Coastal Corpse

by Marty Ambrose

  “Guess so, if it’s picked up by the kind of rag that publishes stories about people being abducted by six-toed aliens.” I waved my hand in a gesture of dismissal. “The town-council election is our headline.”

  “Local yokel election? What a bore.” Bernice Sanders stood at the door.

  Uh-oh.

  My caution turned to disbelief as I took in her “new look.” Bernice had traded her tacky nautical garb for a shoulder-length blond wig, white, leather mini-dress, and platform shoes—topped off by twin silver snake bracelets that wrapped around each forearm. “How do you like my outfit? It’s my new Lady Gaga get-up.”

  “Stunning,” Madame Geri enthused.

  “Uh . . . I’m speechless.” I had to give her kudos for donning skintight leather when she was on the down side of sixty.

  “Too cute, huh?” Bernice twirled around to give us a view from all angles. “Now that Anita married that moron, Benton, I realized she’d be flaunting the old coot in my face till I was hooked up with a guy, too. So I updated my look and got on a ‘Singles over Sixty’ online dating group. So far, I’ve had ten hits.” She grinned. “Can you believe that I’m not married when my butt-ugly twin is enjoying wedded bliss?”

  “Go figure,” I agreed, still mesmerized by the vision of her slightly plump body and saggy knees emphasized by the short hemline.

  “I stopped by ’cause Sandy just called me and said you needed an extra hand while Anita’s gone.”

  Double traitor.

  Madame Geri nodded and motioned her over to our desks. Then, she raised the phone to her ear and finally resumed her conversation with Joe Earl.

  After leveling a glare at Madame Pseudo-Psychic, I turned back to Bernice. “It’s fine, really. We have it under control.”

  “Don’t be a dork, Miss Priss. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re in over your head,” Bernice said as she strolled in our direction. “And let’s not forget that I edited this sorry excuse for a newspaper for over a week—”

  “Your biggest executive decision was to put a tree stump in the middle of the office to get the owner to buy advertising,” I reminded her, seething at the all-too-familiar “Miss Priss” misnomer.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” She placed one hand on her hip and assumed the “teacup” Hollywood posture. “The client bought half-page ads—with color, no less. That dope sister of mine has never understood that money drives the media, just like everything else in this world.”

  I hated to admit it, but she had a point. Her marketing tactics had attracted bucks like termites to wood (literally, in the case of the stump) and the Observer couldn’t survive without the advertising dollars.

  “Sis might have Benton bankrolling her, but every gravy train derails at some point,” she continued with a sage nod, adjusting her bracelets. “When the honeymoon glow wears off and her new hubby reverts to el cheapo bosso again, she might find herself struggling to keep this dumpy newspaper afloat.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was more alarmed at the thought of the newspaper being in financial distress or Anita enjoying any type of “glow” with Mr. Benton.

  “My sister’s lack of vision aside,” Bernice said. “I was a good manager/editor then, and I’ll be an even better reporter now.”

  Chewing my lower lip with uncertainty, I eyed Madame Geri’s face, kindled with animation as she questioned Joe Earl. “Do you think there might be an Abe thumbprint on the frets?”

  I heard a mumbled answer emit from her phone.

  Was that going to be my headline after all?

  Bernice followed my glance, and a self-satisfied expression appeared on her face. “You know I’m your best shot right now.”

  Still, I hesitated. Could anyone have predicted that the office staff would decline so quickly into this motley duo?

  “All right,” I said, finally giving in.

  “Smokin’!” She rubbed her hands together and smacked her lips as she headed toward the back of the office. “First thing, we need some heat in here—it’s freezing.”

  Marley squawked, and they eyed each other as if weighing an opponent for potential combat. Glances locked, Bernice edged around him on her way to the thermostat, never turning her back to him. Eventually, she was the one to break off the starefest. I swear that damned parrot puffed out his chest and preened in smug delight.

  “Icksnay, ArleyMay,” she quipped in her best Pig Latin after cranking up the furnace. “What’s that collar around his neck?”

  Madame Geri mouthed “pet pager” silently.

  “She likes to keep tabs on him, even though he rarely leaves her side,” I said, tossing an Official Reporter’s Notepad in my hobo bag; it disappeared in the jumble of gum, pens, and cherry Chap Stick. I liked to travel heavy. “By the way, Anita doesn’t like the temperature above sixty-five degrees. It costs too much, and Mr. Benton reviews the electric bill personally every month.”

  “I’m not working in an igloo when I’ve got a big story to write.” Bernice flipped the long strands of her wig and turned back towards me. “So, do you want to hear my blockbuster news story or what?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Bernice kept going. “ ‘Bicycle Bandit Strikes Again.’ Here’s what happened: two Schwinn bikes were lifted right off my neighbors’ lanai over the weekend—in broad daylight. Then, this morning a kid’s training wheels went missing. So, I’m calling him the ‘bicycle bandit.’ Home run of a headline, huh?”

  Oh, yeah. Pulitzer Prize all the way.

  Madame Geri finally hung up on the Joe Earl conversation. “More like a foul ball compared to my story. Take a look at this.” She thrust the photo of Joe Earl and his tattered violin in Bernice’s face.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Her heavily made-up eyes widened. “As I live and breathe. Abe Lincoln.”

  “Not you, too?” Shaking my head, I sprinted for the door before I could hear another word of nuttiness.

  “You know, I’ve got a shriveled-up mango in my fridge that’s the spittin’ image of George Washington,” Bernice said.

  Too late.

  While driving to the town-hall meeting at the north end of Coral Island, I took the opportunity to clear my mind of everything I had just heard over the last thirty minutes. Then I repeated my “muggatoni mantra” again for good measure in case I had a flashback. Unfortunately, chanting about pasta only made me hungry, so I had to hit the island Dairy Queen drive-thru for a burger—with fries.

  Luckily, I was one of those skinny-minnie body types that rarely gained weight. Unfortunately, I also had the flat chest to go with it. Metabolism karma.

  Once I’d downed the mouth-watering fast food, I resumed my calming mantra on a full stomach and headed north on Cypress Drive—the island’s main drag—hoping against hope that this election story would be exciting enough for a headline.

  My ancient Ford truck, affectionately named Rusty (for obvious reasons), chugged along as I kept reminding myself that I’d learned a lot from Anita over the last two years, and I could turn a tree planting into front-page material. And there was always the Abe Lincoln feature or the bicycle-bandit headline to fill in the gap if I bottomed out.

  I promptly rammed down the gas pedal and hit Rusty’s maximum speed of fifty-five mph.

  My cell phone rang, and I checked the number: Sandy the Traitor.

  I flipped it open. “How could you do this to me? You and Jimmy called the last two people I’d ever want working at the Observer: Madame Geri and Bernice. They barged into the office like they owned it. Even worse, they came up with some half-baked stories on a bicycle bandit and a haunted violin—”

  “You mean Joe Earl’s Abe Lincoln fiddle?”

  I could hear the awe in her voice and rolled my eyes.

  “Mallie, that will make a great headline. I’ve seen it, and Abe’s face is all over that violin. It’s eerie.”

  Groaning, I hung up on her for the second time that day. My fingers clenched on the steering wheel. As Senior Reporter,
I knew I could find a lead on something better than what those two had in mind.

  The bankrupt septic-cleaning company was looking better and better as a possible lead story.

  Almost at the point where Cypress Drive dead-ended on Coral Island Sound, I spied the familiar town-hall building where I’d attended numerous council meetings: a raised, wooden structure, with lattice work covering the lower part and an exterior painted sea-foam green. Tall royal palm trees fanned both sides of the front stairs in an arching embrace, sweeping fronds just barely touching the roof. The whole ambience breathed a laid-back tropical feel, but the real truth was the actual council gatherings generally consisted of endless discussions on bike-path repairs, zoning ordinances, and road maintenance. Major tedium—but the bread and butter of every small-town reporter’s stories.

  I couldn’t zone out completely during the meetings, but I did spend a lot of my time daydreaming about cracking a hard-hitting story that had some teeth to it.

  Pulling into the parking lot, Jimmy Buffet’s song “A Pirate Looks at Forty” wafted out, and I couldn’t resist a grin. Everyone in the town hall had passed the midlife milestone long ago—with nary a pirate in sight. I clicked off the engine and Rusty responded with a backfire of smoke accompanied by a wicked rattle before going silent.

  My truck had seen that age, too.

  Jogging up the steps, I dropped the truck keys in my bag and pulled out my notepad.

  “Hey, Mallie. You’re a dollar short and day late—typical.” Everett Jacobs, the island’s resident curmudgeon, limped past me on his cane. Quickly, I swerved to the side since he was known to smash a toe or two with the rubber tip. He sported his usual outfit of plaid, knee-length shorts, sports shirt, socks, and black wing tips. I’d known him from my early days on the island when I’d been the target of his surly quips, and he hadn’t changed much, except he’d become a little more bent since having knee replacement.

  “Don’t tell me the meeting is over already?” I asked, my heart sinking.

  “It is for me,” he tossed off, hobbling along. “I couldn’t listen to one more word of Travis Harper’s and Bucky McGuire’s boring garbage talk about ‘marketing the island,’ or some such nonsense. Those two councilmen wannabees are just plain stupid. The last thing we need are more tourists. I hate ’em.”

  Relieved I hadn’t missed my story chance, I commented, “They do bring money to the island.”

  “If people lived more frugally, they wouldn’t need extra cash.” He headed toward his ancient Chevy sedan, parked sideways so he took up two spaces. Typical. “I still have my black and white TV, and haven’t thrown away a single sandwich baggie in ten years. There’s nothing wrong with recycling your own plastic and foil; that stuff is good for years.”

  Ugh. “Catch you later.” Waving him off, I entered the building. The first thing I noticed was the audience section contained the usual twenty people, most of whom were well over seventy, with a Bud Light in hand. Then, I realized they were all riveted on the spectacle before them on the podium: two men and two women sat behind the table, and my great-aunt Lily was positioned in the center, banging a gavel as she shouted, “Order. I will have order.” Her comments seemed to be directed at the two men on her left, who were shouting at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

  I blinked in amazement. Everett thought this scene was boring?

  Eagerly I sprinted forward, pen in hand.

  I didn’t know either of the men, but presumed they were Bucky and Travis: one guy middle-aged, short, with a receding hairline; the other one pushing seventy, tall, with a monk’s pate bald spot (at least, they had something in common). The younger one had plastered a couple of hair strands on top of his head in the dreaded comb-over, which looked like limp seaweed glued to his scalp.

  “You’re full of it, Travis!” Mr. Comb-over spat out in a gravelly voice as he stood up.

  “Bucky, I refuse to respond to that type of insulting, unpleasant discourse,” the old guy drawled in a southern accent as he rose to his feet, drawing himself to his full height with an indignant tug of his navy sports jacket. “My position on the issue of the island recreational center passes remains unchanged: only residents who live on the island can get permits to use the swimming pool; otherwise, we’ll be attracting riffraff from town who want to use our facilities. It just makes plain, good, old-fashioned common sense.”

  “Crapola!”

  Travis’s face flushed, but he kept his features composed. “The response of a small man.”

  Bucky thrust out his barrel chest and stomped his high-heeled cowboy boots. “Are you calling me short?”

  “If the shoe lift fits . . .” Travis glanced down his patrician nose as if beholding some type of insect.

  “All right, that’s it.” Bucky held up his arms and curled his hands into fists. “We’re going outside to settle this, man to man.”

  A few spectators urged them on by raising their Buds and murmuring a chorus of “Do it!”

  “Fine.” Travis began to shrug out of his well-fitted, navy jacket. “I’m warning you that I was a Golden Gloves boxer in college.”

  “Big deal.” Bucky sneered.

  Aunt Lily finally rose to her feet, gavel still in hand. “No one is going anywhere. This is an election, not a prize fight. And you two should be ashamed of this display. There are children in the audience, for goodness sake.” She pointed the mallet at a young girl with braided hair and sweet, delicate features drawn tight with fear. “What’s the matter with the two of you?”

  The crowd murmured in abashed agreement.

  “He started it,” Bucky said.

  “I did not,” Travis replied.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Aunt Lily leveled her doyenne-of-theisland stern glance at both of them. “Just sit down and stick to the election issues, or I’ll have Sam deal with you.” She nodded in the direction of the island’s Zen handyman who worked for her and looked like Gandhi on steroids: shaved head, pierced ear, and rope-like muscles on his forearms. He also had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.

  Sam had taught me how to do a roundhouse kick, how to punch through plywood, and how to use my mantra in times of stress. My sensei.

  He stood up; he didn’t need to do more.

  Bucky and Travis immediately sat down.

  I tried not to react, but my lips curved upwards almost of their own volition.

  My great-aunt was formidable—in a genteel sort of way—but, with Sam at her side, she could take over a small nation. Petite and still slim in her “golden years” (no age, please), she possessed the same red hair that had been passed on to me, except hers had dimmed from the color of a fire engine to a faded hydrant. But her freckles still stood out vividly against her porcelain complexion, and her eyes shone as brightly blue. I adored her.

  “I’m the chair of this town council, and I intend to get this meeting back on track!” She shook a finger at Travis and Bucky, but then flashed a little wink in my direction. “If you two can’t behave like adults, I’ll have you thrown out of here and your candidacy declared null and void.”

  They both hung their heads in wordless submission. Sam eased back down and quiet descended on the room.

  “Now, let’s resume our debate—with no more temper tantrums, please.” Aunt Lily slid into her chair once more with a graceful glide and rapped the gavel on the wooden block. “As all of you know, we have two of our three seats open for town council. Bucky and Travis are running against each other for one seat—that is, if they don’t get disqualified—and Destiny Ransford and Wanda Sue are running for the other one.”

  I blinked. Wanda Sue?

  Scanning the rest of the podium table, I spotted my Twin Palms RV Park landlady, her familiar yellow beehive lighting up the room like a beacon of goodwill. In all the chaos, I hadn’t even noticed her. She pumped her arms in the air, making V for Victory signs, causing the ruffles in her low cut, cha-cha dress to shake and shimmy. Wow. Wanda Sue’s curves took center stage,
and it appeared from the appreciative whistles she might win by a landslide.

  “I thought we were supposed to maintain a sense of decorum,” the dark-haired woman next to Wanda Sue said and thumped her paper badge that said “Hi, My Name Is Destiny Ransford.” She appeared to be about my age, but was much better dressed, coiffed, and made-up (sigh). “I object to my opponent’s . . . uh . . . over-the-top display just now.”

  I guessed by “display” that she meant the cleavage. It was impressive.

  “Just getting in the campaign spirit.” Wanda Sue shook her ruffles again and pointed at the “Elect Wanda Sue for You” button. “That’s the way we do it in the south—with big hair and big style.”

  Destiny pursed her mouth and scanned up and down Wanda Sue with a contemptuous eye. “Speaking of ‘big,’ I refuse to let my campaign be supported by big business on Coral Island. Everyone knows that the Island Hardware store owners contributed large amounts of money to your run for the council seat, and it’s morally bankrupt because election guidelines say no one should take more than five hundred dollars.”

  Here we go.

  “I am not bankrupt. My RV Park makes plenty of money—now,” Wanda Sue huffed.

  “That was a reference to your ethics.” Destiny raised her chin in a belligerent posture. “And your wealthy supporters. I’m sure you’ll be giving them kickbacks if you’re elected—”

  “That’s a lie!” Wanda Sue exclaimed, her normally kind features kindling with anger. “You’ll say anything to get on the town council—”

  “Except wear cheap, sleazy outfits.”

  “All right, let’s take it outside, Miss Prim and Proper Know-it-All.” Wanda Sue lifted her fists.

  “Any time, Wanda Sue.” Destiny lifted her chin.

  A collective gasp went through the room.

  “Quiet!” Aunt Lily pounded the gavel repeatedly. “I will have an orderly meeting, if I have to expel all of the candidates and have a meeting with myself.” Her nostrils flared with anger. “No one is allowed to speak until I say so. Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to ask each candidate to read a statement for three minutes, and no one else is allowed to speak. No interruptions. No questions. No comments. Do all of you understand me?”