Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (23 page)

“Real love is right under your nose. Your neighbor T.J. is
available-and interested.”

Dawning realization touched the blond’s face, causing a wide
smile to appear. “Oh, my, you’re so right. He’s been there all
the time. Thank you so much”

I restrained myself from commenting.

Before Madame Geri could rearrange anyone else’s life, we
exited the restaurant and found Mama Maria standing just
inside the screen door of her house. “I knew you’d come. You
heard about Rivas.”

“Are you doing okay?” I moved toward her.

She opened the door and gestured for us to enter. “He
wasn’t arrested. Nick made that muy claro-very clear. Still,
I’m worried. Rivas has a temper. He could say something that
would make the police suspicious. But he would never have
hurt Gina-he loved her. The police took Rivas in because
they think someone k … k. . ” Her face crumpled, and the
words wouldn’t come.

“No need to say it. We know,” I reassured her.

“Madame Geri. It’s an honor,” Mama Maria said, giving a
little incline of her head as we stepped into the house.

Oh, not her too.

Madame Geri then did something that surprised me: she
gave Mama Maria a hug-and I could swear that stupid bird
even curled his wings around the grieving mother. Maybe I
was beginning to semi-hallucinate.

“Mama Maria, I need to talk with you,” I broke in, swallowing hard. The last thing I wanted to do was press her for
information, but it had to be done. “This must be incredibly
hard, with your daughter having died a few days ago and now
Rivas taken into the police station. But I need to ask you a few questions. They may seem a little odd, and you don’t have to
answer if you don’t want to, but it would help. My job is to
find out what happened, and I have a lead of sorts-“

Marley squawked.

“Keep him quiet,” I whispered.

“He will-if you can get to the point.” Madame Geri led
Mama Maria to a small sofa.

“I can’t help it. All the tension from today has shifted my
motormouth into overdrive.”

Seating myself next to Mama Maria, I took her hand and
clasped it tightly. “Let me try to be brief. Whoever did this
awful thing to Gina is still out there, and I think I know who
did it.”

Her hand tightened around my palm.

“Let me ask you a question: Did you ever hear Gina talking
to Homer Finch on the phone?”

Surprise touched her face. “Homer?” Her head tilted down
as she tried to remember. Minutes passed in silence. “I … I
don’t think so”

“Did she mention his name at all?” I pressed.

“Uh … no. Wait, yes, she did.” Mama Maria’s head came
up. “When she was reading about the history of Coral Island’s
mango groves, she asked me about Papa’s connection with Mr.
Harold Palmer and Judge Nathan Finch. They worked together
years ago in the Palmer groves”

“Did anything … unusual happen during that time when
your father worked in the Palmer groves?”

She shrugged. “I was just a girl then. And Papa got sick
soon after.”

“Were the men working on any kind of special project together?” I continued to push for answers. There had to be a connection. “Something that could’ve made Palmer a lot of money?
If so, your father might’ve been too sick to care, and Judge Finch was probably only too happy to cut him out of the profits.
Gina may have found out and then hired Homer as a smokescreen for confronting him.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Madame Geri pointed out.

So my theory wasn’t foolproof. “All I know is, Gina paid
Homer a small amount of money the morning she died, and it
wasn’t the usual legal fee”

Mama Maria rubbed her eyes in weariness. “This is all so
confusing. How can anything so far in the past relate to Gina’s
death?”

“My editor, Anita, always says `follow the money,’ and it’s
been my experience so far that she’s right. People will do almost anything when it comes to making big bucks”

“The spirit world has told me almost the same thing,”
Madame Geri added-quite unnecessarily.

“Okay, Mama Maria, let’s brainstorm,” I said. “Do you remember how the Palmers made all their money?”

“Si. They created new types of mangos that grew better and
tasted sweeter than any others. One was the best mango I’d
ever eaten: Palmer’s Pride. It tastes like no other mango-like
coconut and cinnamon.”

Something clicked in the back of my mind. The mango slices
that Gina gave me on the trail had those exact flavors Mama
Maria just described. “I think I’ve had that mango”

“Not possible.” Mama Maria waved a finger in dissent. “The
Palmers don’t sell it locally. It’s prized all over the world, so
they send it only to special places in Europe and Asia.”

“What does it look like?”

“Different from most mangos-very pale, almost milkycolored instead of the usual deep peachy-yellow.”

“Oh, yes!” I almost clapped. “Gina gave me some of that
mango on the trail, the morning she died. Did she have it when
she left the house?”

“No. I would’ve known”

“Where could she get some?”

“Only at the Palmer groves” Mama Maria’s startled eyes
locked onto mine. “She must’ve gone there before she had
breakfast at the restaurant”

I rose and began to pace the room, trying to piece together
a theory. “So, first thing in the morning, Gina went to the
Palmer groves and met Homer Finch. She gave him cash for
some kind of legal services, picked up a few mango slices …
and somehow a toxic pesticide wound up in her syringe.” My
heart began to beat faster. “Of course, they’d have pesticides
at a mango grove. It makes sense. Somehow, Homer got hold
of Gina’s purse and tampered with her insulin kit.”

“Homer Finch? It still feels wrong to me,” Madame Geri
chimed in.

I gave her a dismissive wave. “The spirit world doesn’t know
everything.”

Madame Geri snorted.

“I’m going over to the Palmers’ groves to see if I can find
any evidence.” I grabbed my canvas bag.

“Shouldn’t you call Nick Billie first?” Mama Maria inquired, wringing her hands.

“Not yet. All I’ve got is a theory. Let me see what I can dig
up, and then I’ll call him. Nobody knows that we’ve figured
out Homer Finch’s connection to Gina’s death, so we’ve got a
little time. Hopefully, Homer left some kind of evidence that
we can use to clear Rivas.” I smiled down at Mama Maria.
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m coming with you,” Madame Geri announced.

“No, stay here with Mama Maria. She needs you more than
I do. I’ll drive to the Palmers’ groves, look around, and be right
back, okay?”

Madame Geri frowned. “The spirit world urges caution.”

“Not to worry.” I raised my chin in a show of pride. “I’m a
trained professional journalist-and I have martial-arts training. I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.”
Swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I strode toward the door.
Then, I paused and turned. “Uh … where are the Palmers’
groves?”

Madame Geri sighed.

About thirty minutes later, with a couple of wrong turns
(Mama Maria’s directions were a bit imprecise), I found myself lurching down a two-lane shell road that I’d never driven
before.

The mango groves were located south of the island center
in a heavily agricultural area. Palm-tree farms mixed with exotic
nurseries, herb fields, and mango groves. Needless to say, the
roads had potholes that seemed more like black holes. Rusty
lurched and teetered. As my body pitched back and forth, I
prayed we made it there intact.

Since I’d never even purchased a potted plant, I had no reason to frequent this part of Coral Island. And, after today, I
vowed never to return if all my organs survived the punishing
ride.

Eventually, I spotted a sign decorated with multicolored
mangos that read PALMER’S GROVE. Unlike the places I’d just
passed, this acreage appeared very well kept. A row of neatly
trimmed areca palms stretched across the front of the property,
interspersed with decorative bougainvillea bushes. Beyond, vast
rows of mango trees stretched in either direction as far as I
could see.

I parked Rusty in front of a small frame building and looked
around. The place seemed deserted for lunchtime.

Perfect.

I could look around without any encumbrances.

Sliding out of my truck, I gave my cell phone a quick check
to see that I had plenty of battery power. That way, if anything
happened, I had Nick Billie on speed dial.

I moved toward the building, inhaling the balmy aroma of
mangos. Stronger than a scented flower, deeper than a perfume.
The fruits were everywhere. Scattered under the trees, heaped
in wooden crates, stacked in boxes. Mangotown.

Remembering the luscious taste of the mango slices still in
my fridge, my mouth began to water. I touched one; it was soft
and ripe, almost mushy, and ready to eat. Maybe later.

Tapping on the door, I took another nervous glance around.
Nick Billie would pitch a fit if he knew I was trespassing on
Palmer land just to find evidence. But I had to know the truth
about Homer Finch’s involvement in Gina’s death.

When no one answered, I found the door unlocked
and slipped inside. For a few moments, I gulped in the airconditioning provided by a small window unit. Gamely, it
chugged along, lowering the temperature from ninety-five
degrees to a cool ninety-marginal improvement at best.

I glanced around. The building appeared little more than a
large, unfinished storage shed. A long counter stood in the middle of the room with postal scales and sealing tape on top.
Sample bags of mango slices, similar to the one Gina had the
day she died, layered the bottom of a wooden tray. Proof. And
I had Gina’s bag in my fridge. I swiped a couple more-for
evidence, of course.

Then I threaded my way through shipping boxes with the label PALMER’S PRIDE that littered the floor. Obviously, this was
the spot where the Palmers dispatched their famous mango.

What about the pesticide?

Shelves lined the back of one wall, stocked with various
agricultural paraphernalia, from pruning sheers to Weedwhackers. I methodically checked each shelf, one by one, for a pesti cide container but found nothing. The adjacent room held
mango-filled boxes, ready to be mailed out. Nothing again.

Damn.

Maybe this was just a shipping center. But Gina had to have
stopped here the morning she died, and it was the only opportunity Homer had to put the pesticide in her syringe.

I checked my Mickey Mouse watch. Almost 1:00 P.M. People
would be trailing back from lunch, so I had to get out of there.

As I pivoted to leave, I spied a small bathroom off to the left
of the counter. Hesitating, I checked my watch again. Okay, I
had time for a peek.

I entered the tiny room and did a quick scan. Plain white
toilet (not too clean) and cabinet with sink (even dirtier). Ick.
I opened the cabinet doors and found only a stack of paper
towels. As I was about to close the doors, something caught
my eye.

A plastic container.

My heart began to beat a little faster. I took one of the paper
towels and edged the bottle out, so as to not tamper with any
fingerprints. The label read PESTICIDE: DANGEROUS IF SWALLOWED. Evidence?

All I had to do was call Nick Billie and get him over here to
secure a sample and see if it matched the pesticide found in
Gina’s blood.

I reached for my cell phone but couldn’t get a signal. Leaving the pesticide container, I rushed back into the main shipping room, frantically pressing the buttons on my cell phone.

“What are you doing here?” a man’s voice asked.

I looked up. It was Homer Finch.

Uh-oh.

… I might ask you the same question,” I stammered. He
didn’t appear to have a weapon. That, at least, was good news.

“You found out, didn’t you?” he inquired, his ferretlike face
taut with strain.

“I don’t know what you mean. I came here to … uh …
pick up some mangos. See?” I held up the plastic bags. “These
Palmer’s Prides are delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it.
I mean, the mango wasn’t really my favorite fruit, but once I
tried this, I was hooked. The blend of flavors is like something-“