Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (4 page)

“And where were you before you drove back here?”

“At Capt’n Harry’s. I had the seafood basket with
french fries and ketchup.”

His dark brows flickered a little. “Just answer the
questions that I ask you please, Ms. Monroe.”

“Sure. Sorry. This is my first murder.” Keep the motor mouth under control, I reminded myself. He doesn’t
need all the details.

“So aside from this morning, you’ve never met Mr.
Hillman before?”

“No, but I did read his first book, Night Games. It was
really good-the kind of true crime thriller that keeps
you on the edge of your seat. It wasn’t too blood and
guts like his latest stuff, which I’ve avoided. Have you
read Men on Death Row?”

He shook his head. “I don’t have time to read. I deal
with real life, and real-life murders aren’t all that
thrilling. Mostly, they’re messy and unpleasant” He
rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand.

I thought of Jack’s body in the room down the hall
and shuddered. “I get your point.”

“Was there anything odd about the workshop this
morning?”

I hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Did anyone make threatening comments or gestures
toward Mr. Hillman?”

“A few people were a little … upset at some of the
criticism Mr. Hillman directed at them.”

“Including you?”

“I guess so”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes” I looked down and picked at the dry cuticle around my thumb. I had that uneasy feeling that arose
inside when I noticed a police car in my rear view mirror on the highway. I’d let up on the gas pedal even if I
weren’t speeding and drive very, very carefully, anxious
that maybe I had done something illegal that I wasn’t
aware of.

“Were you angry enough to want to hurt Mr. Hillman?”

“Not really.” I kept at the thumb.

“Did you come back here to injure him?”

“No.” My head snapped up at that one. “I was ticked
off when he criticized my story on the bike path, but
everyone else was just as upset when he tore into their
work. And just because I was angry doesn’t mean that I
wanted to kill him.”

For a long moment, he studied me with a speculative
squint. My chin turned up in defiance. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I sure as heck hadn’t harmed Hillman, so
why was I feeling guilty? I might have fantasized about
using him for bait at the next tarpon fishing tournament,
but I wouldn’t have really done anything like that.

“Am I a suspect or not?” I finally summoned the
nerve to ask.

“In theory, yes. You found the body. You had ample
opportunity to come back here and kill Hillman. And by
your own admission, he made you angry earlier today.”
He leaned back in the wicker chair and folded his arms
across his chest. “But my gut instinct tells me you’re not
a killer.”

“That’s comforting-I guess”

For the first time his mouth turned up on one side in a
lopsided smile. “That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,
Ms. Monroe. My gut’s been wrong a time or two”

Peachy. Just peachy. I’ve got a cop on the case with a
malfunctioning gut.

“Come to the police station tomorrow morning at the
island center and we’ll take your statement”

“I’m still technically a suspect?” That uneasy feeling
amped up a notch.

He rose to his feet. “Don’t leave the island.”

“Not even to the mainland?”

He frowned at me from his considerable height. “I
meant don’t leave the area. We might need you for
further questioning.”

“My job is here-I have no intention of leaving,” I
reminded him. Nevertheless, images of hooking my
Airstream trailer to Rusty flashed through my mind.
Freedom. No ties just open road. And no murder
hanging over my head. So tempting …

As if divining my thoughts, Detective Billie repeated, “Stay put for awhile.”

The open road fantasy faded. “Okay.”

He strode out of the room and I sat there for a few
minutes taking stock of my situation. It didn’t look good.

The frenzied activity in the house had settled down, with only a few people left talking quietly in another
part of the house. The firetruck had left. The sirens and
cell phones had ceased.

But my brain whirled with doubt and uncertainty. I had started the day out as a struggling journalist and, in
the space of twenty-four hours, I had added murder suspect to my resume.

Welcome to paradise.

It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I pulled into
the Twin Palms RV Resort at Mango Bay. My home. A
small, tucked-away RV park, it contained only sixty sites
with full hook-ups, a tiny strip of sand that passed for a
beach, two shuffleboard courts, and an activities center
for the retiree “full-timers” who stayed here for long
stretches.

The social scene consisted of various geriatric activities including bingo night and potluck Sunday dinner
where the resident seventysomething ventriloquist
would entertain us by singing with his stuffed monkey,
Tito. Unfortunately, neither one could carry a tune.

After nine o’clock, the “quiet hour” reigned and,
since it was off-season and after nine, the place seemed
practically comatose. That was fine with me tonight.

Utterly spent, I parked in the designated spot next to
my gleaming silver antique Airstream. Just looking at it
lightened my mood. Thirty feet long and built in the
seventies, its all-metal, all-aluminum construction, allriveted body, and all-steel undercarriage reigned supreme
among the modern trailers and motorhomes on the road
today.

I had bought it seven years ago, spent three years renovating, and lived the life of a gypsy ever since. I
could go anywhere in my Airstream with my trusty
teacup poodle by my side. I loved the freedom.

Dragging myself out of Rusty, I made for the door of
my mobile haven when I heard a rustling sound. I
halted. Slowly, I swiveled my head in the direction of
the sound, a shadow of alarm passing through me. It
was dark at the campsite, but I could make out a large
areca palm, its long fronds brushing against the roof of
my Airstream. I exhaled in relief.

For safety’s sake, though, I scanned the rest of the
site. Everything looked normal. My blue and white
striped awning flapped in the light evening breeze. My
wooden picnic table sat in the same position under the
awning. The folding chairs still faced east where I
had sat this morning to watch the sun rise as I drank
my three cups of heavily-caffeinated, highly-sugared
coffee.

The spanking-new, quarter-of-a-million-dollar, class
A mega-motorhome was still parked next to me, but no
sign of the inhabitants. I hadn’t seen them since they’d
arrived at the Twin Palms two days ago. The back of
the motorhome had JUST MARRIED splashed across the
rear window and, true to newlyweds, they seemed to
have more than enough cozy pastimes to occupy themselves inside their motorhome.

Most of the other sites around me were empty as
they had been this morning. Nothing had changed or
been disturbed.

Except me.

I’d come to Coral Island because I wanted to start a
new life, find some sense of stability in my existence.
Put roots down for a change. But nothing was turning out
like I’d planned.

“Hey, Mallie”

I peered through the darkness to see Wanda Sue
strolling toward me, her neon spandex shorts with
matching top forming a beacon in the night. She was the
owner of Twin Palms RV Resort and, from what I’d
been able to observe, one of the biggest all-time gossips
on the island. “Hi”

“I heard about Jack Hillman. Can you believe it?
Someone actually killed him.” She clucked her tongue
and shook her head, the upswept beehive hairdo remaining firmly in place.

I blinked in amazement, both at her words and the
bright yellow color of her outfit. It radiated more wattage
than a three-way bulb. “How did you hear about it already?”

“My friend, Joanna, works at the fire department.
She heard it from the guys.”

“Oh” What could I say? It was a small island.

“Nothing like that ever happens on quiet ole Coral
Island. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather
when I heard the news.”

“Me too”

“And you were the one to find him?” Her voice
turned sympathetic.

“Joanna told you that too?”

She nodded. “Poor you” Her voice turned sympathetic. “That must’ve been a shock like all getout. Why, I
would’ve been shaking in my shoes and scared half out of
my wits.”

“It was pretty upsetting.” If I turned into a motor
mouth when I was excited or nervous, Wanda Sue turned
into a cliche convention when she latched onto a juicy
tidbit of scandal.

“I gotta tell ya, I’m not surprised, though”

“What do you mean?”

Wanda Sue leaned in closer, her voice lowering into
hushed tones. “It was only a matter of time before
someone did Hillman in.”

“Really?” My interest sparked. “He had a lot of enemies on the island?”

“Enemies? Honey, they were practically hanging
from the trees like snipers. If I’d been him, I would’ve
never left my house without one of them bullet-proof
vests that SWAT-team guys wear.”

“I heard he had a reputation as a womanizer.” I
dropped the words as if they were a baited hook, just
waiting for Wanda Sue to chomp and take off.

“Womanizer?” She laughed with a loud, short laugh.
“That man had more women than a dog has fleas. And
they weren’t all his, if you get my meaning.”

“Can you give me any names?”

Wanda Sue tapped her chin. “He has some young
blond writer hanging around now-“

“Chrissy?”

“Yep, that’s her name. But before her, there was Nora Cresswell-wife of a local fisherman. Her husband,
Pete, ran a shrimp boat” She reached into her shirt
pocket and pulled out a roll of Lifesavers. “Unfortunately, he hired some guys who did illegal fishing and
the Coast Guard arrested the lot of them. When Pete
was in jail, Hillman moved in on Nora”

“Nice timing.”

“She wasn’t the first” Wanda Sue popped a wintergreen mint into her mouth.

“What happened to Nora?”

“She’s living on her own-“

A scratching sound interrupted our conversation.

“Ohmygosh, I forgot about Kong,” I exclaimed, reaching for the door of my Airstream. As soon as I opened it,
my tiny apricot-colored teacup poodle bounded down
the stairs and started circling Wanda Sue as he growled
low in his throat, at least what could pass for a growl
from a three-pound hairy mop of a pooch. “I’m sorry. He
gets a little crazed when he’s cooped up too long.”

I grabbed the leash that I’d left on the picnic table
and hooked it on his collar.

“Of course he does, honey. You take him for a walk
and put that scoundrel Hillman right out of your mind,”
Wanda Sue said. She leaned down and attempted to pat
him on the head. He growled louder. “What a sweet
doggie.”

He stomped his miniscule paws on her feet.

“Kong, stop that” I jerked on his leash, knowing his
next move would be to nip at her heels. Kong-short for
King Kong-didn’t like being patronized by humans
who wanted to pet him because he was so tiny. When he
was a puppy, I’d taken him to a dog psychologist who
said Kong suffered from low self-esteem and needed to
feel important. That’s why he acted aggressive with
most people-especially those with a condescending air.
So I named him King Kong, hoping to give him a boost.
But so far, it wasn’t working too well.

“He’s really wound up tonight.”

“I understand, honey. My cat, Riley, acts the same
way when I don’t pay enough attention to him. Give him
a lot of love and support, and he’ll be fit as a fiddle” She
tottered off on her high heels.

I looked down at Kong’s spunky face and floppy
white ears. “Is that what you need? Lots of love and
support?”

He wagged his tail.

“Come on, let’s head for the beach” I led him toward
the Gulf of Mexico, tugging at his leash. For some reason, Kong didn’t like the beach. Maybe the expanse of
water exacerbated the low self-esteem problem, maybe
he didn’t like the sound of the waves, or maybe he was
just being difficult. At any rate, he resisted all the way
to the surf and, once there, sniffed the water as if it
were a noxious odor.

“You’re going to have to get used to the beach, Kong.
This is home” He turned up his brown eyes and button nose in a pleading gesture, then slowly sat down on the
sand.

Sighing, I listened to the gentle swell of waves as
they rolled ashore. Deep, drawn-out echoes against the
soft sand, as if to remind me that a terrible thing had
occurred. A man had been murdered tonight and I found
his body. I was a suspect.

I knew what my family would say: Mixed-up Mallie
had really done it this time. I was on the edge of yet another calamity and this one was a doozy.

Kong wasn’t the only one who needed love and support right now. I could use a strong shoulder to lean on.
But there was no one in my life.

I was on my own.