Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (9 page)

“Serenity now!” I gave her a peace sign.

She donned the earphones and closed her eyes. In
a few minutes, her face took on a peaceful, calm expression. I eyed her with renewed respect-not simply
for her ability to sink into a relaxed state amidst a
cramped, noisy office, but because she was able to
overcome her dislike for a man that half the island
probably would’ve liked to feed to the sharks.

I reread the section in the Herald article about Hillman’s “Little Brother” and jotted down his grandmother’s name. I called Miami information and got a
phone number so I could call her later for an interview.
Then I made a mental note to visit Bradley and discuss
the museum donations.

Intrigued, I realized the “truth” about Jack was taking on interesting and unexpected dimensions.

The door to the office suddenly flung open and I
jumped in my chair.

“What did I tell you about interfering with my investigation?” Detective Billie demanded as he slammed
the door shut, his dark face set in a mask of cold fury.

“Huh?”

“I just spent an hour on the phone with Everett Jacobs.
He said you were nosing around Hillman’s house and badgering him with questions.” Detective Billie strode
toward my desk.

“That’s not true.” I stood up to meet him when he got
there. It didn’t help much, though. He was still almost a
head taller than me and … intimidating to say the least
when his eyes blazed down from that impressive
height.

“Did you or did you not snoop around Hillman’s
house?”

“Not. I know better than to cross the yellow tape”

“What about badgering Everett?”

I glanced over at Sandy for support, but she had her
back to us with her iPod still running. “I asked him
some questions-that’s all. I certainly didn’t `badger’
him or anything like that. He was the one who
volunteered information-told me all about Mabel and
how Jack had driven her to distraction. Granted, he was
sort of grouchy at first, but he gradually warmed upespecially when I showed some sympathy for the Mabel situation. Although if you ask me, he’s your number
one suspect. He hated Hillman-“

“Could you please stick to the subject?”

“I’m trying to” Could I help it my motor mouth was
stuck in high gear every time Detective Billie appeared?
“Anyway, Everett even took me for a tour of the shell
mounds. Would he have done that if I was making a
nuisance of myself?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to decide who’s telling the truth. The island curmudgeon or me.” I folded my
arms across my chest and matched him glare for glare.

The muscle in his jaw began working overtime as he digested my words. I decided to press my advantage.

“From what Anita tells me, Everett is a cantankerous
old man who likes to cause trouble. I just happen to be
the last person who ticked him off. And maybe I did because he’s got something to hide. Did you ever think of
that?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Everett will be
questioned as a possible suspect when I say so”

“Are you kidding? He should be at the top of your
list.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

I took in a deep breath and tried to adopt a more conciliatory tone. “It seems to me that anyone as meantempered as Everett could’ve easily been pushed over
the edge to commit murder.”

He weighed me with a critical squint and, gradually,
some of the anger faded from his face. “I can’t deny
that Everett lodges a lot of complaints about fellow
islanders.”

“See what I mean?”

“But you shouldn’t be bothering him in the first
place”

“I was only asking him questions about Hillman for
my news story.”

“You are technically still a suspect even though your alibi checked out, Ms. Monroe, and that means you
need to tread very carefully. If I think or get word that
you’re trying to manipulate information to your advantage, I’ll throw you in jail.”

I swallowed hard. Jail. Yikes. That’s just what my
family needs to hear. Mixed-up Mallie has become a
no-account, down-and-out jailbird.

“I won’t step over the line,” I promised.

“See that you don’t.”

“And why not? Sometimes lines need to be crossed”
Anita stood in the doorway of her office.

Oh, no. And just when I’d calmed down Detective
Billie. Please, Anita, stay out of it. I silently offered up
a prayer to the saint of browbeaten journalists-the one
that must’ve protected Woodward and Bernstein during
the Watergate scandal.

“Anita, I’m not going down this road with you,” Detective Billie transferred his glance to my boss.
Strangely, I’d swear admiration was lit in the depths of
his dark eyes. “You know what you can and can’t do
legally when it comes to a murder investigation.”

“Yes, I do. We can question people who might have
comments about Hillman that we can use in our stories.”

“I won’t tolerate interference in my job”

“And I won’t tolerate your trying to censor freedom
of the press”

Watching Anita’s leathery face set in stubborn lines,
I gave up on the prayers.

The two of them looked like prizefighters squaring
off at their side of the ring. Not that they’d come to
blows, but the verbal punches packed quite a weight.

“Questioning people for a story is different from
trying to get information about the murder out of them.”
Detective Billie landed a right jab to the side with
that one.

Anita remained standing. “Interviewing people isn’t
against the law. And in the course of questioning them,
we can’t anticipate that everything they say won’t touch
on the murder,” she countered with her own effective
punch.

“Revealing information that could tip off the murderer
could blow my whole investigation.” He landed a double
blow with that one.

“Withholding information from the public could enable the murderer to strike again.” Anita went on the offense. “I’m sure that’s the last thing you’d want to
happen”

“Are you questioning my ability to protect the people
of Coral Island?” He did a neat sidestep, but her last
punch had obviously winded him a bit.

“Nope. But people need to know the truth” Anita
knew she had him on the run now and moved in for the
kill. “Then they can protect themselves.”

“This kind of murder wasn’t a burglary or theft.
There’s no serial killer lurking in the palm fronds-and
to suggest there is could incite people on the island to panic unnecessarily.” Detective Billie managed to land
a verbal hit dead on target with that one.

Anita turned silent. Detective Billie radiated triumph. I stood in awe. Sandy, of course, had missed the
entire match and, unfortunately, I hadn’t had the time
or forethought to videotape the whole thing for slowmotion replay later.

“We’ll conduct ourselves with responsible journalism. I can promise you that” Anita’s thin-lipped mouth
curved upward on one side, causing the mass of tiny
wrinkles around her lips to deepen. She knew she had
him. No matter what he threw at her, she’d still be
standing.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Anita.” Detective Billie’s voice held a stern warning.

“You’ve got it, buddy” She pulled out her pack of
Camels and lit up.

“What about Ms. Monroe?”

“What about her?”

“Yeah, what about me?” I finally found my voice.

“You need to make sure that she understands the
boundaries of what she can and can’t do on an interview.” He flicked a hand in my direction.

“I told you, Everett volunteered the information he
gave me,” I insisted, heartened by Anita’s recent victory. “I repeat, I didn’t badger him.”

Detective Billie swung his attention back to me. His
straight, black eyebrows were no longer leveled in an angry line. “Okay, Ms. Monroe. I believe you, but I’m
also warning you to keep your interviews on the up and
up-no information about the murder leaked to the
public without police consent”

“Sure” I nodded for emphasis.

“All right, then” He adjusted his tie and yanked on the
sleeves of his jacket. The motions were controlled, but I
could sense the frustration behind his movements. He
was a rock-with his hard-planed face and obsidiancolored eyes, but Anita was a scrappy, scrawny tree-the
kind that bent in the wind, but then righted itself and
slapped you in the face. She’d always win because she
knew how to deflect the force that came at her. Detective
Billie had a bull-like stubbornness that caused him to
charge in, head down, face forward. He had integrity, but
she had cunning. And cunning would always win out.

“Well, now, that’s cleared up, do you have a statement for the press?” Anita inquired as she took a long
drag on her cigarette.

A long paused ensued. Then, surprisingly, a low rumble of laughter erupted from Detective Billie. “Nothing
at this time.”

“I hear you” She winked at him. “See you later,
Nick.”

“Not if I see you first,” he responded, humor still lingering in his face. “By the way, it’s illegal to smoke in
a public building.”

“Uh-huh.” She waved him off with her cigarette and
returned to her office.

Nick shook his head, then held out a folder in my di- rection. “I almost forgot. This is a transcript of the
statement that you gave to me two days ago. Look it
over and see if there is anything you want to change”

“Right now?” I took it from him, carefully avoiding
touching his fingers. “I’ve got a story that I’m on a
deadline to finish.”

He shrugged. “You can look it over and drop it by the
station later.”

“Thanks” I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate
on the statement if he loomed over me. I was too aware
of him, too distracted by the woodsy scent of his aftershave, too unsettled by his dark eyes.

“Don’t let Anita persuade you into doing things that
you know are wrong. A newspaper story is one thing
but, when it comes to solving a crime, that’s police
business-period.”

“I’ve got it already. All right?”

“All right.” He paused, as though he was going to say
something else, but then changed his mind. “Are you
doing … okay?”

I clutched the folder to my chest. “I guess so-for
someone who found a dead body.”

“Believe it or not, I understand. Murder is never an
easy thing to accept” A shadow passed over his features, completely erasing all traces of humor.

“But you’re a cop-you deal with this kind of thing
all the time.”

“Not really.” He shook his head. “Killing people doesn’t happen on my watch-and I don’t intend to let
it happen again.” His voice hardened as his glance
caught and held mine captive.

Something turned over inside of me. I wasn’t quite
sure what it was. It could’ve been a spark of attraction.
Or maybe a flicker of sensual excitement. Or maybe
even indigestion. Who knows? But the tremor of emotion behind his words touched me in a way I couldn’t
pinpoint.

We stood there for a few moments, not moving, our
eyes locked together.

“Hey, Nick, how are ya doing?” Sandy finally broke
the spell as she spun around in her chair and removed
her iPod.

“Fine-I was just leaving,” he answered. “Make sure
you drop off that transcript, Ms. Monroe.” The reserved,
by-the-book cop persona was back in place. He strode
toward the door and was gone before I could say, “Have
a nice day” Thanks a lot, Sandy.

“Did I miss anything?” Sandy asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Not really.”

“Good.” Humming, she put her iPod in the top
drawer of her desk. “I was so into a deep TM state that
time. My new meditation tape is really wonderful-the
guy who did it studied at some ashram in India.”

“Wow.” I didn’t know the least bit about ashrams, but
I figured it must have something to do with personal
growth, weight loss, and/or both.

Sandy’s features assumed their usual serene compo- sure. “I’m going to use the computer for awhile, all
right?”

“Sure. I have to see someone. Just save what I was
working on to the hard drive.” I’d wrap it up later. Right
now, I needed to talk to the person who I trusted more
than anyone on the planet: my great aunt Lily.

Minutes later, I was driving toward the southeast part
of the island called Franklin’s Grove. My great aunt
and several other families had moved there during the
1920s when it was a bustling little settlement, complete
with a warehouse on the waterfront, a post office and
school. Originally, Aunt Lily and her husband, with
four other homesteader families, owned eighty acres.
They produced some of the best citrus in all of Southern Florida.

Unfortunately, when the depression hit in the thirties, Franklin’s Grove declined.

Most of the families moved away and their groves fell
into disrepair, but Aunt Lily stayed. She survived three
hurricanes, a world war, and the loss of her husband.
But she never gave up her land. About ten years ago, she
replaced the citrus with mango and lychee nut trees, tapping the new market for exotic fruit. It wasn’t exactly a
thriving venture, but she made a living. She got by.

I steered Rusty down the shell and limestone road
that led to her house. It stood smack dab in the middle
of her grove-a whitewashed, one-storied dwelling with
a porch across the front and a tin roof. As soon as I saw
the familiar structure nestled among the pine trees, a warm feeling flooded through me, and I remembered
why I’d come to the island a month ago with my
Airstream and my teacup poodle. This was the only
place I’d ever felt a sense of peace as a kid.

The memories of brief summer vacations spent
picking fruit rose up in my mind. I could still smell the
sweet scent of June bloom oranges as I twisted them off
of the branches and tossed them into large wooden baskets. Feel the sensation of heavy, tropical rain when it
would plaster my shirt against my chest. Remember
what it was like to run barefoot all day and stay up half
the night. Earthy. Elemental. Soul-stirring. I was never
constrained by rules and manners and the “right” way
of doing things like at home.