Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (11 page)

Okay, I’d stop at the Coral Island Police Station first,
and I prayed to the god of used cars, St. Otto-Mobiles,
that Rusty would start up again.

Minutes later, I breezed into the station-a onestory wooden structure on pilings, freshly painted in a
pale shade of green, and meticulously landscaped with
native plants. A lovely blast of heat greeted me.

Cindy Hinson, Nick Billie’s new receptionist (the previous one had moved to Tampa to marry a Greek sponge
diver), sat there typing away on her computer. Efficient,
with short, spiky hair and a pleasant smile, she nodded
in my direction. “How you doing, Mallie?”

“Pretty good.” I smiled back and cleared my throat.
“Is Detective Billie in?”

“He’s on the phone with the medical examiner.” She
clicked a button, and the printer started up. “Help yourself to some coffee. I just made a fresh pot.”

My heart leaped in excitement-both because of the
rich coffee aroma that penetrated my thawing nasal cavities and the news that Nick might be getting the lowdown on Marco’s cause of death. Fabu.

I poured myself a large cup of the dark liquid and
inhaled. It had a vague autumn smell, unlike the cheap
industrial stuff we brewed in the Observer office.

“Pumpkin Spice.” Cindy held up her own cup almost
like a trophy. “I finally convinced Nick that flavored
coffees would make the office seem more appealing.”

“I could use a cup back here.” A voice trailed out of
the back area where the two jail cells were located.

“Tattooed Al?”

She nodded as she moved over to the coffeepot and
filled a foam cup. “They caught him biking near the
Island Hardware store. I guess his poncho had blown off
in the wind, so he was trekking down the main road in
nothing but his birthday suit.”

“Yikes-in this cold?”

“Yep.” She moved toward the cells, shaking her head.

“You’ve got to be one sick puppy to brave this cold
on a bicycle, much less without a stitch of clothing,” I
replied, curling my hands around the mug to warm
them up.

“You can say that again,” a deep voice boomed from
behind me.

Nick.

Slowly, I turned around, almost afraid to see the contemptuous expression that I had earned with my shoddy
behavior last night.

But as my gaze moved toward his face, I felt a jolt of
surprise. He simply looked disappointed-and disinterested. Ouch.

“I … uh … wanted to talk with you about an incident yesterday. You know I was having lunch at Little
Tuscany when Marco Santini died. Actually, I was sharing a meal with Madame Geri and checking on her son,
Jimmy, who, as you know, works as a waiter there. I had
the spaghetti, and Madame Geri had pasta… .” I took
in a deep breath, knowing I was in complete motormouth overdrive, but I couldn’t stop myself. Nervous
didn’t even begin to describe how I felt at this moment.
More like complete, stroke-out anxiety. “Anyway, I saw
Marco die, and … I was curious to know if you’d heard
anything about the cause of death, because it sure
looked like he’d had some kind of allergic reaction-“

“Okay, much as I’d like to see you talk yourself into
some kind of frenzy,” he cut in, rubbing his forehead, “I
don’t think I can take it right now after the morning I
had arresting Al. It took me half an hour to find his poncho before I could even think about allowing him to sit
in my truck. Too weird. That would’ve silenced even
your nonstop chattering.”

I offered a sheepish smile. “I guess you know me
pretty well.”

“Not as well as I thought.” His eyes darkened.

“Nick, all I can say is I’m sorry-“

“For two-timing me on our date night?”

“That’s not exactly true,” I protested, standing as tall
as I could in my running shoes, so he didn’t loom over
me. “We aren’t exactly dating, and Cole is … well, an
old friend.”

“Really?” Nick watched my face, as if it were some
kind of puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Really.” I guess I couldn’t blame him for being confused. I didn’t know how all the pieces fit together either.
“Sure, Cole and I were a couple a few years ago, but he
left to find himself. Then he reappeared, and now …
we’re just good companions.” I forcibly clamped my
mouth shut, so I wouldn’t say any more. “But we’ve had a
history, and he’s fun, and …”

He paused, waiting for me to finish, but I didn’t know
how to complete the thought.

“I get it: you’re friends with benefits.” He stressed the
last word with an ironic tone.

“No way.”

Right at that moment, Cindy reappeared. She halted,
obviously having heard Nick’s comment. She wavered
for a few moments. “I’ll check back with Al. He might
want another cup of coffee-“

“It’s okay,” Nick said. “We were just about to go into
my office, so I could give Mallie a statement for her
story.” He took my elbow and steered me into the next
room, closing the door behind us.

Taking a seat, I sipped my coffee while Nick moved
around his desk and flipped through some files. The silence stretched between us like a rubber band, tight and
strained.

“Are you actually going to give me a statement about
Marco’s cause of death?” I finally asked.

‘No.

I drained my cup and set it on his desk with a loud
thud. “So what was the point in bringing me in here?”

He looked up and caught my gaze. “To make you
squirm.”

“Okay, I deserved that, but can we at least get back
on a more professional footing for now?” I continued,
not sure I could take all of this emotional intensity.

“Fine with me.” He slapped the files into a neat stack.

He’s still bummed out and angry.

Despite the awkwardness, a tiny whisper of delight
fluttered inside my heart.

He cares.

Trying to hide my response, I leaned down and retrieved my Official Reporter’s Notebook, along with a
pen. “Did you get anything from the medical examiner
about Marco’s death?” I straightened and held the pen
poised above my notebook, trying to appear official and
ready for business.

He folded his hands on top of the files and said
nothing.

“Could you be more specific?” I kidded. “The paramedic told me he likely had anaphylaxis-probably because of some kind of allergic reaction.” I tightened my
grip on the pen.

Tapping his thumbs together, he still said nothing.

“Can I take that as a `No comment’?”

“Yes.”

Okay, now he’s just being stubborn. I chewed on the
pen, trying to come up with a tactic that would get Nick
to be more forthcoming. I set the ballpoint on his desk.
“You know, when I saw Marco stumble out of the kitchen
yesterday, he was clawing at his throat and coughing
like he was choking. Wouldn’t he have known what was
happening if he had this kind of extreme allergy?” I
grasped my neck with both hands and imitated the gagging reflex that Marco had exhibited, tongue out and
coughing. “It kind of looked like that.” I repeated the
motion.

“Stop. I can’t stand to see the replay.” He held up a
hand. “Look, Mallie, I don’t have anything definitive
from the medical examiner, except that what the paramedics told you at Little Tuscany was probably Marco’s
cause of death. The ME said he had hives and a swollen
throat, both common for someone with an extreme reaction to shellfish.”

“Like shrimp or lobster?” I retrieved my pen again.

He tipped his head in agreement.

“But wouldn’t Marco have known that he was allergic to shellfish? Especially because he worked with food
for a living.”

“I would think so”

“So that means someone might’ve secretly put shellfish in his food to cause the allergic reaction that killed
him,” I proposed, trying to construct a logical reason for
Marco to have eaten shellfish, my thoughts racing a mile
a minute.

“That’s always a possibility,” Nick responded enigmatically.

“It also fits with the incident that occurred at Le Sink
last night,” I added, half to myself.

His glance sharpened. “What do you mean ‘incident’?”

I hesitated. “I was at Le Sink after you and Cole
left-“

“Oh, yeah, I heard you took up with Pop Pop as your
main squeeze.” He gave a snort of laughter.

“How many times do I have to say that I’m not dating
Pop Pop?” I slapped my thigh for emphasis as the heat of
irritation rose to my face. “This damn island grapevine
is a creeping weed of misinformation. To think I would
date a guy old enough to be my grandfather. Jeez.”

“Stranger things have happened.” He still sported the
vague remnants of a wry smile. “But back to the `incident.’ And please keep it under a thousand words, if
possible.”

“I’ll try.” Sarcasm thickened my voice. After gathering my thoughts, I related the particulars of the fight
between Guido and Kyle-and my own heroic role in
wielding the broom.

Nick scribbled a few notes as I talked.

When I was finished, I peered across his desk and
tried to read what he’d jotted down. “Is Guido in
trouble?”

“He started a public fight.”

“But he didn’t really hurt Kyle-“

“I’ll talk to both of them.” His tone was clipped and
final. “Just let me do my job.”

“Okay.” I pursed my mouth. “But what if Guido was
right? Maybe Kyle put the shellfish in Marco’s food to
poison him. I heard there was some kind of trouble between Kyle’s mother and Marco-“

“Mallie”-Nick leaned forward-“I want you to stick
to the facts in your story. Francesca Bernini hasn’t done
anything to warrant her being considered as a suspect”

“So you are initiating an investigation?” I prompted.

“Maybe.”

Damn. Back to the one-word answers.

“You’ve had my statement for the Observer,” he
added.

At least that was a full sentence. “By the way, I’m not
exactly writing a news story on Marco’s death at Little
Tuscany.”

“Then what is this interview all about?”

“I’m doing a restaurant review series leading up to
`Taste of the Island,’ and the first reviews are covering
Le Sink and Little Tuscany-“

“You’re now a food critic?” His brow rose in disbelief. “I’ve never seen you eat anything but fast food and
microwave dinners.”

“True, but I can tell the difference between fresh
grouper and frozen fish sticks,” I hastened to add. So what
if my palate wasn’t gourmet? At least I’d read a copy of
the magazine once.

“On a good day,” Nick quipped as he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “What was Anita thinking?”

I rose to my feet with some indignation. “She believes
in me-something that would be kind of refreshing
from you.”

“I guess I’d have to trust you first.”

“Trust comes from commitment.”

We just stared at each other for a long moment, both
knowing we weren’t talking about the restaurant reviews
any longer. It seemed like we were back at square one,
with Nick being cagey and me being disappointed.

Sigh.

I tossed my notebook and pen into my bag. “One last
thing: do you think it’s strange that Marco died the day
after his brother, Carlos, passed away?”

“Conspiracy theory?”

“Nope. Madame Geri prophecy.”

“That explains it.” He picked up a file. “I have one of
these on both brothers, and while they didn’t like each
other, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary about either death.” He tossed the file back onto his desk. “Marco’s possible allergies aside, Carlos weighed in at the
size of a Mack truck and had congestive heart failure. He
could barely stand in the ice cream store for more than
ten minutes. The poundage and high-fat food aren’t
exactly a healthy combination-even if he did seem
happy all the time.”

“True.” I remembered his jovial face as he scooped
my favorite maple walnut flavor into a sugar cone. He certainly didn’t seem like he was stressed, but all of that
girth might have been enough to do him in.

Still, Madame Geri’s words flitted through my mind.
Much as I hated to admit it, she had a sixth sense about
untimely deaths-and the kind of secrets that people
would do anything to hide.

I heaved my hobo bag strap over my shoulder. “I might
talk to Beatrice, just to check on facts for my review, of
course.”

“Just make sure you keep the conversation about
food.” He eyed me with a suspicious glint. “And remember, she just lost her father and uncle in the same week.”

“I’m not totally insensitive,” I said in a defensive tone.

“You could’ve fooled me.”

I pivoted on my heel and left. While Nick’s anger
might mean he cared about me, it would be a long while
before he forgot about being two-timed, as he called it. I
had blown it.

Feeling somewhat deflated, I braved the chilly wind
and climbed back into my truck. Maybe it was best not
to focus so much on my pathetic love life and, instead,
figure out what had happened to Carlos and Marco. I
might have a better chance of success, that’s for sure.

Sending a silent appeal to St. Otto again, I tentatively
turned the ignition key. Rusty’s engine roared into action.
Yippee. I guess my saint ally had given me my answer:
I had to find the connection between the two brothers’
deaths.

Far be it from me to argue with the universe. I’d head to the Island Garage to get a new battery, and then I’d
question Beatrice.

Time to get to work.

Luckily, Stan had a battery to fit the make and model of
my ancient rust bucket, so my stop at the garage didn’t
take too long. While waiting, I texted Sandy to get Beatrice’s phone number, then called her to see if I could
stop by and chat. When Beatrice hesitated, I told her I
worked at the Observer and hinted that Guido might
need me to be on his side as a witness to the fight at Le
Sink.

She immediately acquiesced and gave me the address
of her family’s house.

It took only a few minutes to get to Beatrice’s neighborhood. Located in an older section of the island called
Palmetto Place, I quickly pinpointed the midsized stuccoed dwelling that looked like it might have been transplanted from Tuscany. The house was the only one on
the street painted the same pink color as the restaurant,
with Mediterranean arches across the front facade. The
mailbox also had the name SANTINI printed in large
letters.