Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (3 page)

Chrissy let out a sob and ran from the table, leaving
the rest of us, sitting there, stunned.

“Does this happen every day?” I finally found my
voice.

“P … P … P … pretty much,” George closed his
eyes briefly and sighed.

Burt held up his third margarita. “Betty and I fortify
ourselves. It’s the only way we make it through these
daily sessions.”

“But why subject yourself to this kind of torture?” I
asked, amazed.

“We want to b … b … become b … b … better
writers,” George said. He covered his mouth with his
hand and added something else that I couldn’t make
out. But I thought I heard him murmur Chrissy’s name.

“I’m surprised someone hasn’t wrung his neck before this. Or at least told him off.” I was getting my wits
about me again.

Betty and Burt just took another swig of their margaritas. George shook his head.

“I, for one, have had enough of Hillman’s kind of
help, thank you very much.” I grabbed my bag and my
last shreds of self-respect and left the table.

I’d stomped halfway to my truck when I remembered
that I still had to interview Hillman for my article on the
Writers’ Institute. Groaning, I went around to the back
of the house and spied Hillman sitting in the hot tub,
drink in one hand and neon pink cell phone in the other.
When he saw me, he started slightly and ended the call.
Then, he turned his attention toward me. “What can I do
ya for, Milly? Care to join me?” His eyes fastened on
my hair. He ran his tongue across thick lips.

“No, thanks.” I swallowed hard. He was bare-chested
again. Yuck. “I need to do a brief interview with you
about the Institute-for my article.”

“Sure. Love to” He took a long swallow of his drink.
“You can bring in the finished version for an editing
session later this week”

Fat chance.

“Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll be ready for
you” The cell phone rang and he waved me off.

Grateful to get away before another proposition, I
hopped in my truck and drove off just as Chrissy was
coming out in a skimpy bright yellow-flowered bikini.
Her shoulders were squared and her mouth drawn in a
thin line. She’d probably turned angry by now. Good. I
hope she really gives it to him, I muttered to myself as I
revved away. As I looked back, I shivered in spite of the
heat. Jack wasn’t conducting writers’ workshops-it
was more like a little shop of horrors. And I wouldn’t
be back-except to get my interview.

I drove to the main road and made my way to Mango
Bay-the largest town on Coral Island, located on the
north tip. Although calling the smattering of buildings a
town could be construed as gross exaggeration, Mango
Bay nonetheless functioned as the hub of the island.

It included a small clapboard general store called
Whiteside’s, which had been there since the homesteading days on the island at the beginning of the
century. Slightly bigger than a Circle K, the store included a post office in back, dry-cleaning pick-up at the
counter, and various tourist items like shell-encrusted
ashtrays and bright green rubber alligators. Aside from
Whiteside’s, the tiny island village also boasted a small
art gallery, a bait shack, and a seafood restaurantCapt’n Harry’s. Mostly retirees and fishermen lived at
Mango Bay but, since it overlooked a picturesque view of the water, some larger homes had recently sprung up
between the trailers and fishing shacks. I was temporarily staying at the Twin Palms RV Resort-the trailer
park right on the point, and the only place on the island
with a small beach.

The main attraction for me right now was Capt’n
Harry’s-a rustic restaurant decorated on the outside
with old fishing nets and yellowed buoys. Dismal nautical decor aside, it faced the water and served the best
crab cakes I’d ever eaten. I ordered the seafood basket,
which I took outside to the long, wooden dock that
stretched out into the bay. I sat for an hour or two,
watching the pelicans and trying to figure out how I was
going to tell Anita I wouldn’t be attending the Writers’
Institute. I didn’t want to jeopardize my job, but I
couldn’t go back there and let Hillman rip me up and
down simply because he got some twisted thrill from
seeing people squirm.

I had enough of that in my life. As the youngest
child, I’d been endlessly compared to my brother, a corporate attorney, and my sister, a top-notch design
engineer. Not only was I not a top-notch anything, I
couldn’t seem to settle into any profession longer than
a year or two. In between jobs, I’d substitute teach and
hook up with boyfriends who liked the same carefree,
gypsy lifestyle. I had my truck and my antique
Airstream trailer and, when things got dull, I’d just pick
up and move to another city. I’d started out in St. Louis,
Missouri, where I was born, and kept moving south. I never got bored, and I never got stuck in a rut. But I
never felt like I belonged anywhere either.

A huge brown pelican wheeled overhead and then
dropped down in sudden descent to scoop up an unsuspecting fish. I’d just have to tell Anita the truth. I’d do
the article about the Writers’ Institute, but I wouldn’t
attend any more of the workshops. One was plenty. Old
hatchet-face’s criticism of my articles would have to be
enough.

As I rose to my feet, the seabreeze lifted the curls off
the back of my neck. I turned my face to the water and
closed my eyes. For a few moments, that habitual burning restlessness inside me settled, and I felt a moment
of peace.

A pair of seagulls squawked in a loud, mocking
cackle. My eyes snapped open, and the moment vanished like a dream in the dawn. Okay, so maybe this
wasn’t exactly paradise, but at least I wasn’t in Orlando
substitute teaching by day and taking tickets at the entrance to Magic Kingdom by night.

I checked my Mickey Mouse watch (courtesy of my
tenure at Disney World). Almost seven-thirty. I’d do the
interview, edit my bike path story for tomorrow, and
call Anita to break the bad news to her that I was officially a Writers’ Institute dropout.

I climbed into my truck and drove back to Hillman’s
house on the shell mounds. With evening drawing
near, the sky exploded off to the west in vivid shades,
ranging from soft rose to a crimson stripe of color near the horizon. It splayed across the sky like a blood-red
gash of color before the darkness set in. All of a sudden, I shivered and turned away.

Parking my truck, I noticed all the cars were gone
except the Viper.

I clanged the captain’s bell on the front porch. No one
answered. I knocked on the screen door. Still no answer.
“Mr. Hillman?” I called out, peering through the screen.

He didn’t appear. It was quiet, deadly quiet. No
droning of a television, no music, nothing-except the
steady hum of evening crickets. I pushed the screen
door open and stepped inside. “Mr. Hillman?”

I walked through the house and into the Florida room,
my footsteps falling on the wood floor with a soft
clump. Eyeing the table where we had sat earlier for our
individual assassinations, I shuddered. It was empty, but
the memories of this morning lingered.

Maybe Hillman had forgotten that he’d agreed to do
an interview with me and gone out. But then again, his
car was still in the driveway.

Looking out the widows of the Florida room, I
checked the hot tub. Nope, not there either. I placed my
hands on my hips and sighed. Where the heck was he? I
had to do this interview.

I passed through the kitchen and glanced down a
wide hallway at a home office, separated from the rest
of the house by curtained French doors. One door stood
open, and I could make out floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Slowly, I approached the open door, warning bells go ing off in my mind. Something was wrong, really
wrong.

Hesitantly, I peered around the door. Sheer, black
fright swept through me. I must’ve screamed, but I’m
not exactly sure what sound came out of my mouth. It
might’ve been a shout, a scream, or a loud gurgle. All I
knew was that Jack Hillman’s body was flung backward
in his desk chair, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and
blood seeping from the would over his heart.

He was dead.

For a few long moments, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I
stood frozen to the spot. Then, my legs began to shake,
every muscle seized by quaking tremors. My throat
tightened, and my chest felt as though it would burst.

“Keep calm,” I heard a voice say as if from a long
distance away. It took me a second or two to realize that
it was mine.

“Call nine-one-one-that’s what you do in an emergency.

Maybe the paramedics could revive him.

I took another glance at Hillman. He wasn’t moving.
He wasn’t breathing.

“Make the call. Now!”

Willing my feet to move, I stumbled out of the room
and located a cordless phone in the kitchen. I made the emergency call, and within ten minutes, the medics, the
police, and the firefighters all descended on Hillman’s
house with the force of a tropical storm. It was a blur of
activity for a short while, with various men and women
shouting orders at each other as sirens blared outside
and cell phones rang inside. When they approached me,
all I could do was point my shaky hand down the hallway toward the room and Hillman’s body.

A young woman with a stethoscope around her neck
finally noticed my dazed state and took my arm. She led
me into the Florida room and sat me down on the sofa.
“Are you all right?” She took my pulse.

“I … I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a dead body before. At least not a person. I’ve seen a couple of
roadkills, but they were just small animals-and not very
close up. I passed them in my truck, you know-on the
road. Oh, and I had an uncle who passed away three
years ago and I saw him in the casket during the funeral
service, but he was … uh, embalmed,” I babbled. I
couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was something I did
whenever I was nervous. I kept talking and talking and
talking like my brain was an engine jammed in high gear.
Eventually, I ran out of steam, but not until I covered a
lot of ground and a copious amount of unrelated topics.

“Your pulse is a little fast, but I’d expect that under the
circumstances.” Her tone was a soothing balm on my
frayed nerves. “Take a couple of deep breaths and let them
out slowly.”

I complied, but exhaling was difficult. The air came out in jagged fits and starts. After a couple of tries,
though, it grew easier and my breathing steadied. Whew.

“That’s better. Let yourself relax”

“You must deal with this kind of thing a lot,” I
managed between breaths. “Dead bodies-hysterical
people”

“Not all that much. Most of our calls are from elderly folks who’ve fallen or parents whose kids have
broken an arm on their brand-new bicycle.” Her mouth
curved upward in a kind smile.

“Is this the person who made the call?” a brusque,
masculine voice cut in.

“Yes” The young woman rose to her feet. “I’ll leave
her in your capable hands” I detected a note of respect,
and looked up in time to see an expression of admiration on her face. I transferred my gaze in curiosity.

My eyes traveled up long legs encased in black
trousers, slid past a powerful set of shoulders that
strained against the fabric of his white short-sleeve shirt
and tie, and ended on a darkly handsome face. He towered over the other men in the room, so much so I that I
had to tip my head backward to look at his face.

“I’m Detective Nick Billie.” He held out his hand. I
just stared. Partly, I was still in shock. But the other part
of me was stunned by his compelling good looks. Black
hair flowed from his forehead like a crest, and smooth
olive skin stretched over high cheekbones. But it was his
eyes that were most mesmerizing. Obsidian deep and
dark pools of shadows and hidden dreams.

“Mallie Monroe.” I shook his hand, feeling the firm
strength of his fingers.

“What’s your connection with Jack Hillman?” he
asked.

“I … uh, just met him today-actually this morning.
I work at the Observer, and my editor sent me over to
do a story on his Summer Writers’ Institute.”

“And?”

“I attended a day-long workshop and then came back
to do a personal interview. That’s when I found him.” I
swallowed hard. “Is he … ?”

“Dead. Yes. He appears to have received a fatal chest
wound.”

“Ohmygosh!”

“Was there anyone else around when you drove up?”

“I don’t think so” My neck was starting to stiffen from tilting my head backward. “Would you mind sitting down please? I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

He hauled a wicker chair over and sat down.

“Thanks” Sort of. Even seated, Nick Billie was no
less commanding. “When I arrived, the house was
empty-except for Mr. Hillman.”

“What time was that?”

“About half an hour ago, I think.” Why was he asking
me so many questions with a suspicious tone? Caution
flared inside of me.