“That’s not what the Jordan sisters said.” She smiled and snapped the rubber band on her wrist.
“What’s that for?”
“A little cognitive diet therapy. Every time I have a food craving, I snap the band.” She gave a little demonstration. “Eventually, I’ll come to associate food with pain and I won’t want to eat anymore.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic.
“Hey, kiddo. When are you going to get started on the story of Pete’s arrest?” Anita stood in the doorway to her little cubicle, bony arms folded across her chest.
Leave it to Anita to understand that I might need some down time to let yesterday’s events sink in. “He was arrested, but I don’t think he did it.”
“Not your problem,” she continued.
“It is when I was part of the arrest”
Her thin lips grew even thinner. “Your job is to report the news, not make it. Pete was arrested. He’s the prime suspect in Hillman’s murder. That’s your story.”
“I understand” Do the story, or I’m fired. Anita always reduced things to the simplest level. “But first I want to do a little digging this morning on a couple of loose ends. I don’t need to have the article done for a few days, and I want to make sure that I’ve followed up on all the leads on Hillman-“
“Suit yourself, but I’ll need time to edit your copy.” She ambled back into her cubicle. “I’ll be working on a story about the tropical storm damage, so unless someone charges in here with a gun, don’t disturb me”
I had a sudden, childish urge to stick my tongue out at her, but with my newfound sense of adult responsibility, I figured that was out. I satisfied my urge by giving her a surreptitious and extremely rude hand gesture under the desk.
“Sandy, can I use your phone? I need to make a call to Miami.”
“Sure. It’s time for my morning meditation.” She pulled out the iPod, clamped it over her head, and began doing that “ommmmmm” sound. I never could figure out what was relaxing about sounding like the signal on an emergency broadcast band, but who was I to argue with success? She wasn’t wearing any visible price tags this morning, so something was working.
I dialed the Miami number of Hillman’s “Little Brother” and a woman answered.
“Could I speak to Todd Griffith?” I asked in my most polite tone.
“Just a minute.” She covered the lower half of the phone, but I could still hear her scream out his name.
“I got it,” a young man’s voice came onto the line and the woman hung up.
“Hi, my name is Mallie Monroe and I work for the Coral Island Observer. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about Jack Hillman, if you don’t mind.”
A pause. “I guess I don’t.”
“I can tell by your tone that you must’ve heard about what happened to him.”
“Yeah, it was in the Herald. I was sorry ‘cause, you know, he was like a really good guy”
“So I’ve heard” At least from you, and that makes a majority of one. “How did you meet him?”
“He was my Big Brother when I was in middle school. I’d just lost my dad, and my mom was working full-time running a daycare. I was pretty mad at the world … and doing stuff that I shouldn’t have been doing. Anyways, Jack helped me, got me interested in sports, made me want to make something of myself.”
I jotted all of this down in my official reporter’s notepad.
“He even helped my mom go back to school so she could become a teacher. She got a job here in Miami and we moved in with my grandmother about three years ago”
“Did you keep in contact with Mr. Hillman?”
“Oh, yeah. He helped me with my college applications this year. I’m a freshman starting this fall.” A tinge of pride touched his voice. “Jack even set up a trust fund for me to help with the tuition, but I got a Bright Future’s Scholarship. Full ride and a stipend. I was going to tell him last week, but I was … too late”
“I’m sure he would’ve been proud of you, Todd” And I meant it. “Did Mr. Hillman ever say that he was having financial problems?”
“No. Leastways, I don’t think so. I know he was having trouble writing, but he said he’d found a `money tree’-that’s how he put it. And that I shouldn’t worry about affording college”
“Did he say what that `money tree’ was?”
“‘Fraid not.”
“Okay. Thanks, Todd, you’ve been a great help.”
“I hope they catch his killer … he’s got to be a real sicko.”
“Yeah, I agree” I hung up and spent a few minutes glancing over my notes. Hillman had found another way of making money. That was the key. “Follow the money,” Anita had said, and she was right. Wherever that cash was coming from-that’s where I’d find his murderer. And it sure wasn’t Pete.
The door swung open and my great aunt stepped in with Sam at her side. “How are you doing this morning, Mallie?” she inquired. “I don’t want you to think we’re checking up on you, but that’s exactly what we’re doing. Heard you had quite a time of it yesterday.”
“The Jordan sisters?”
“Who else?” She smiled. “They’ve staked out the picnic aisle at the Island Hardware, telling everybody who cares to listen about your part in the arrest yesterday”
“My part was small.”
“Not the way they tell it.”
I looked from her to Sam. He’d changed his “enigma” T-shirt for a wrinkled, white one that had some kind of Chinese inscription painted across the front in bold black. Still wearing the gold stud, he’d freshly trimmed his remaining hair to a close crop. Not quite the scruffy professor-merely tousled.
“Are you okay?” He seemed to be studying me as though I were a specimen under glass.
“I was pretty wiped out last night, but I’m all right today” I glanced over at Sandy. Eyes closed, humming away, she was in her own world. Good. I leaned in closer to Sam and Aunt Lily. “But I’m not sure Detective Billie arrested the right person. I don’t know. It seems off to me.”
“Best to let the police handle it.” Aunt Lily patted my hand. “Nick Billie knows what he’s doing.”
“What do you think, Sam?” I asked.
“Your aunt is a wise woman. Let events take their natural course. This is a police matter.”
“I guess so” Doubts still assailed me, but were they based in reality or the misguided hope that Pete wasn’t a murderer? “Maybe I just want to believe that Nora has a future with her husband that doesn’t include more jail time-or worse.”
“Mallie, remember when you were just a kid and you kept trying to catch bees?” Aunt Lily’s voice was quiet.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t give up.”
“Until you got stung. Then you stopped”
“I’ll say” I shuddered in remembrance. “My hand blew up like a baseball mitt.”
“Exactly. This is the same thing.” Aunt Lily wagged a wrinkled finger in my direction. “I don’t want to see you get stung.”
“I get it.” And I didn’t like it. Going off half cocked without any backup plan was my specialty. But I’d changed. At least I thought about what I was doing before I did it. That was a start.
“Let it be for a couple of days and see what happens,” she said.
“Okay,” I grudgingly gave in.
“Come over for dinner tonight and we’ll talk. You can fill us in on what happened yesterday. I’m sure the Jordan sisters left something out” She bent over my desk to plant a kiss on top of my head. “It’s that red hair, Carrot. It’s a curse”
“Takes one to know one”
She laughed. “We’ll see you later.”
“Hey, Sam, I forgot to thank you for the history book. I’m not sure how it relates to the murder, but I’ve learned a lot about the Caloosa Indians.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Knowing the past will give you insights to the present. It works for me every time.”
Aunt Lily raised her eyes to the
ceiling and groaned. “Don’t encourage her, Sam”
“Sam has helped me. He’s the one who put me onto Nora in the first place”
He stared at me blankly.
“The note-you left it on my truck?” I prompted. “It said to talk to Nora at the Seafood Shanty.”
“I never put a note on your truck.”
“But you stopped by the Lodge the other morning and said you had information for me-“
“I wanted you to get the Caloosa history book-then I went ahead and checked it out of the library and left it at your trailer.”
My eyes met his. Whoa. Someone had wanted me to talk to Nora and throw me off track-implicate Pete. And that someone could be Hillman’s murderer. I’d bet my last donut on it. Oh, no. I forgot. I’d already eaten it.
I said nothing but felt in my bones that I was right. The murderer was still loose on the island.
After I promised Aunt Lily to have dinner with her and Sam the next day, I reluctantly turned my attention to the story about Pete’s arrest. It was the last thing I wanted to do when my mind was begging to go over the list of possible suspects who could’ve put that note on my truck: Everett? Chrissy? George? Burt and Betty? Scooby-Doo? My head ached.
And much as I didn’t want to write the article, I knew Anita would come breathing down my neck soon if I didn’t. And her smoke-filled breath was not a smell to be taken lightly.
I pounded out a couple of paragraphs, watched Sandy snap her rubber band a dozen or so times, and downed another coffee before I packed it in for the afternoon. “I’m going back to the Twin Palms for a break,” I informed Sandy. She waved me out with yet another snap of the rubber band. Her wrist was turning red, the skin beginning to swell. She’d be lucky ever to want to eat again after her bout with cognitive diet therapy.
As I drove Rusty toward Mango Bay, I opened my window and enjoyed the cool breeze coming in off the Gulf. The rain had finally stopped. The sun hadn’t fully appeared from behind the clouds yet, but it was on the verge. Thin shoots of light already managed to eek out little paths of warmth, so it was only a matter of time before we’d receive a full blast of sunshine again. And I’d have to slather on the sunblock again.
I checked my peeling nose in the rearview mirror. Only the barest pink. Goody. One more cloudy day and I’d have a semi-normal nose again.
When I reached my RV site, I glanced at the flat tires. I’d need to order two new ones and have Pop Pop put them on-if his arthritic hands could handle the jack.
My honeymooning neighbors had opened their awning again. They were still alive.
I put the leash on Kong, grabbed the Coral Island history book, and made for the beach. He immediately balked. “Nope, it’s time to get over this beach thing, K.K. This is our home now and you’ve got to stop being scared of the water.”
I tried gently to tug him in the direction of the waves. No go. Then, I yanked a bit harder. He dug in with surprising strength for a little hair mop. “All right. That’s enough.” I scooped him up in my arms and walked toward the small beach. “We’re going to stay here until you face your fears.”
I slipped the leash around my wrist and plopped down in the sand. Kong whined, then tucked his head under my knee. “Well, that’s a start” I set the book on my legs and idly flipped the pages, skimming the section about the Caloosa Indians. Nothing new. I started to move on to the pirate days when something caught my eye. A picture of a Caloosa man. Tall and thin with a weathered face and long, dark hair. Not much clothing. Wearing gold beads around his neck and carrying a knife with a decorated gold hilt. Gold. He was wearing gold.
Bradley had been mistaken. The Caloosa did trade in gold. There could actually be valuable artifacts in the dig on the Mounds. Wouldn’t he have known that? Or wasn’t he as smart as he pretended?
I snapped the book shut and pulled Kong out from under my leg. Maybe that’s why Hillman wanted sole ownership of the mound behind his house. He was doing a little digging of his own. Was it possible he’d found the jackpot? Were the Caloosa artifacts his “money tree”?
“Okay, Kong, you’re off the hook for now.” I jumped to my feet and brushed the sand off my jeans. “I’ve got to make a couple of calls.” I hustled Kong back to the Airstream, almost running in my eagerness to question Bradley.
I reached for the phone as soon as I made it inside, and rang the historical museum. “Come on. Come on,” I chanted.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Coral Island Historical Museum. I’m Bradley Johnson, curator. Please leave a message at the tone, and I’ll return your call as soon as humanly possible. Have a great day”
I gritted my teeth. “Bradley, this is Mallie Monroe. I need to talk to you about something. Call me, please” I left my number and hung up.
Just then the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mallie, this is Chrissy. How-ya-doing?”
“Pretty good”
“Just thought you might like to join us at the Starfish for a drink. Now that this Pete guy has been arrested, some of our group is leaving tomorrow. This is sort of our farewell get together.”
I hesitated. But then I realized Chrissy might know something about the artifacts, and this might be my last chance to talk to her. “Sure, I’ll be right over.”
“Great. George is here already here.”
I hung up, gave Kong a quick hug, and left. I was getting close.
A few minutes later, I was on Cypress Road heading for the Starfish Lodge. On a whim, I decided to swing by the Henderson Research Center at the Mounds just on the chance that Bradley might be there. As I came around the road in front of Hillman’s house, I didn’t see Bradley’s car, but I did spy an old model Cadillac with New Mexico license plates in Hillman’s driveway. Burt and Betty. What were they doing here?
I pulled in behind their car and quietly slid out of my truck. Even though I knew it was illegal, I ducked under the yellow police tape and made for the house. Drawing closer, I tiptoed across the screened front porch. I heard voices within. Definitely Burt and Betty. There were inside the house. Why?
I eased the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. Then I crept around the living room toward the hallway. Burt and Betty were in the office-the place where Hillman had been murdered.
“We’ve finally got the proof we need,” Burt was saying.
“Thank goodness. After two years. We can show the world what Hillman did to us,” Betty said.
Some shuffling of papers and books.
“I’m sorry he was killed, but what he did to us was wrong, and it has to come out. Now they’ve caught his killer, we can go public with the truth,” Burt added.
“Maybe we should wait” Betty’s tone was tentative, worried.
Burt gave an exclamation of impatience. “But we’ve waited so long. It isn’t fair.”
What the heck were they talking about? I felt fairly certain at this point that they weren’t the killers, so I strode down the hallway and burst in on them. “What are you doing in here?”
Betty screamed and dropped the papers in her hands. Burt grunted and clutched his chest. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor.
“Oh, no ” Betty rushed to his side. “Now look what you’ve done. You should know better that to sneak up on us like that. Burt has angina.” She pressed her hands to the side of his florid face.
I shifted from one foot to the other, not sure if I should call the police or the paramedics.
She glared at me. “If you’ve killed him, I’ll never forgive you.”
I’ll call 911,” I finally said.
“No,” Burt and Betty exclaimed simultaneously. “We can’t be caught here. We crossed the yellow tape.”
“But Burt could be having a heart attack” I looked him over. His face, always florid, had heated up to a color close to the shade of my hair.
“Nope, I’m okay,” he wheezed. “Just get me into a chair and I’ll catch my breath”
“Are you sure?” I loo
ked from him to Betty and back again. They both nodded. “All right.” I took one of his arms and Betty the other, and we somehow managed to hoist him to his feet. Then we steered him over to a leather chair by the window and he sank down into it. “Whew.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. Burt wasn’t exactly dead weight, but close to it.
“Thanks,” he said as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I get breathless if I’m overly excited.”
Betty rooted in her purse. “Here’s your nitroglycerin tablets” She handed him a pill.
He placed it under his tongue leaned his head back again.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I demanded.
“Well … it’s sort of a long story.” She began to wring her hands.
“I’m all ears.” I sat down in another chair, avoiding looking at the desk area where I found Hillman’s body.
“It all started four years ago when we attended a writer’s conference in Albuquerque. We were in one of Jack’s workshops where we had to bring a short story to be critiqued. He praised our fiction a lot and even gave us some editing suggestions. But afterward, he said he couldn’t find the story.”
“And do you believe it was our only copy?” Burt murmured. He still had his head back, but his normal color was coming back.
“Yes, stupid, I know. But who would’ve thought that a famous writer like him would steal our story?” Betty said.
“Are you saying he plagiarized your story?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.
She nodded. “I know. It’s hard to believe. But he did. We saw it published in Tales of the Southwest last year. Oh, he’d made a couple of minor editing changes, but it was essentially our story.”
“That’s when we decided to come to his Writers’ Institute on Coral Island and see if we could get him to admit the theft.” Burt straightened in the chair. “But before we could confront him, someone killed him.”
“It was terrible timing,” Betty chimed in.
“To say the least,” I agreed.
“Anyway, we waited until the murder had been arrested, then we came over here to find proof-and we did.” Betty held up a gradebook. “Jack had recorded the title of our story with our names and the date of the workshop next to it.”
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Page 14