Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (5 page)

Surprisingly, I enjoyed a heavy, dreamless sleep
probably out of sheer exhaustion. And the next morning I awoke to a bright sun, promising a day of light
and warmth. Actually beyond warmth. It would probably hit the upper eighties by midday and my nose would
be peeling like the bark on a gumbo limbo tree.

I knocked off my bike path story on my battered laptop computer, took Kong for a brief walk-avoiding
the beach-and drove to the Observer office. When I
walked in the door, Anita was waiting for me, cigarette
in hand. A flicker of sympathy in her eyes told me she’d
already heard the news. I marveled again that this island had a grapevine unparalleled by none-not even
the one Marvin Gaye and Gladys Knight sang about.

“How are ya doing?” she asked.

“Okay. Yesterday was rough, but I’m feeling a little better this morning.” I poured a cup of coffee for
myself-my fourth already for the day-and added two
packets of sugar. Sandy sat at her desk with her eyes
closed as she listened to her morning meditation on her
iPod. She wasn’t wearing a price tag on her slate blue
blouse and matching skirt, so I supposed they were keepers. Must be the stretchy jersey fabric.

“I’ve got to go over to the island police station this
morning and give a statement. Do you think I’m dressed
okay?” I smoothed down my pea green shirtwaist dress.
Being a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, I’d had to hunt in
my closet for one of the few dresses I owned-a gift
from my older sister who kept trying in vain to get me
into a more conservative style of clothing.

“Yeah, you’ll win the fashionista award,” she said
dryly. “Do you want me to call an attorney?”

My hand tightened around the cup. “Do I need one?”

Anita shrugged. “You were the one that found the
body. That means you’re a .. “

“Suspect. I know. But I’m innocent. I didn’t even
know Jack till yesterday. And you’re the one who sent
me there” I flashed a narrow-eyed glare at her.

“True” Ignoring my accusatory eyes, she took a long,
meditative drag on her cigarette. “You should be all right
since Nick Billie is handling the case. He’s a straightshooter.”

“You know him?” Heat crept into my cheeks. Just the
mention of his name made my heart beat a little faster.

“Sure do. I’ve been editing this weekly rag for almost twenty years. There isn’t anybody on the island
that I don’t know, haven’t heard about, or written up in
the paper-including Nick.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“He was assigned as chief detective of island police
about five years ago. Before that, he was a tribal police
officer.”

My interested sparked even higher. “I thought he
looked Indian.”

“Native American is the preferred term todayremember that if it comes up in a news story.” She
pointed a warning finger at me. I nodded, not wanting
to stop the flow of information about Detective Billie.
“Nick’s a Miccosukee. He grew up on the reservation
south of Naples and was involved with a case there a
while back that turned ugly. The case was never solved,
and he left.”

“What was the case?”

“I don’t know the particulars. It had something to do
with the kidnapping of a young boy.”

“How was Detective Billie …”

“Forget it-ancient history.” She waved her hand and
shook her head. “That’s not your main concern right
now. We’ve got a murder to cover, and you have a prime
opportunity to write the story of your life.”

“What about the bike path article?” I held up my finished copy.

She cleared her throat with a scoffing sound. “That’s back-page drivel right now. Our lead story is going to
be Hillman’s murder. And who better to write it than
the person who found his body?”

I chewed on my lower lip. “Look, Anita, I might be
in a little over my head. I mean … I’m a suspect.”

“A mere technicality.” She waved her hand. “You can
do it. You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

Those words sank in like weights falling to the bottom of the sea. I felt them dropping inside of me with a
distinct thud that reverberated through my being. Believe in myself. That was what I’d been trying to do most
of my life and, so far, I hadn’t been exactly successful.

“When you meet with Nick, give your statement, but
tell him that you’re also going to be covering the story
for the paper and you’d appreciate any sharing of information. Then we’ll start doing background work on
Hillman. We want to give our readers a sense of who he
was, and why his death was such an … an untimely,
tragic event” She enunciated the last part with theatrical flare. “They’ll eat it up”

Heartless hag. “There seem to be any number of
people who might’ve had a legitimate reason for wanting him dead.” I thought back to the four stricken faces
around the table at Hillman’s house. All of the writers
sitting there probably had grounds for murder. And
then there was the wronged husband Wanda Sue had
told me about.

“Unexpected then. No one imagines something
like that can happen on a quiet little place like Coral
Island.”

At that point, Sandy removed her headset. She exhaled in a long, musical note as her eyelids fluttered
open. Her eyes misted over with contentment and her
mouth turned up in a blissful smile. “What did I miss?”

“Hillman’s murder,” I supplied.

“Old news” She opened her desk drawer and pulled
out a small plastic bag that contained exactly two ounces
of lowfat cheese and some saltine crackers. “If he’d
been aware of the auras around him, he might not have
been killed.”

“He didn’t strike me as the sensitive, New age type”
I drained my coffee cup.

“His loss.” Sandy shrugged as she nibbled a piece of
cheese.

“I want the murder story on my desk by the end of
the week” Anita stubbed out her cigarette in a paper
cup. “That way, I can edit it and we’ll be able to make
the deadline. Whadaya say? Are you up to it, kiddo?”
She tilted her head to one side and pursed her mouth.

“I’ll try” I hated being called kiddo, but it was mild
compared to the names she had for other people. None
of them exactly nice.

“If you’re going be a journalist, you’ve got to put your
feelings on the back burner for the sake of the story. And
forget logic. Forget reason. Follow the money,” her voice hardened. “Some stories will upset you, wring your
stomach inside out, but you’ve got to turn out copythat’s the important thing. That’s the only thing.”

And that’s what I’d need to do to keep my job, I finished for her silently. The implication was clear. Do the
story or she’d find someone else who would.

I set my chin in a determined line and summoned
what I hoped sounded like a confident tone. “Okay. I’ll
have something ready for you in a day or two.”

“Good. I’m counting on you”

Half an hour later, I pulled into the police station
parking lot, already back to my normal unsure self. I’d
never given a statement before, and knowing my propensity to become a motor mouth when I was nervous, I was
even more uneasy. Just keep it under control, I told myself. Explain what happened and provide only details
that are absolutely necessary.

As I walked into the building, my eyes widened in
surprise. Instead of the gray walls, functional furniture,
and grim faces I expected in a police station, the place
had a pleasant air with wood floors and bright yellow
walls. A pretty receptionist with a smooth black bob
and perky smile sat at the front desk.

“May I help you?” she inquired.

“I’m Mallie Monroe” I hitched my canvas shoulder
bag higher on my shoulder. “I have to give a statement.”

“Oh, yes, Detective Billie’s expecting you” She picked up her phone and pressed a button. After murmuring a few words, she hung up. “He’ll be with you in a few minutes. Why don’t you take a seat and have a cup of coffee?” She pointed to the large coffeemaker.

I was tempted. Really tempted. But one more cup
and I’d be on a total caffeine buzz, and that was the last
thing I needed right now. Think calm, cool, and collected.

I sat down on a brown leather sofa and started leafing through an old copy of some car magazine that
explored the merits of the electric-powered vehicles
over the internal combustion machine. Not that I could
afford a new car, either electric or gasoline driven, but
it was nice to dream a little. And distract myself.

“Ms. Monroe, please come in,” Nick Billie said from
the door of his office.

He was wearing a pin-striped navy suit this morning
and a burgundy tie. It was a more formal look than last
night’s, but no less attractive. If anything, in his suit he
looked more handsome-and more formidable. I was
glad I’d chosen the preppy dress-my sister would be
proud.

I trailed him into his office and seated myself in a
comfortable chair across from his desk. I put my hands
in my lap so I wouldn’t grip the armrests.

He opened a manila folder and picked up a silver ballpoint pen. I tried not to notice the way his skin pulled
taut over the elegant ridge of his cheekbones or the sensual curve of his lips. He really wasn’t my type. I liked
men who were sort of freewheeling and quirky in their appearance. Surfer dudes. Wonky artists. Guys who lived
for sunsets, hammocks, and long afternoons dreaming
by the sea. Nick seemed like an unyielding by-the-book
kind of guy, but for some reason, I found those qualities
strangely attractive in him.

“Ms. Monroe?”

“What? Sorry. I was a little distracted.” How about a
lot distracted?

He fastened his sharp, penetrating stare on me. “This
is a very serious matter. It’s a murder investigation, and
I need every bit of information that I can get from you
to help me solve the case. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course” Giving myself a mental shake, I
cleared my mind of everything besides the murder.
Needless to say, not a pleasant thought.

“Now, if you could tell me exactly what happened
yesterday from the moment you met Hillman to the time
you returned to his house and found him dead” He
pushed a small tape player across the desk. “Just speak
slowly and clearly, and I’ll have our secretary transcribe
your statement later. Then you can look it over and see if
there are any changes you want to make. Okay?”

“Okay” I cleared my throat a couple of times. It
seemed as though my windpipe was closing up and,
when I started speaking, my voice sounded unnaturally
strained. I’d never had to speak into a tape recorder like
this before and I was very conscious of enunciating
every syllable.

Eventually, I relaxed into a comfortable rhythm and relayed everything that had occurred the previous dayleaving out my anger over Hillman’s criticism of my
bike path story. Detective Billie listened intently, occasionally jotting down a note in the manila folder.

When I finished, he switched off the recorder.
“Thank you. Your statement should be very helpful”
His tone was brusque, all business.

What did I expect? That he’d be bowled over by the
impeccable quality of my memory? That he’d find my
red hair suddenly irresistible? That he’d tell me I wasn’t
really a suspect? Hope springs eternal, even for me.

“One thing-you said last night that Hillman critiqued the writers in the Institute and they appeared …
disturbed. Does that include everyone?”

I hesitated. “Some of them. I think Chrissy was
probably the most upset” Although shy George did
have his fists clenched.

“How upset?”

“She started crying after Hillman left the room. The
other writers seemed to take it in their stride-especially
Burt and Betty” No doubt fortified by the margaritas.

He scribbled down everything I was saying.

“How about you? Were you angry?”

“A little.” My windpipe started to close again. I
coughed a couple of times and cleared my throat. “But
not enough to kill him. I mean, it was only a bike path
story”

“True” Detective Billie tapped his pen against his
cheek and regarded me with a deep, long look. “You said that Hillman was on the cell phone right before
you left. Did you hear him mention the name of the
person he was talking to?”

“No.

“And when you left, Chrissy Anders was going out to
the hottub to join him?”

“Yes” So far so good. The motor mouth was under
control. “That means she might’ve been the last person
to see him alive, right?”

“Possibly”

“So then you’ll be questioning her too?”

“Certainly.”

“Who else will you be talking to?”

He set the pen down. “Who’s doing the interview
here, Ms. Monroe?”

“Just curious. And since I’m the main reporter for
the Observer, I’ll be the one to write the story-“

“Hold it right there. Did Anita tell you that I’d share information with you or some such kind of foolishness?”

I smiled.

His straight, dark brows leveled into a severe line.
“Look, Ms. Monroe, I don’t involve civilians on murder cases and I certainly don’t give possible suspects
information about the case they’re connected with.” He
flipped the manila file shut. “Anita knows that. She still
thinks she’s working on the Detroit Free Press or something. The reality is this is a small island and she’s the
editor of a small-town weekly. Murder cases are out of
her league-and yours”

My smile faded as irritation flared inside. I might not
be the most ambitious person or the most organized, but
it rankled when someone told me that I couldn’t do
something. That made me really want to do it. So what if
Detective Billie was a handsome hunk? He didn’t have
the right to order me around. “Maybe the Observer isn’t
some big-time newspaper, but it’s where I work and I’ve
got to keep my job. Anita told me to cover the story and
that’s what I’m going to do-with or without your help.”

“Without, I think.”

“Then I’ll just have to dig for information on my
own” I tossed my hair back in a gesture of defiance.