Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (13 page)

I left the restroom and returned to the table. As I approached, George said, “M … Mallie, we decided that
we’re like that group of writers who called themselves
the `Round Table’ at the Alg … gon-“

“Algonquin,” Burt cut in.

“The writers who met in New York City during the
thirties?” I asked.

“Yep.” George beamed. “We’re like them”

I scanned the table, imagining Betty as Dorothy
Parker-she certainly shared Parker’s affinity for booze,
if not the same razor-sharp wit. But who would that
make Burt? Chrissy? I couldn’t remember who the other
writers were at the Algonquin, but none of them struck
me as clones of our Coral Island group.

“How long are you going to continue to meet?” I
seated myself across from George.

“I’m not sure,” Betty chimed in. “We have to stay on
the island till we’re cleared as suspects-detective’s orders,” Betty supplied.

“He indicated that it probably wouldn’t take all that
long,” Burt added, “since we all have alibis.”

“You never know.” George was gazing at Chrissy with
the same adoration Kong lavished on me when he received one of his gourmet doggie treats.

“True” I sipped my water, keeping a few chips of ice to chew on. It was a bad habit and the reason why I had
six crowns on my molars, but I loved the sensation of
crunching on hard, frozen water. “Burt, I noticed you
didn’t tape today’s critique session. Don’t you usually
tape them?”

“Uh … no. Well … yes, I did tape them when Jack
was presiding. But now that it’s just us, I decided to dispense with the recorder.”

Betty said nothing.

“Sometimes I’d forget Jack’s exact comments. The
tape recorder helped because I could play it back later
and listen to his suggestions a couple more times.”
Burt avoided my eyes. He was hiding something. I
could feel it.

“Really?” I couldn’t resist lowering my brows in disapproval. “I’d walk through a patch of prickly pear cactus barefoot before I’ll listen to the tape of Hillman
trashing my writing. Even if it helped my articles. I
think there are nicer ways to make a person a better
writer.”

No one responded.

“I think it’s time to hear my new works.” Chrissy
opened the poetry portfolio from her blog. “This is one
of my “Inspiration through Nature” poems.” She cleared
her throat and began in a singsong voice,

Through all life’s little ups and downs

Especially when you’re going through chemo,

Remember that vitamins and minerals abound

And they’ll soon have you feeling so primo.

Huh? There were a few more stanzas, but I think I
blocked them out. Keats she was not.

“What do you think?” she asked the group when she
finished. “The poems each target a certain disease and
how natural cures can help. That one was for people
who’ve contracted cancer. I’ve also got ones for diabetes, stroke, ulcers, and heart attacks.”

“Wonderful!” George enthused.

“Charming.” Burt clapped.

“Lovely,” Betty added.

Gag me. I had to make a quick exit before she started
reading inappropriately upbeat verse for stroke victims.
“I’ve gotta go … sorry” I stood up and grabbed my
canvas bag. “Thanks for the critique.”

“When’s your story going to be in the paper?” Burt
asked.

“The edition comes out on Tuesday.”

“What about your next one?” George asked.

“I’ll start on it this week-“

“Don’t forget to bring it by for critiquing,” Chrissy
reminded me.

“I won’t.” I pivoted and moved away from the table.

“Oh, Mallie, I forgot to tell you,” Burt brought me up
short. “While you were in the restroom, some guy
named Sam stopped by. He said he had some information for you.”

I turned around. “Did he say what?”

“Nope,” Burt said. “Said he’d get it to you later.”

“Oh” Darn. Another lead shot down. “Thanks anyway.”

As I moved toward the lobby, I caught snatches of
Chrissy’s poem:

Not to worry if you can’t get around,

With a little enzyme therapy,

You’ll be feeling safe and sound.

Ohmygosh.

When I reached Rusty, I spied a note clipped to the only working windshield wiper.

Slowly, I unfolded the sheet.

Talk to Nora Cresswell at the Seafood Shanty.

Sam. Thank goodness. He’d taken the time to write
out his message for me. I had a new lead after all.

I drove to the police station first. I still had to drop off
the transcript of my statement. When I walked in, the
receptionist told me Detective Billie would be back in a
few minutes, but I said I couldn’t wait. I wanted to get
on the road to the Seafood Shanty as quickly as possible so I could mull over the morning’s revelations about
Hillman.

“But Nick said he wanted to talk to you,” she protested.

“I’ll stop by later. See ya”

I exited before she could say anything else and
quickly drove off.

As Rusty lurched along, I realized that Anita had been
right when she told me to “follow the money” If Hillman
had writer’s block for several years, he was probably
financially strapped-a situation not unknown to me.

That explained the Writers’ Institute. He recruited aspiring authors of varying talents (or lack thereof) and
relieved them of their savings on the promise he could
get them published. It was a quick way to earn some
cash. And maybe only the tip of the iceberg. Who knows
what else he was up to?

Illegal drugs? That was usually the answer for
someone living on a Florida island who appeared to be
making money without any gainful employment. And
Anita had told me when I first arrived on Coral Island
that the Observer had run a lot of local drug-trafficking
stories the previous year. Nothing with Hillman that I
could remember, but that might only mean he hadn’t
been caught-yet. It was a fast way to earn big amounts
of money-and sometimes a quick trip to that giant
Airstream in the sky. At least that was my vision of
heaven. A brand-new, fully loaded, gleaming silver
Airstream with wings.

A car horn blared behind me. I was jolted out of my
reverie and noticed Rusty was barely tipping thirty-five
miles per hour. I rammed down the pedal, knowing my
truck’s maximum speed barely topped fifty.

I’d never been to the Seafood Shanty before. Located
on the road that led off the island, it was a hangout for
local fishermen and bikers-kind of a seedy place. The
owner had painted FAMILY RESTAURANT boldly across one side of the building, but I don’t think it fooled anyone. The motorcycles parked in front told the real story.

As I approached the place, I noted it looked run down. A long, low building with a sagging roof, it
boasted a ramshackle front porch, torn screens, and peeling paint. At least Rusty would look right at home parked
in front of the place.

I made for the front porch, carefully stepping around
the holes in the floorboards. As I entered, I realized the
inside was just as run down as the outside-same peeling paint and uneven floor. Assorted fishing nets were
strung across the ceiling-presumably for decorationand a large anchor hung on the wall behind the bar.

About half a dozen men were seated at the bar, and
two biker couples occupied a table toward the back of
the room. Otherwise, the place was quiet. Except for
the country western music that played in the background. Not being a fan of that kind of music, I
couldn’t tell who was singing-except that it was a
man with a twangy voice. That probably narrowed the
field to under a hundred.

Several large paddle fans whirled overhead, which
was a good thing. The Seafood Shanty wasn’t airconditioned, and I was already feeling the heat. I dreaded
to think what the kitchen looked or smelled like.

I sat down at a small table toward the side of the
building where dirty screens offered the possibility of a
breeze.

After a few moments, a young woman in shorts and a
tank top approached. She had dyed blond hair swept up
in a messy ponytail. The color had grown out, and dark
brown roots showed near the scalp. Her face, though unlined, already had that haggard look of someone who
worked long hours for little pay. And the flat look in her
eyes said she knew her life wasn’t going to get better
any time soon.

“What can I do ya for?” She slid a pencil out from
behind her ear and held it poised above her order pad.

“Does Nora Cresswell work here?”

“Yeah”

“Is she here today?”

“Yeah”

“Could I speak with her?” I persisted.

She fastened a hard look in my direction. “You’re
talking to her. What do you want?”

“Just a few minutes of your time.”

“No, I meant what do you want to drink?”

“Uh … iced tea?”

She exhaled impatiently. “Look, honey, this is a bar
and we serve booze here. What do want?”

“A beer?” I inquired. “I’m not sure what brand-“

“You got it.” Scribbling a few words on her order
pad, she turned away.

“Could I talk to you?”

She was already gone. Damn. It might be difficult to
get Nora to open up to a total stranger. But I didn’t have
a motor mouth for nothing.

By the time she returned with my beer, I was ready.

“Thanks so much. It’s incredibly hot today, isn’t it? I
couldn’t believe the heat and humidity when I left Mango
Bay-a cloudy morning and it was already hitting around eighty-five degrees. And it wasn’t even ten o’clock. I can
only imagine what it’s going to be like this summer. Just
hot, hot, and more hot.”

“Hot,” she echoed in a bored tone.

I reached into my canvas bag and rooted around until
I found a pack of gum. “Care for spearmint? It’s cooling.” I held out a piece.

“I don’t mind if I do. Thanks.” She popped it in her
mouth and began to chew.

“Have you lived here long, Nora?” I summoned what
I hoped appeared to be an inviting smile.

“Long enough” She placed one hand on her hip, still
bored.

“I guess you know just about everybody on the island
then.”

“Pretty near.”

“What about Jack Hillman? Did you know him?”

She stopped chewing, her interest sparking. “What’s
this all about?” her voice hardened.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you straight. I’m Mallie Monroe
and I work for the Observer. I’ve started writing a series
of articles about Hillman’s murder-“

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“I heard that you … uh … knew him.”

“He came in here and had a couple drinks every so
often. We were friends. That’s all.”

“Did he ever talk to you?”

“Sure. He had to give me his orders.” She started chewing her gum again with rapid, jerking motions of
her jaw.

“Did he mention that he had any enemies?”

“No” Her features shuttered down.

“I don’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to know-“

“If he and I had an affair? Go ahead-say it. Everyone on the island thinks it, but they’re wrong. I never
cheated on my husband. Never.” She thumped the table
with her hand.

The bikers glanced in our direction.

“Nora, take it easy. I believe you.”

“Really?” Surprise laced through her voice.

“Yeah … I do”

“Well … you’re probably the only person who
does”

“I know what it feels like to be gossiped about. Not
on Coral Island, but in the Midwest where I was raised.
My family just couldn’t comprehend why I didn’t want
to settle into a career, get married, and have kids-all in
that order. They whispered behind my back at timesjust because they didn’t understand me” I paused,
crossing my fingers at the lie. A lot of it was true. “I’m
not asking you about Hillman just because I’m writing
the story. I was the one who found his body-“

“Oh, no. How awful for you.” She slumped into the
chair next to me and dropped her head in her hands. “I
just can’t believe he’s dead … it’s so horrible. To think
that someone could’ve killed him like that.”

“I know.” Memories of the body came surging up in
my mind like water spewing up from an underground
well. Dark, deep, and hidden. I could see him dead at
his desk as though he were in front of me right nowhead flung back, blood stains on his shirt. Don’t think
about it.

“Most people thought Jack was a real jerkface …
even my own husband, Pete.”

“Did he, too, suspect you and Hillman had an affair?” I asked gently.

She turned her face up, her eyes tear-stained. “Yeah.
But it wasn’t true, I swear it. Pete was in jail, and I was
lonely … All Jack and I did was go out a few times and
talk. Nothing more.”

“And the next thing you know is you’re being
branded a scarlet woman?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing” Nix the Hawthorne reference.

“When Pete got out of jail, some of his so-called
buddies couldn’t wait to tell him that I’d been carrying
on with Jack. Pete was furious. He’s always been such a
sweet guy, but when he heard about me and Jack, he
went berserk. Swore he’d get back at Jack if it was the
last thing he’d do”