Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (20 page)

I’ll call 911,” I finally said.

“No,” Burt and Betty exclaimed simultaneously. “We
can’t be caught here. We crossed the yellow tape.”

“But Burt could be having a heart attack” I looked him over. His face, always florid, had heated up to a
color close to the shade of my hair.

“Nope, I’m okay,” he wheezed. “Just get me into a
chair and I’ll catch my breath”

“Are you sure?” I looked from him to Betty and back
again. They both nodded. “All right.” I took one of his
arms and Betty the other, and we somehow managed to
hoist him to his feet. Then we steered him over to a
leather chair by the window and he sank down into it.
“Whew.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. Burt wasn’t
exactly dead weight, but close to it.

“Thanks,” he said as he leaned his head back and
closed his eyes. “I get breathless if I’m overly excited.”

Betty rooted in her purse. “Here’s your nitroglycerin
tablets” She handed him a pill.

He placed it under his tongue leaned his head back
again.

“Okay, what’s going on?” I demanded.

“Well … it’s sort of a long story.” She began to wring
her hands.

“I’m all ears.” I sat down in another chair, avoiding
looking at the desk area where I found Hillman’s body.

“It all started four years ago when we attended a writer’s conference in Albuquerque. We were in one of
Jack’s workshops where we had to bring a short story to
be critiqued. He praised our fiction a lot and even gave
us some editing suggestions. But afterward, he said he
couldn’t find the story.”

“And do you believe it was our only copy?” Burt
murmured. He still had his head back, but his normal
color was coming back.

“Yes, stupid, I know. But who would’ve thought that
a famous writer like him would steal our story?” Betty
said.

“Are you saying he plagiarized your story?” I asked,
my mouth dropping open.

She nodded. “I know. It’s hard to believe. But he did.
We saw it published in Tales of the Southwest last year.
Oh, he’d made a couple of minor editing changes, but it
was essentially our story.”

“That’s when we decided to come to his Writers’ Institute on Coral Island and see if we could get him to
admit the theft.” Burt straightened in the chair. “But before we could confront him, someone killed him.”

“It was terrible timing,” Betty chimed in.

“To say the least,” I agreed.

“Anyway, we waited until the murder had been
arrested, then we came over here to find proof-and we
did.” Betty held up a gradebook. “Jack had recorded the
title of our story with our names and the date of the
workshop next to it.”

“Thank goodness he kept such good files,” Burt said.

Betty moved to her husband’s side and placed a hand
on his shoulder. “We can now expose his plagiarism.”

“I still don’t understand why he did it-” Burt began.

“Writer’s block,” I pronounced. “I found out when I
was doing research for my article. He hasn’t written a
book in five years-since Men on Death Row.”

Amazement passed across their faces, then realization. “Of course,” Burt said, “And that’s about the time
he started the workshops and institutes. He’s probably
been ripping off people’s stories and publishing them as
his own. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was a
two-faced, lying creep” He shook one, semi-limp fist in
the air.

“Do George and Chrissy know about all of this?” I
asked.

“No. We didn’t think they’d believe us. Both of them
idolize Hillman.” Betty stroked the back of Burt’s head.

“They don’t need to know.” I rose to my feet. “I’m
going over to the Starfish Lodge right now. Are you
coming?”

“We might swing by the island clinic and have the
doctor check Burt’s heart just to play it safe,” Betty
said. When Burt started to protest, she held up a hand.
“Be sensible, sweetie. We need to make sure you’re
okay.”

He gave a reluctant nod, then looked at me. “Are you
going to tell that police detective you saw us here?”

“Not as long as you don’t tell him you saw me here”

“Thanks” Betty sighed in relief. “We’re eternally
grateful.”

“Just make sure you get publishing credit for that story
of yours” I shook hands with them and left. I probably
should’ve called Detective Billie, but what would that
do? Burt and Betty hadn’t technically broken the lawjust crossed the yellow tape. They only wanted justice,
and that’s what they’d got.

Poor Hillman. Another black mark would be next to
his name when the plagiarism scandal hit the publishing circles.

I got back into Rusty and drove the rest of the way to
the Starfish Lodge. My list of suspects was shrinkingback to Everett and the remaining members of the Writers’ Institute. But there had to be more. I was missing
something.

When I arrived, I spied Chrissy and George at the
usual table. The dining room was deserted. It wasn’t quite time yet for the early bird two-for-one prime rib
specials that attracted every islander over the age of
sixty.

“Hi,” Chrissy said as she waved me over.

“Hi, yourself.” I pulled up a chair across from her
and George. “I saw Burt and Betty on my way herethey’ll probably be along … sometime soon.”

“Incredible news about Pete Cresswell’s arrest, huh?”
George asked without a trace of a stutter. His hair was
neatly trimmed, his face revealed. Not bad. Clear, olive
skin and small, regular features. He appeared transformed from the shy, repressed man I’d met a week ago.
“I heard you were there when he was arrested.”

“Yes” I noted that Chrissy held George’s hand.

“Just imagine. They think that guy killed Jack because
of jealousy.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem like
much of a motive-especially since Jack wasn’t fooling
around with the guy’s wife anymore-“

“If he ever did,” I hastened to add. Then, I took a
deep breath and posed the sixty thousand dollar question: “Do you really think Pete killed Hillman?”

Chrissy frowned. “I’m not sure.”

George glanced at her, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Sorry,” she shrugged, directing a rueful smile at
George. “But I think Jack was up to something else-“

“Whadaya mean?” The words rushed out of my
mouth, cutting her off.

“I remembered … something this morning.”

“What?” I almost yelled out.

Chrissy caught and held my gaze. “When we were in
the hottub the day Jack died, I heard him on the cell
phone talking to … this man … Dr. Emmit from
Gainesville. He’s some kind of expert on historical
things. After the call, Jack was elated.”

My pulse quickened. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I think he was trying to sell some kind
of … antique things from the mound behind his house”

“Yes!” I pounded the table; it was time to trust them with the truth since I now knew enough to rule out each
one as a suspect. I filled them in on my theory of the
priceless Caloosa artifacts. “I think someone found out
and killed him so he could dig on the mound and sell
the artifacts himself.”

“Everett Jacobs?” Chrissy’s words tumbled out.

I shrugged. “He’s one possibility.”

“That might explain why Jack and he argued so much
about the boundary line between their properties. The
old coot was probably trying to get full ownership of
the mound,” she added, eagerness building in her voice.
“But … this is all just a theory.”

“If only we knew Dr. Emmit’s number,” George said.

“Wait-I do” Chrissy reached into her purse and
pulled out a pink cell phone. “Jack used my phone to call
him from the hot tub that day”

“Ohmygosh,” I exclaimed. “Does it store the numbers by date and time?”

“You betcha” She pressed a few buttons and scrolled
through the call log. “Here it is!”

I grabbed the phone from her and dialed the number.
“It’s ringing!”

A man answered. “This is Dr. Emmit.”

I blinked and tried to gather my wits. “Hello, my
name is Mallie Monroe and I … uh … work for the
Coral Island Observer. I was doing a story on Jack Hillman-“

“I was very sorry to hear about his death,” he interrupted, regret in his voice.

“Yes, it was tragic. But I was doing some research on
him and learned that he might have found some Caloosa
artifacts in the shell mound behind his house. Can you
verify that?”

“Only second hand. He said he’d found a couple of
necklaces, a medallion, a knife-“

“A what?”

“A knife. He described it as very decorative, with a
gold handle. Probably used for sacrifices. The Caloosa
practiced human sacrifice, you know-“

“Yes, I’d read that,” I cut in with some impatience.
“Do you know what happened to those items?”

“I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, I never had the chance
to authenticate them. I told him to be careful, that these
artifacts were very valuable.”

“I think he knew that” I tried to keep the sarcasm out
of my voice.

“Yes, Mr. Hillman had a keen appreciation for the
past”

“Very keen” My heartbeat skyrocketed with excitement. Proof-sort of. Hillman must have found
Caloosa artifacts on his property. “Thanks for your time,
Dr. Emmit. I may call you back for further information.”

“Certainly.”

I clicked off the cell phone.

“What did he say?” Chrissy’s eyes kindled with enthusiasm.

“Jack apparently found Caloosa artifacts, but Dr.
Emmit never actually saw them.”

“Unb … b … believable,” George managed to get
out, the stutter making a reappearance. I could hardly
blame him.

“My bet is that’s why he was murdered”

“You’re s … s … so right,” he continued-sort of.

“The killer knew what the artifacts were worth and
he wanted to cash in on them himself.” I jumped to my
feet, trying to ignore the fact that all this news caused
George’s stutter to reappear. “I’m going over there right
now-“

“Mallie, maybe you should wait. Talk to Detective
Billie and see what he says.” Chrissy reached a cautioning hand toward me.

“It won’t do any good. He’s convinced that Pete murdered Hillman and, unless I can find real evidenceone of those gold artifacts-to prove the contrary, he’s
not going to listen to me”

“B … b … but if you tell him all of this he has to,”
George interjected.

“I’ll tell him-after I have evidence. It won’t take
long.”

“At least take my cell.” Chrissy handed me her pink
phone. “If anything happens, use it.”

“Thanks” I grabbed the phone and shoved it in my
canvas bag.

I jumped into Rusty and set out for the Mounds. It
was turning overcast again with a few trailing remnants
of the tropical storm, but no rain yet. Hooray. I wanted
to hike to the dig at the top of The Mounds, and it
would be easier if I didn’t find myself sinking up to my
neck in the soft shell and sand.

I accelerated, pushing Rusty to speeds that he hadn’t
reached in years. And he didn’t let me down. Somehow,
we made it to the Mounds in less than fifteen minutes.

I pulled into Hillman’s driveway and looked around.
Burt and Betty’s Cadillac was gone. No one else was
there. Perfect. I slid out of my truck and started up the
path between Hillman’s and Everett’s house. The sand
and shell walkway squished under my sandals, but I
kept moving. About halfway up, the skies opened up
again. Not the driving rain of the last two days just a
steady mist.

I gritted my teeth and focused on getting to the top of
the mound. Unfortunately, debris from the heavy rains
littered the path. Thorny prickly pear branches scraped
against my jeans and sea grape clustered around my
feet. But I stepped around these obstacles as best I could. My breath started to come in short, staccato gasps. My
calf muscles burned.

“When all of this is over, I’m hitting the island gym,”
I said aloud when I finally reached the top. Leaning
down, hands on my knees, I took in a couple of labored
breaths. My legs trembled slightly-not with fear, but
overexertion. I kept taking in deep breaths. Eventually,
I could straighten again and survey the area.

I stood in front of the archaeological dig. Nothing
much looked different, except the bottom of the pit was
filled with about two feet of water, and the ropes that
squared off the excavation site sagged to the ground in
a couple of places. I scanned around the walls of the
dig held up by a mesh-like grid. No gold beads peeped
through, no gold-hilted knife stuck out. I didn’t even
see any pottery pieces.

What did I expect?

In my haste to get here, I hadn’t actually figured out
what kind of evidence I expected to find.

So I was still going off half cocked. I couldn’t change
overnight. In frustration, I toed a broken shell and
kicked it into the pit. There had to be something here to
indicate that Hillman had found valuable artifacts. I just
had to find it.

I circled the dig. Then began to poke around in the
saw palmetto and pine trees that ringed the site. Nothing
but a fast-food bag and two empty styrofoam containers.
I sighed. That and a dollar wouldn’t get me into the Cinderella’s Castle at the Magic Kingdom.

The mist turned into a light steady rain, soaking my
white cotton shirt.

I hunched my shoulders in defeat. All I’d get from
my mad dash here was a wet shirt and sand-encrusted
sandals. Great. Just great.

Turning back to the dig, I scanned it one more time.
Then I kicked another shell off into the saw palmetto. It
didn’t strike the ground immediately. More like, it fell a
few feet and then hit water. I froze. After a few seconds,
I slowly moved in the direction of where I’d kicked the
shell.

I parted the saw palmetto and stepped through it. Just
a few feet away was a second pit. Smaller than the other
one, it wasn’t roped off and didn’t have a neat, square
shape. The driving rains must’ve caused the sand and
crushed shells to wash away because one side was completely caved in. The others jagged and uneven. But it
was still clearly an excavation. And something gold
stuck out of the crumbled side.