered under my breath.

“Pardon me?”

“I said … `Good little dogs.’”

His features relaxed into a glow of pride. “They’re from a
special drug-sniffing bloodline and are trained to sniff out terrorists on a dime.”

“A useful quality for Coral Island.” Duh. The worst transgression to hit last week’s section of Crimebeat in the Observer was some drunk guy pedaling down Cypress Drive in a
vinyl poncho-and nothing else. Big deal.

“You never know where criminals are hiding.” His mouth
tightened as he motioned me in. Then he uttered another foreign
phrase to Nucklehead and Numnutts, and they trotted off to another part of the house. Hopefully, somewhere with a cage.

“They have interesting names” My sandals squished on the
pristine, shiny white tile.

“Naomi and Neelum are types of mangos. The Naomi is a
new variety grown in Israel-big and bright red. The Neelum
has been around for a while. It’s raised mostly in India and
China-smallish and bright yellow. No blush. Cuts well into
cubes”

“Sounds delicious. I was never a big mango fan till I tried
some yesterday and-“

“You don’t like mangos?” Shocked disbelief threaded
through his words. I felt as if I’d said something un-American.

“Didn’t. Past tense. I’ve reconsidered my position since I
tasted a Coral Island mango”

“I should think so” He led me into a step-down, plushly
carpeted, white-on-white living room-the kind that was supposed to look very high class but always made me think of hospital rooms. Sterile and colorless.

“Have a seat.” He pointed at an overstuffed, ivory leather
sofa. I sank into it, hoping my damp jeans wouldn’t leave stains
on the cushions.

He remained standing, which was, no doubt, a power play. I rose to my feet again. Then he seated himself in a matching
leather armchair. I slid down into the Jell-O sofa once more.

“So, what do you want to know about Gina?” His hands
rested on his upper thighs, palms flat, but the fingers curled
into his neatly pressed trousers. “She was engaged to my son,
Brett, and that’s about all there is to it.”