Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (20 page)

“What’s happened?”

“I have to show you. Come into the back room” She led me
past the flowered-chintz sofa, the delicate armchairs, the carefully placed bronze ornaments, and the flowery artwork toward the back room. When we entered, I found myself taking
a step back in surprise. Unlike the carefully arranged front
room, this space was cluttered from top to bottom with fabric
and boxes of assorted sizes. In the middle stood an oak rolltop
desk.

“There” Isabel pointed at the desk.

I scanned the messy top. It looked like the rest of the room.
“Is there something amiss?” An understatement.

“I’ll say.” She gave an exclamation of impatience. “That’s
Gina’s desk. She was a neat freak. Not a single paper was ever
out of order.”

“It certainly doesn’t look very tidy now.” Order forms and
papers were strewn every which way.

“My point exactly-it was organized until today.” She hugged
her arms around herself in a protective stance. “Someone was in here between the time I left yesterday, at around five, and
this morning.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

She grimaced. “No, but a good wind could blow open that
back door. We kept meaning to get it fixed, but we just never
got around to it.”

“Was anything stolen, from what you could tell?”

“Uh … no. I did a quick inventory this morning, and everything appears to be here, including all of our pricey antiques,
expensive knickknacks, and artwork. Nothing’s missing. That’s
why I didn’t call the police. How could I tell Detective Billie
that someone came into the place and messed up Gina’s desk?
I’d sound like a fool.”

“Maybe not.” Especially with the latest information on
Gina’s death, I added to myself.

Isabel’s whole face crumpled into an expression of despair.
“Why did all of this happen?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I looked down at the
desk and debated what to do. Considering this was a potential
crime scene, Detective Billie would kill me if I got fingerprints anywhere on Gina’s desk. “Could you get me a pencil
with an eraser?”

“Sure. But … why?” She produced one.

“Reporter’s tool.” He’s still going to kill me. I shouldn’t be
doing this. I edged aside the papers with the eraser tip and
sorted through them, shoving the letters into one pile and the
green order forms into another. The letters were just short notes,
saying when a certain item would arrive or confirming a fabric
change. But the order forms listed every recent item Island
Decor had provided for its clients. I sifted through them as
best I could by date. “Did you usually have an order going out
every day?”

Isabel began to cry softly.

“I know this is hard for you, but I need you to try to hold it
together.”

She swiped the back of her hand across her face and sniffed.
“Uh … yeah, we usually had orders going out every day.”

“How were they delivered?”

“If they were big-ticket items, our handyman would deliver
them. Gina or I would drop off smaller pieces. Then, afterward, we’d stamp the invoice and file it.”

An idea began to germinate inside of me as I flicked my
trusty eraser head through the order forms again. There appeared to be a form for every day during the last two weeks- except the day Gina died.

“Was she delivering anything that morning of the trail hike?”

Isabel’s tear-filled eyes met and held mine. “I … I don’t
know. Maybe” She shook her head. “I just can’t remember
right now. My brain isn’t working on all cylinders.”

“I understand” I turned away from the desk with a resigned
shrug. Then I noticed a small laptop computer under a pile of
fabric. My breath quickened as I eased the slim orange MacBook from under the stack of tropical cottons and handed it to
her. “I don’t suppose you cross-filed your hard-copy orders on
this laptop?”

“No-sorry. We kept saying we were going to install a computer system for our inventory, but we never got around to itjust like fixing the back door. We always thought there would
be time.” She brushed her fingers across the neon surface of
the laptop. “This was Gina’s personal computer.”

Another dead end. “Still, there might be something on it that
we could use. If you could do a quick run-though of her files,
you might find something useful.”

“I guess so” Her voice sounded as hopeful as a sigh lost in
the wind. “I’ll give it a shot”

“You also need to call Detective Billiejust to play it safe” I set the pencil on the desk between the two paper stacks.
He’d know what I’d done. There was no point trying to hide it.
The man saw everything.

She nodded, clutching the laptop to her chest. “Do you think
someone took the invoice?”

“Maybe.”

Dawning recognition widened her still-teary eyes. “That
means the intruder might be a client of ours.”

We hugged for a few moments, and then I left. I climbed
into Rusty, leaned my head against the steering wheel, and
closed my eyes.

The phone calls, the cut-up picture, the missing invoice. It
all added up to one thing: the killer was getting worried-and
maybe ready to strike again.

Yikes.

y the time I had pulled into the Twin Palms RV Resort on
Mango Bay, I felt slightly more composed. Or maybe I was
just numb from the mixture of recent events and the stifling
heat in my truck. Even with the windows cracked and the airconditioning (such as it was) blasting valiantly, I was pretty
much drenched with sweat from the short, fifteen-minute ride.

But the sight of my gleaming silver Airstream put a smile
onto my face. There was something so reassuring about that
4,225-pound antique trailer. I could take anything as long as I
had my Airstream-and Kong, my teacup poodle. Oh, and my
mugatoni meditation.

I parked Rusty alongside the Airstream and climbed out,
ready for a blast of oldies rock from the tenement on wheels
next door.

Nothing just blessed quiet.

Goody.

As I came around the front of my Airstream toward the
awning, I spied an unbelievably welcome sight. My rough,
sun-faded picnic table had been covered with a white linen tablecloth. Two large candles held it down on either side, and
fresh hibiscus flowers were scattered around, lending a splash
of scarlet color. Paper plates and paper napkins completed the
elegant table setting.

“Hiya, babe!” Cole waved a pair of tongs in my direction.
He stood off in the sandy area, next to a barbecue. “How was
your day?”

“Weird.”

“I figured that. You take a shower, get comfortable, and let the
Cole-man take care of dinner. I’m grilling some fresh grouper
and veggies. Baked potatoes are in the microwave. Oh, and I
walked your minuscule mutt”

“Wahoo. But watch the `tiny’ dog talk-he’s got size issues,”
I joked, trying to cover my mixed emotions. Many a time
when we’d lived in Orlando, this very scene would play out
after I’d spent a hard day of trying to be a professional on one
of my many pre-Disney World jobs. Needless to say, I don’t
do “professional” well.

“You okay?” Cole asked. His blond hair glinted in the lateafternoon sunlight.

“Sure” This was all so familiar-too familiar. And comfortable-too comfortable. Cole had been gone a long time,
and I wasn’t sure exactly where he fit into my life right now.
“Gimme a few minutes.”

“Just a few. Your Great-Aunt Lily called, and she’s coming
over with somebody named Sam”

“Tonight?” In spite of my fatigue, I perked up. Maybe I
could get some answers out of her about the photo I had found
at Mama Maria’s house.

“She was very insistent.”

“It’s all right.” I pushed back my curls from my sweaty
forehead. “You’ve never met her, have you?”

He shook his head.

I smiled. “You’re in for a treat” Opening the door to my
Airstream, I was greeted by an apricot fluff ball cannoning toward me, barking rapidly as though he hadn’t seen me in a
year. “Good dog-even if you are a minimutt.”

He barked again.

I needed a shower. Then I could put the day into perspective
and ready myself to talk with Aunt Lily. The Cole thing would
have to wait. I couldn’t even begin to analyze how I felt about
having him here, maybe taking up where we’d left off in Orlando.

“Kong, why does everything have to be so complicated?”
Nuzzling his tiny black nose, I carried him into the bathroom.
I stripped down and enjoyed a long, long, cool shower, soaping and shampooing with extra relish. The heat just poured off
me and, with it, some of my fatigue.

Afterward, I fluffed my red curls, dressed in a fresh pink
T-shirt (with no advertising slogan), and white Capris. Not
exactly dinner garb but, for Coral Island, almost formal attire.

Now I could at least think straight.

First, a snack to tide me over. I opened the fridge, spied
some of the mango slices left over from the trail hike, and nibbled on them, leaving a small piece for later. Yum. Manna from
heaven.

Fortified, I reached into my canvas bag for the framed picture I’d swiped from Mama Maria’s, careful not to break the
glass. I studied it for a few moments, marveling at how much
the young Aunt Lily looked like me.

Genetics, I guess.

Then I focused on the other two people. The young girl had
to be Mama Maria-her features were unmistakable. But the
Latino man was a mystery. Her father? Slightly taller than
Aunt Lily, he stood proudly with his shoulders squared and
chin high. He had dark hair, a trim build, and classically hand some features. But it was his eyes that caught my attention.
They appeared soulful-and somehow sad.

Was he a friend of Aunt Lily’s? If so, why had she never
mentioned him?

A tap on my Airstream door startled me.

“Mallie? It’s me,” Aunt Lily called out as she swung open
the door.

My gaze shifted from the picture to my real-life aunt. It
took a few moments to adjust from the young image of her to
the older, somewhat timeworn version. Red hair threaded with
gray, freckles mixed with lines, slight sun damage covering
her body. Still, in spite of her age, a radiant vitality emanated
from her being. Aunt Lily would never “go gentle into that good
night,” as Dylan Thomas had pronounced. She’d fight every
step of the way.

“I wanted to see if you’d found out anything-” She broke
off as she saw the picture. A wistful expression crossed her
face. Then she turned to Sam, who stood behind her. “Would
you help Cole with the grilling? I need to talk to Mallie alone,
please.”

“Sure” I caught a brief glimpse of his squeezing her hand.
He knew. Whatever this photograph was about, Sam knew.

Aunt Lily closed the door. Slowly, she moved toward me,
not saying anything.

She picked up the picture, and a soft smile spread over her
face. I’d never seen her looking like that. A golden glow lit
her features-a glow of … love. “I haven’t seen this in a long
time.” She took it over to the sofa and slowly seated herself. “I
assume Maria gave it to you”

“Sort of.” Add theft to my misdemeanors. I sat next to her.
“I recognized you right away, of course. And the little girl is
Mama Maria, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then who’s the man?”

She ran her fingers over the frame. “Maria’s father-and
my … boyfriend.”

A wave of shock slapped me. “What?” For once, my motormouth stalled.

“I guess I need to explain.” She sat back, clutching the picture. “Your Great-Uncle Rich-my husband-died during the
last year of the war, somewhere in Germany. I was heartbroken. He’d been my childhood sweetheart, my friend, my
companion for over ten years. Then he was dead at twenty-six.
And I was left alone with a failing citrus grove and no money.
That’s when I met Alberto Espinosa. He managed several of
the mango groves on the island. He was the one who persuaded
me to convert my grove from citrus to mangos. It didn’t take
long for me to be in the black again-or to fall in love with
Alberto.”

“But I always thought you were like … uh … the grieving
widow all these years.”