Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (2 page)

My life at the Twin Palms RV Resort on Coral Island had
settled into the quiet comfort of midsummer. No hordes of
tourists, no cold spells, and, most of all, no boring elementaryschool stories to write for the newspaper. School was out. Tropical heaven. Except that it was hot, hot, hot.

I’d even received a raise from the Coral Island Observer,
where I work as a reporter. Not that it amounted to much, but
I actually could afford to buy new summer clothes instead of
the usual “pre-owned” items I picked up at the secondhand
store. Ah, the smell of fresh cotton … nirvana.

Yes, life was good.

And it promised to be even better. I’d received an e-mail
that morning from my long-lost but not forgotten hunky exboyfriend, Cole Whitney. A freelance photographer, he had the
kind of surfer-dude looks and free-spirited spontaneity that I’d found irresistible at the time. We’d spent a year together
in Orlando. Fun, carefree, happy times.

Unfortunately, his free spirit had urged him out west to “find
himself,” leaving me in a state of indentured servitude at the
Magic Kingdom. I hadn’t heard from him since-except for
the occasional postcard. Almost two years, three months, and
four days ago. But who’s counting? I should’ve been furious
with him, but being angry with Cole was like chasing a butterfly in the wind. Pointless.

Besides, I was curious to see who or what he’d morphed into
on his personal-development quest. And even more curious to
know if the “new” Cole still made my heart beat faster than a
chorus-line tap dancer. And even more curious still to know
how he would stack up against my attraction to island cop Nick
Billie.

Perhaps a summer love triangle in the offing?

Hah.

I practically skipped into the Observer office that morning.

It didn’t take long for my bubble to burst.

As soon as I saw our secretary-cum-receptionist, Sandy, up
to her elbows in a quart of double-chocolate ice cream, I knew
there was trouble. She’d been on the Ozone Diet for over a
year and had reached her target weight months ago, publicly
stating that “hell would freeze over” before she ever gained
weight again. She’d even treated herself to a makeover to go
with her new slim shape: a chin-length bob for her brown hair,
greenish-tinted contact lenses, and a spiffy new wardrobe.

Now, she occasionally strayed and flirted with a simple
scoop of fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, but this megadip into her
favorite, forbidden dessert was full-fledged diet adultery.

“What’s up?” I asked in a tentative voice.

Sandy shook her head, unable to speak. With a chocolateladen spoon, she pointed at our editor, Anita Sanders’, office.

“Oh, no. What’s she done now?” I moved toward my desk.
It was a rickety metal structure that barely supported the old
PC I shared with Sandy. As I thumped my large canvas bag on
top, the spindly legs shook with an ominous creak. By some
miracle, the desk remained standing.

Sandy’s shoulders drooped, and her face almost disappeared
into the ice cream box.

“Drat her anyway,” I muttered. Anita wasn’t known for her
people skills. In fact, she could be a downright nagging crone.
Crusty, single-minded, and sarcastic, she’d cut her journalistic
teeth at the Detroit Free Press, a fact she never tired of telling
us. Unfortunately, she thought our little island weekly should
aspire to those heights-when our biggest story last month was
the purchase of a new flag for the VFW hall. I know, because I
covered it. Fast-breaking news it wasn’t, but, hey, that’s Coral
Island. Tucked in a corner of southwest Florida, the twentymile-long, two-mile-wide island was rural, sparsely populated,
and quiet most of time-much to Anita’s dismay.

“It’s not Anita,” Sandy mumbled between spoonfuls.

“Jimmy?” Sandy’s fiance.

Closing her eyes, she whimpered, “No”

“What, then?”

At that moment, the door to Anita’s cubicle opened, and
she strode out.

I blinked a couple of times in shock. “Ohmygod” My hand
went to my mouth. Not Anita. Worse.

It was Anita’s twin sister, Bernice.

Even though their faces looked exactly alike-thin-lipped
mouth and aging, sun-damaged skin-I could tell them apart
because Bernice weighed about twenty pounds more than Anita
and sported close-cropped, salt-and-pepper (more salt, less
pepper) hair. She also favored a fashion style of dress that
could only be described as “tacky nautical”: red tank top with a little anchor embroidered on the chest, boat-patterned Capris,
and gold-plated jewelry everywhere. A geriatric sailor girl.

To call Bernice the “evil twin” would be a misnomer. An
“evil” twin would suggest that the other was “good.” Needless
to say, Anita hardly fit into the latter category. They were both
sixtyish and cantankerous, as far as I could tell. Having Anita
on the island had been bad enough, but when Bernice showed
up six months ago to start up a charter fishing business, people
got out their garlic and crosses for protection.

“Nice to see you, too, Miss Priss,” Bernice said, slipping a
lollipop into her mouth, the stick protruding from between her
lips like a large toothpick. Again, another notch down: Anita
chewed gum like crazy, but only because she’d kicked the cigarette habit.

“My name is Mallie, as you well know.” I straightened to
my full five feet five and one half inches and puffed out my
flat chest for all it was worth. “What are you doing here, and
where’s Anita?”

Bernice smiled with a feline sort of smugness. A Cheshire
crone. “My idiot sister left to take a vacation. Do you believe
that? She’s never had one in the seven years she’s been at the
Observer.”

Sandy and I both nodded.

“That moron who owns the paper, Bentley-“

“Mr. Benton,” I corrected, keeping an eye on the bobbing
stick in her mouth.

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “He said by law she had to
take a vacation, so she took off-and put me in charge of the
paper.”

“What!” For a few moments, the room began to spin. Was I
dreaming? Had I entered bizarro world? “But she hates you”

“Yeah, I know. And I hate her too. But there’s no one else on this crap island she trusts to be hard-nosed enough to run
things.”

I sat down-or, rather, my legs gave out.

“Don’t worry, Miss Priss, I won’t work you too hard.” She
guffawed-low-pitched and throaty. Oh, my.

Sandy handed me a heaped spoonful of ice cream. I downed
it in one gulp.

“Let’s get down to business…. I’ve got some ideas to spark
up this hopeless rag” Bernice strolled toward us. “Right now,
the stories are as downright dull as dirty dishwater. We need
some real juice….”

I almost gagged at the simile but somehow managed to swallow the ice cream. “What did you have in mind, Bernice?”

“No school stories about bratty little kids doing stomachturning `good works’ for the community. Spare me. Or boring
Town Hall meetings where a bunch of old codgers discuss how
to `beautify the island.’ Just thinking about it makes me want to
stick my head into the nearest toilet and barf.” She grabbed
my spoon, rammed it into the ice cream box, and scooped out
a small chunk. “Nope, we’re going to do some real-life kind of
stuff. The journalistic version of reality TV.” She shifted the
lollipop to one side of her mouth and downed the ice cream on
the other side.

“Huh?” I didn’t know what alarmed me out more-her eating the ice cream with my spoon or the implication of “reality
journalism.”

She smiled down at me. “You’re not only going to report the
stories, Miss Priss. You’re going to live ‘em. Get your hands
dirty. Get your feet dirty. Dang it, you’re just gonna get down
and dirty.” She licked the spoon. Needless to say, I wouldn’t
want it back again.

Sandy and I abandoned the ice cream. It now had “Bernice cooties.” Then I began to do a slow burn about the “down and
dirty” suggestion.

“Bernice, I’ve been involved in two murder investigations
and almost got myself killed both times. If that isn’t getting
“down and dirty,” I don’t know what is. I was almost shot one
time and nearly stabbed the other. Not to mention having a
crazed murderess try to pull my hair out by the roots” I rubbed
my head for effect and galvanized my motormouth into high
gear. “Let me tell you, my scalp was sore for almost a week.
But I didn’t complain. I just came to work and wrote the story.
I do what I have to for the paper. Anita has taught me that. But
she wouldn’t like it if I started doing sensationalized stories
that-“

“Anita ain’t here. I am. And do me a favor: can the longwinded sob stories. It’s not like I care” She picked up the ice
cream carton and scraped out the last vestiges with my ex-spoon.
“I want to make sure the word gets out to our advertisers that
things are changing. We might get in some new accounts from
people who’ve got a few bucks to spare. Like Danny’s Bait Shack
or the Frozen Flamingo. We need to beat the bushes and bring
in some decent dollars. You know what I mean?”

Sandy and I both stared mutely at her.

“You can’t simply beg them on the phone, Sandy. You need
to get up-front and in their face-bully ‘em.” She tossed the
empty box into the trash can-my ex-spoon followed. “Do
whatever it takes”

“Anita always felt that people on the island wouldn’t respond to a hard sell,” Sandy began in a quiet voice. “That’s not
the way things work here-“

“Really? I say, slap ‘em in the face and grab their wallets. That
sells advertising. I should know. I kept my charter biz going in
Fort Lauderdale with flyers, cheap advertising, and promotions with the girls from Scooters. I did it because it works”

Sandy’s mouth clamped into a mutinous line.

“Get on the phone, sweetie. Let’s make things happen” Bernice snapped her fingers several times in rapid succession.
“Now!”

Sandy picked up the phone, glaring at Bernice with eyes
that could shatter glass.

“Good. Now here’s your assignment, Miss Priss.” She handed
me a press release. “A new hiking trail opens on Little Coral
Island today. You need to get your butt out there. And I’m not
talking only interviews. I want you to hike the trail with the
guide, wade through the swampy waters, give a firsthand account
of meeting up face-to-face with an alligator. Action. Excitement.
Adventure. Let’s do it. Chop-chop”

I’ll give her a chop, all right, I thought to myself. A karate
chop. I had my yellow tip in Tae Kwon Do now and could give
her a hard jab right in the neck. I fantasized about doing it for
a few mad moments-nothing lethal, of course. Only enough
to disable her until Anita returned.

“The trail tour starts in thirty minutes.” Bernice tapped her
watch. “Time’s a-wasting.”

She strolled back into Anita’s cubicle, which passed for an
office, gold bracelets jangling.

Once she closed the door, Sandy buried her head in her
hands and moaned.

“Hang in there. We’ll find a way out of this. What we need is
a plan.” I sat there for a few moments, fingers drumming on
my desk. Come on, girl. You solved two murders. “Okay, here’s
what we’ll do. Get on the phone with Mr. Benton and see if
this `takeover’ is legal. I don’t see how Anita can ask Bernice
to take over the paper when she doesn’t have any journalistic
experience.”

Sandy raised her head. “You think?”

“Dunno. But Benton is a reasonable guy-maybe he’ll take pity on us. Then we’ll try to find out where Anita went on her
vacation, so we can tell her what Bernice plans to do. If Anita
learns that her sister is damaging the newspaper’s reputation,
she’ll get back here before you can say key lime pie.”

“Oh … tasty.” Her eyes brightened.

“That was metaphorical,” I cautioned. “I’m a lit major. And
we have `miles to go before we sleep,’ to quote Frost” I f we’re
lucky. Then again, we might not get any sleep while Bernice
lurked around the newspaper.

“My head is spinning.” Sandy raked a hand through her nutbrown hair. “Or maybe it’s my stomach churning. I had three
doughnuts this morning before I started on the chocolate ice
cream, and I’ve got a bag of M&M’s in my car.” She pinched
her upper legs, shaking her head in disgust. “I might as well just
apply them directly to my thighs.”

I took Sandy by the shoulders. “You’re not going off the
Ozone Diet. It took you too long to whittle down to this weight.
Remember you and Jimmy are getting married in the spring.
You’ve got to fit into that wedding dress. Be strong, sister, and
ditch the candy.”

“Okay.” She tried to paste a slight smile onto her face.
“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, deep trouble. But first things first-I’ve gotta cover
the story.” I grabbed my Official Reporter’s Notepad, shoved
it into my large canvas bag, and set out for the trail.

So much for the tropical heaven.

My battered old truck, Rusty, decided for once not to act
up. I made it to the trail on Little Coral Island in less than fifteen minutes-in time for the hike and introductions. Oh, boy.

Little Coral Island lay situated along the inner coast of the
bigger island, three miles long, with nothing but wetlands and
wildlife. Scrubland. Palmetto palms. Critters. And little else.

As I climbed out of my truck, I felt the late-June heat and
humidity envelop me with its morning greeting. It wasn’t the
kind of full-fledged embrace that squeezed the life out of you
at midday. But that was coming. And with my freckled skin
and supercurly red hair, I was the last one who needed to be
given that kind of loving attention.

As I approached a small group near the entrance to the trail,
I noticed that everyone wore hiking shorts and the everpresent Coral Island “Reeboks”-knee-length white fishing
boots. I looked down at my cheapie Keds. Uh-oh. Not much
protection there.

“Hi, glad you could join us” A young woman with shoulderlength auburn hair and thick, round glasses motioned me over.
She wore a sleeveless cotton top, hiking pants, baseball cap,
clip-on sunglasses, and the white boots. Obviously ready for
action.