Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (9 page)

“At least it used to be,” I quipped, trying not to step too close to the offensive source of the fishy smell. “Did you find out
anything yet on Anita’s whereabouts?”

“Nope. And now Mr. Benton seems to have gone AWOL
too. His secretary called back and said he took a sudden outof-town trip.”

“Benton?” I frowned. “He never leaves town. He’s worse
than Anita about taking vacations-too cheap for even a bus
trip”

“I know. Just when we need him, he takes off too”

“Keep trying Anita’s voice mail-at home and on her cell
phone. She’s got to check her messages sometime.”

“Do you think if I just left a scream on both, it would sound
too desperate?”

Inhaling the fish bait again, I staggered slightly. “Go for it.”

Sandy started to punch in Anita’s number, then paused.
“What did you find out about Gina?”

“Nothing concrete.” True enough. Everyone I’d talked to
today had given me only speculations as to the cause of Gina’s
death. I mentally reviewed the list. Aunt Lily thought Brandi
did Gina in for the Mango Queen title. Gina’s partner, Isabel,
agreed. Gina’s brother, Rivas, however, thought Brett’s parents
had gotten rid of her so their precious son could find a more
suitable bride. All were plausible.

“Poor Gina,” Sandy commented.

“I did learn a couple of things: I had no idea the Mango
Queen thing was such a big deal or that Coral Island has its own
snobby social scene” I plopped my canvas bag onto my desk.

“A lot of people didn’t like that Gina was elected Mango
Queen,” Sandy concurred. “You haven’t been here all that
long, but I grew up on this island, and I’m telling you, there’s
a class pyramid here just like everywhere else. At the top are
the wealthy people at Sea Belle Isle Point; then you’ve got the middle class like Jimmy and me; then the fishermen who barely
eke out a living; and at the bottom are the migrant workers.
Gina’s family raised their position a little when Mama Maria
opened the restaurant, but everyone remembers that Gina’s
grandfather picked mangos for a living.”

“I can’t believe that would matter in this day and age-“

“To a snooty family from Sea Belle Isle Point?” she asked,
her eyebrows rising. “You’d better believe it matters”

“What matters?” Butthead Bernice appeared in the doorway to “her” office.

“Nothing,” I muttered as I switched on my computer. “Turns
out my lead didn’t know anything about Gina’s `secret life.’”

“You wasted a whole afternoon and got nothing?” She
placed both chubby hands on her hips.

I swiveled my crooked wooden chair around and faced her
with a bland expression. “Sometimes journalism is like that. You
track down leads that go nowhere. Anita would understand.”

“My sister is an idiot. I intend to get the lowdown on Gina.
In the meantime .. ” She reached into her office for something. “I know how to turn a buck. In fact, I just landed another
advertiser myself. Here” She handed me a white T-shirt.

“I refuse to promote the Bait Shack.”

“You don’t have to” A grin overtook her features. “I said I
just landed another advertiser.”

I held up the shirt. Blazoned across the front were the words
Feast with Me at the Frozen Flamingo. A large pink flamingo
curved around the slogan, holding an ice cream cone in one of
its claws.

My heart sank.

didn’t have the energy to argue with her. I just grabbed the
offensive T-shirt and made a quick exit, mumbling something
about working on my story at home. Of course, I had no intention of doing that, but I had to get out of that office before
I said something really dumb, like “I quit.”

I couldn’t leave-not now.

I’d been at the paper for over a year. My longest record for
holding down a job had been my eighteen-month undistinguished tenure at Disney World, where I sold Epcot passes, sang
“It’s a Small World” until my throat ached, and swept up
cigarette butts after the nightly fireworks display. If I could
stand that kind of labor, I could stand anything. Besides, I had
Kong, my teacup poodle, to consider. He couldn’t take another
move.

Bernice would not defeat me. If she wanted me to be a walking billboard, so be it. There were worse things in life: like being
broke and unemployed.

Absolutely not an option.

With renewed determination, I drove toward Mango Bay, my air conditioner turned off and my truck windows open,
letting the hot air blow the panicked thoughts out of my brain
like loose sand in a summer breeze. It didn’t matter that Rusty
was only a few degrees cooler than a sauna without the air conditioner chugging its meager puffs. I needed the calming whiff
of humidity.

As I pulled into my spot at the Twin Palms RV Resort, I
heaved a sigh of relief. My gleaming silver Airstream with its
blue and white striped awning seemed invincible, all 4,225
pounds rooted in its familiar location under a palm tree and
within sight of the small beach. Coral Island ran north/south,
tucked inside a string of ritzy barrier islands, so it didn’t boast
the kind of beach that one normally expects in Florida. This
was only a dollop of gray sand, with a few sea oats or shells,
but I loved it just the same.

Most days it felt like nirvana.

All of a sudden, I remembered my sunburned face, and I
touched my hands to my cheeks. They still felt warm. I could
almost hear the popping of new freckles beneath my fingers.

I reached for the aloe bottle and ducked under the shade
of my awning while I applied another layer. I slapped some on
my raw feet, too, just to play it safe.

While doing so, I noticed an RV had parked in the space next
to mine, although calling it an RV was like calling Rusty a
Cadillac. It appeared more like a tattered tenement on wheels.
Dirty yellow, with the snub-nosed front popular twenty years
ago, it stood like a crumpled beacon of used-up aluminum.

Not that my Airstream was new by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d meticulously restored it and kept the silver
hull buffed and shiny. My Airstream was historic; this RV was
a hunk of junk.

Someone opened a window, and loud, sixties “geezer rock”
emanated from within the yellow horror. Oh, no. Aging hip pies. I’d had their kind parked next to me before at the Twin
Palms, and it was a nightmare. All day and night they’d crank
up old Bob Dylan and Rolling Stones songs, singing along
with them, strolling around in love beads, tie-dyed T-shirts,
and bell-bottoms. I shuddered to think what I was going to be
subjected to over the next few days.

First thing in the morning, I’d talk to Wanda Sue, the owner of the Twin Palms RV Resort, about moving them. And I’d
enlist the aid of Pop Pop Welch, the park’s ancient, semimummified handyman, to keep an eye peeled for any infraction
of the rules that might encourage them to move south toward
the Keys.

“Could you keep the music down?” I called out.

Laughter emanated from the ramshackle RV, and the music
volume spiked up a couple of notches. Here we go with the
Sixties Hit Parade.

I wrenched open the door to my RV, and Kong leaped into
my arms.

“How’s my buddy?” I buried my face in his soft apricot fur
while he licked my ear. Ah, the unconditional love of a teacup
poodle. That was something-especially when the current men
in my life either blew hot and cold (Nick) or traveled to and
fro (Cole). Don’t think about that now. I sighed and reached
for Kong’s leash, then fastened it to his collar. “Come on, let’s
hit the beach”

At the dreaded word beach, Kong tucked his head under
my arm. Even after a year, he still recoiled from the water. I’d
tried coaxing him with treats, playing soothing New Age music, even consulting the doggy psychologist in Orlando who’d
suggested I name him King Kong in the first place to compensate for his inferiority complex caused by his diminutive size.
She proposed that I deal with his “water issues” by showing
him movies of beach scenes where people were having fun. So for two months I’d rented corny movies like Beach Blanket
Bingo and made him watch them. That still didn’t help. And I
got so sick of seeing Annette and Bobby in one smarmy love
scene after another, I could’ve screamed.

So now we’d resorted to doing his business under an areca
palm, followed by a brief stroll down to the surf. As I splashed
in the waves to rinse my poor, dried-out feet, he kept a discreet distance, skittering away from even the tiniest drop of
salt water.

After I filled him in on my day, we retreated to the Airstream,
windows rammed shut, air-conditioning blasting in vain hopes
of shutting out the aging hipsters’ music.

I fed Kong his special gourmet organic doggy food and
tossed a TV dinner into the microwave for me, too weary to
do anything more ambitious. Actually, I never cooked even
when I did have the energy. Fast and frozen food were my
way of life.

The phone’s melodious ring interrupted my activities. Ah,
music to my ears. With my newfound financial stability, I’d
traded up from my cheapie “deluxe” phone with a ring so shrill
that Kong’s fur would stand up, to a purring cordless with an
answering machine.

Still, I picked up the receiver cautiously. This was usually
the time my mother called with yet another update on my successful sister and equally successful brother. I wasn’t in the
mood. I’d found a body this morning and was staring into the
possibility of having another murder on my hands. I needed to
regroup, not regress.

“Hiya, kiddo,” a familiar raspy voice greeted me.

“Anita? Is that you?”

“No, it’s the First Lady,” she chortled. “The White House is
holding a reception for you”

My jaw clenched. “Where are you?”

“I’m on va-cay-tion.” She enunciated each syllable with noticeable sarcasm. “Didn’t Sandy tell you?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.” I paused, holding on to my
patience. I needed her to come back-soon. “And … so did
your sister, Bernice.”

“She’s been in already? Good”

“What!” I exclaimed, letting my irritation out. “She doesn’t
have any journalism experience, she doesn’t know the first
thing about editing, and she’s obsessed with bringing in these
tacky advertisers.” I took in a deep breath. “For Pete’s sake,
Bernice runs a charter fishing business. I don’t think she’s even
read a newspaper. She probably uses them to wrap up fish for
her customers like some crummy little fish-and-chips joint. I
can’t imagine what possessed you to have her step in while
you’re gone. Sandy and I are at our wit’s end, and it’s only the
first day, and-“

Another cackle emanated from the other end of the phone.
“I see Bernice hasn’t found a way to stop your motormouth”

“This isn’t funny, Anita. We’ve worked hard to maintain the
integrity of our paper. It might be only an island weekly, but
we publish good stories, and people respect what we do. A
week of Bernice could seriously damage our reputation-“

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, kiddo. Bernice may have
some good ideas… “

“Like having Sandy and me wear T-shirts for anyone who
buys advertising?” I gave an exclamation of disbelief. “How
is that going to improve our paper?”

“That Bernice. She always did know how to make a buck”

“Anita! I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough” I
glanced at Kong for reassurance; he was licking a paw. I decided
to take another tack with my MIA boss. “Is this something they’d do at the Detroit Free Press? What would your colleagues think of you if they knew what was going on at our
paper?”

“Hah! Most of them have traded in their ideals for stock
options and retirement plans.”

Okay. That one wasn’t going to work. Time to bring out the
big guns. “I didn’t want to tell you this and ruin your vacation
or anything, but it looks as if we might have another murder
on the island.”

“What? Who?” Her voice grew more interested.

“Gina Fernandez, the Mango Queen” I filled her in on the
details in a motormouth minute waltz.