Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (3 page)

“I’m Mallie Monroe from the Observer.” I held up my notepad. “I’m here to take notes and talk to you as we go down
the trail.”

A broad grin of uneven teeth answered me, as the woman
pumped my hand in a vigorous shake. “Angela Stillwellchief guide for the Coral Island Parks and Recreation Service. So happy to meet ya,” she drawled. “Your editor, Bernice,
called me this morning to let me know you’d be coming
along today. You’re gonna love it.” She gave my hand one
more pump.

“Thanks.” I flexed my fingers.

“Well … to begin with, Little Coral Island is part of what
we call in the South a ‘preserve.”’ She stressed the first syllable.
“It has near to five thousand acres of unique wetlands that have
been restored to their natural, native glory.” Angela gestured
with a wide arc of her arm across the expanse of tropical vegetation with an air of dramatic emphasis. “We’ve created this trail so islanders and tourists could hike, rest a spell, and just
take in nature”

I jotted down these comments, amazed that anyone could
get so excited about some scrubby-looking flora and fauna.

Angela turned back to the small gathering of hikers. “Would
y’ all like to introduce yourselves to Mallie?”

“Hi, I’m Mae Hamilton, and this cute thing is my husband,
George,” a gray-haired woman drawled as she pointed at the
tall, wizened guy next to her. “We’re here for bird sightings.”

Dressed similarly to Angela, the birder duo had further accessorized themselves with sun-protective hats that looked like
something out of the French foreign legion, hiking shorts, and
binoculars dangling from thin leather straps around their necks.

“And I’m Charley.” He waved a wrinkled, age-spotted hand
and then held up a cane. “It’s a hiking stick-I don’t really
need any help to walk.” Uh-huh. He, too, wore binoculars.

“Are you also a birder?” I inquired.

“Yup.” He thumped his chest in pride. Unfortunately, he
must’ve used too much force, because the blow caused a coughing fit that almost doubled him over. Angela slapped him on the
back a couple of times, and he straightened again.

“Now that we’re near to kin to one another, let’s kick up
some sand and get moving.” Our intrepid Dixie Chick trail
guide handed each of us a small green brochure. “As you can
read, the trail is almost three miles-“

“What?” Now it was my turn almost to double over, but in
shock. Sure, I’ve been doing Tae Kwon Do a couple of nights
a week, but a three-mile walk in Keds? No way. That was close
to inhumane treatment. And in late June, with the heat and insects? Downright torture.

“You’ll be fine. Just give yourself a good dousing with bug
spray.” Angela dismissed my concerns and pointed at her
brochure. “Listen up, everyone! As we’re hiking, follow along with the pictures and the explanations. They explain some of
the wonderful sights we’ll be seeing.”

My three elderly companions all nodded in happy anticipation.

“I didn’t bring any insect repellent,” I protested.

“Here you go, my dear.” Charley passed me his can of Bug
Off!, and I layered it onto my arms and legs. The pungent
smell of pine and tar assailed my senses.

“Whew. This stuff is strong,” I mumbled, trying to hold my
breath. I looked down at my attire in cautious hesitation. Since
I’d had no idea I’d be on a sweltering, bug-infested trail walk
when I dressed that morning, I had worn my standard uniform
of denim shorts and T-shirt. My pale, freckled legs would be
exposed to sun and bugs. I cursed Bernice under my breath.

“Mosquitoes come up like a bad cloud this time of year on
the island,” Angela added in a chipper voice. “But they have to
live like every other creature, and I reckon we should respect
them.”

“As long as they’re not sucking every drop of blood out of
us,” I quipped. Charley blinked. Mae and George shook their
heads. Angela snorted. I sighed and accepted my fate.

As added protection, I gave myself one last douse of spray.

“I think you might need this too” Mae passed me a bottle
of SPF 15 sunblock. It wasn’t high enough, but I slathered it
all over my freckled face anyway in the vain hope of not getting sunstroke. I knew I probably looked like a kid pretending
to be a ghost at Halloween, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
My skin fried under a forty-watt lightbulb.

“Once again, let me welcome y’ all to Little Coral Island,”
Angela began. “This is a coastal wetlands area with a salt
marsh and mangroves-“

Just then a large black Mercedes drove up, and two young
women alighted, talking and giggling.

“Thanks, Dad.” A leggy blond leaned into the driver’s side
window and placed a peck on the man’s cheek.

He gave her a brief smile and an arm pat. “Have fun, girls,”
he said. “Don’t forget to call on your cell phone so I know when
to pick you up”

“Will do.” The blond tucked her hair behind her ears and
sauntered over with her friend. Daddy drove off, tires grinding on the shell road.

“Are we too late for the tour?” her friend asked. She was
striking, too, but in a different way. Raven-wing hair, brown
eyes, and honey-colored skin. And lots of curves. Both girls
wore T-shirts, cotton Capris, and high-heeled leather boots.
Island hotties, for sure.

“Nope” Angela motioned them forward. “We were just fixin’
to start out” She insisted that we introduce ourselves again, and
I found out the blond’s name-Brandi, with an i, not y.

“Don’t you know who this is?” Brandi the Blond gestured
in the direction of her friend.

“No, should we?” Mae adjusted her bifocals.

“This is Gina Fernandez-Coral Island’s own Mango Queen
this year.” She made the pronouncement as though she were
introducing the queen of England. I looked around, half expecting to hear a trumpet fanfare. But I heard only a squawking bird
overhead.

Gina treated everyone to one of those model-perfect, beaming-headlight smiles, with teeth so white, it hurt to look at
them. “Hiking the Little Coral Island trail is one of my first
official duties as Mango Queen. It’s a pleasure to be here”

A queen of mangos?

Our little group was suitably impressed, especially me. I’d
never met a Mango Queen before, and an interview with Gina
might give my trail story a more interesting slant. “Could I get
some quotes from you after the hike? I work for the Observer.”

“Sure, I’d be happy to.” Gina donned a wide-brimmed
straw hat with a printed peachy scarf around the brim. “Everyone on the island will want to know what the Mango Queen
is doing.”

“Oh, yes,” Brandi gushed.

“And, of course, the comings and goings of the Mango
Queen runner-up” Gina slipped an arm around Brandi’s shoulders. Her friend submitted to the hug, but for a moment I
thought I saw a glint of envy in Brandi’s eyes.

“Is this some kind of island pageant?” I asked.

“Whaaaat?” The girls both turned toward me, arms akimbo.
“You don’t know?” they asked in unison.

“Guess not” I spread my hands in helpless appeal.

Gina clucked her tongue. “Every year Coral Island has a
Mango Festival, and an island girl is elected queen to preside
over the festival and any island events.” She raised her delicate chin. “It’s a great honor.”

“You betcha,” Charley chimed in.

I could see an angle for my trail story taking shape. “Could
I ask you-“

“Time for interviews later.” Angela clapped her hands to
get everyone’s attention.

“All right,” I grumbled.

We all trooped, single file, behind Angela as she led us
through a narrow opening in the six-foot-high chain-link fence
located at the entrance to the trail. Mosquitoes swarmed around
my ankles, but the bug spray seemed to be doing its job-for
now. I prayed the sunblock would keep my face from turning
into a broiled lobster.

Angela motioned to the right and then left, talking all the
while. “Little Coral Island is the home for many types of
wildlife-birds, rabbits, wild hogs, snakes-“

“Will we be seeing any of those creatures today?” I cut in, panicked. I don’t like snakes or, for that matter, hogs or birds.
I could barely tolerate rabbits. Nature Girl I was not.

“Only the birds,” Angela said. “The other animals skitter
out at night. But we’ll be able to look at their scat.”

“Their what?” Gina asked.

“Dung.” Angela pointed at a dried brown lump off to one
side of the trail.

Oh, goody. I was going to spend my morning looking at
animal dung. I’d reached a new high in journalism. Maybe I
should take pictures and have them blown up, poster-size, for
Bernice.

Gina and Brandi giggled. They pulled out their cell phones
and took a few pictures.

Angela leveled a severe glance in their direction. “Y’all
notice we’re finishing up the wetlands restoration ‘round here.
In the past, digging these of drainage ditches controlled the
mosquitoes, but, unfortunately, it also caused the spread of
melaleuca and Australian pines-“

Mae’s hand shot up like a torpedo. “What’s wrong with
those trees?”

“They kill off the native vegetation.”

“Oh, dear.” Mae shuddered.

“Unlike this beautiful tree . . ” Angela patted a large trunk
shaded by a canopy of leafy branches. It stood guard at the
beginning of the trail. “That’s Old Blacky-he’s a grand black
mangrove. Been there almost a hundred years, from what we
can tell. He shelters palm warblers and other songbirds in the
winter.”

Everyone appeared suitably awed. I personally thought Old
Blacky looked a bit like Old Decrepity but kept the thought to
myself.

“Let’s hit it.” Angela marched off down the trail, and, gamely, we followed. Charley clutched his can of Bug Off!;
Mae and her husband, George, clutched their binoculars; Brandi
and Gina clutched their cell phones; and I clutched my notepad.

Within the next ten minutes, though, I knew I was in trouble.
As we moved deeper into the wetlands, the ground became
increasingly mushy. My Keds sank with each step, the mud
almost to my ankles, as the sun beat down with unremitting
heat. I cursed Bernice once more under my breath.

After half an hour, we finally stopped near an outgrowth of
long grass. Everyone was panting but Angela (of course) and
Charley (amazing), who had taken the lead of our motley crew
with his “hiking stick.”

“That’s needlerush.” Angela pointed at a plant with long,
stiff leaves.

I reached down to touch it. “Ouch” Instantly, I jerked back
my hand.

Angela treated me to the severe glance this time. “Don’t
touch anything on the trail unless I instruct you to. Needlerush
is as sharp as a knife.”

“Now you tell me” I grabbed a Kleenex out of my canvas
bag and wiped the blood off my hand. That damn needlerush
had sliced a thin cut along my palm-and it hurt like all getout. I gritted my teeth. Not a good sign. This was going to be
the hike from hell.

As we soldiered on, I wasn’t disappointed in my prophetic
abilities. Angela stopped at every bush and plant for an exhaustive diatribe, including the names in both Latin and English. She even produced books out of her backpack to read us
further Very Important Data to raise our awareness, adding
her own genteel environmental southernisms.

Another thirty minutes or so later, I was ready to take a
bulldozer to the entire trail. I was sweaty, tired, and set to pack it in. My feet had turned into salty, soggy lumps, my hand
appeared inflamed from the close encounter with needlerush,
and my skin felt as if it were sizzling in a frying pan.

Oddly, my companions seemed unfazed as they occupied
themselves with other interests. The birders attempted to spot
eagles, ospreys, or anything that had two wings and a beak. And
the beauty queens produced a travel cosmetic kit and spent
most of the hike debating the merits of powder eye shadow
over cream eye shadow.

I would’ve zoned out myself, contemplating my upcoming
reunion with Cole, if I hadn’t had to take notes for my story.

At the halfway point, we edged around a buttonwood pond
and took a break to bird-watch. I almost broke into a round of
hallelujahs. Since I couldn’t tell an ibis from a turkey vulture
and, what’s more, didn’t care, I found myself huddling under
the shade of a cabbage palm with Brandi the Blond and Gina
the Mango Queen.

To my dismay, they switched subjects to exfoliators and
skin serums, neither of which I used. For a few mad moments,
I contemplated rejoining the birders.

But then Gina pulled out some trail mix and a plastic bag
filled with fruit, and my interest perked up. I’d missed my
Krispy Kreme run that morning and was starving, although I
would’ve preferred my typical sugar-filled fare to this so-called
healthy stuff. Still, hiking-trail beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Gina shared a handful of the trail mix and offered me some
of the fruit.

“Oranges?” I reached into the Baggie.

“Mangos-sliced fresh this morning from the grove”

Instantly, I pulled back. Being a fast-food, frozen food, or
canned food kind of girl, I didn’t care for anything just off the
tree-and mangos were last on my list of preferred fruit, right
below the watermelon. Too watery and bland.

“Try it. I promise you’ll like it,” Gina prompted.

Doubtfully, I helped myself to the smallest slice of the
peachy-colored, slimy-looking fruit.

“You can’t live on Coral Island and not eat mangos,” Brandi
said as she downed a large piece. “It’s like … against the law
or something.”

“It should be.” Gina savored a piece as if it were the finest
delicacy. “You know, the mango originated in India. Its cultivation goes back four thousand years. The tree is practically
worshipped there, and-“

“Like we care,” Brandi teased, but I noted an edge to her
voice. “You’ve already made Mango Queen, girlfriend. No
need to keep on campaigning.”

“I’m not” Gina pursed her mouth. “I happen to think it’s a
cool fact that Mallie might want to use in her news story.”