My mouth thinned. “I am not dating Pop Pop!”
“But we heard that you had dinner with him last night at Le Sink,” Sandy said in an amused voice. “That must’ve been fun-“
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t like a date-the man has to be a hundred and fifty if he’s a day,” I protested. “The only reason I went with him is I got busted trying to go out with Cole and Nick Billie on the same night-“
“What?” Sandy’s brown eyes widened into saucers. “Nick and Cole together? Yow. Did they have a fistfight? I’ll bet Nick Billie could kick butt.”
“No, they didn’t get physical. When they saw each other, they both just left-with me holding flowers and chocolates but no guy.”
“Chocolates?” Sandy’s tone turned wistful. “Godiva?”
I nodded.
“My favorite.” She smacked her lips. “The dark kind? Or the-“
“Okay, enough of this crap,” Anita cut in, sitting on the corner of Sandy’s desk. “And for the record, if you want to date a guy who hasn’t chewed his own food since the disco era, I could care less. But I do care that you did your restaurant review.”
I produced my flash drive with a flourish. “Finished it this morning.” Placing it in her outstretched palm, I continued, “Also for the record, Pop Pop has a nice set of dentures.”
Her fingers closed around the small drive. “Spoken like a woman in love.”
I leveled a mean glare in her direction and headed for the Mr. Coffee.
She cackled. “Did you include anything about Marco’s death? That would make a tasty little dessert-“
“Wait a minute.” I stopped mid-pour. “I reviewed Le Sink-and skipped Little Tuscany because Marco died. I was going to drop by Pelican’s Grill today-“
“Jeez Louise. Do I have to explain everything?” She tossed the drive onto my desk, as I strolled back with my steaming cup of java. “Post the Le Sink review, skip the stop at Pelican’s Grill, and add a blog update of Little Tuscany, complete with the owner’s death right in the middle of your meal. That’s what sells papers-not some sappy garbage about crisp salads and creamy sauces. Spare me.”
“But I didn’t have time to take more than two bites of my pasta at Little Tuscany before Marco staggered out of the kitchen-“
“That’s plenty of sampling for the review. The food is only the entree to the main course: Marco expiring in his own dining room.”
Sandy and I turned silent.
“Get it? The entree?”
“Uh-huh.” I took a deep swig of coffee.
Anita gave an exclamation of disgust, mumbling how no one in the office “got” her wit. “Write up the review, kiddo, and have it on my desk by the end of the day.”
“All right.” I flipped on my desktop PC; it made audible beeps as it slowly fired up. “Urn … is Nick investigating Marco’s death?”
“Trying to get back in Billie’s good graces?” Anita lifted one eyebrow.
“No.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “I wanted to tell him about what went down at Le Sink last night. Guido got into a wrestling match with Kyle the Grill Guy-“
“Over the bad food?” Sandy inquired.
“Not exactly. Guido called Kyle a murderer and then just attacked him. They tumbled and thumped each other on the ground till I separated them with an old broom”
Sandy’s face kindled with interest-and a touch of puzzlement. “So Marco’s death might be suspicious?”
“Possibly.” I recalled the restaurateur’s final moments, red-faced, choking, and clawing at the air. I shivered. “Now, whether or not Kyle was responsible for his death is another thing. I don’t see the connection-“
“Kyle’s mother, Francesca, owns Taste of VeniceMarco’s biggest competition.” Anita yawned. “Personally, I hate all Italian food, but I guess their rivalry was legendary. Rumor has it, Francesca stole one of Marco’s prized recipes and won some national recipe contest, and he was going to sue her. That might be motive.”
“And Marco hated her ever since?”
“Bingo.”
I sat back in my chair, mulling over this revelation as I drained my cup. “What about Kyle? Is he close to his mother?”
Anita crossed her index and middle finger. “Like two peas in a pod.”
“So he might’ve done in Marco for … his mother?” Something about that scenario just didn’t ring true. I couldn’t see Mr. Grill Guy actually taking the initiative to buy a gallon of milk, much less plan a murder.
“Stranger things have happened,” Anita commented.
“I guess.” I inserted my flash drive into the computer. The screen flickered and then went blank. I tapped the keys a few times, and it came to life again, except now a black line stretched across the screen. “Anita, I think this refurbished Dell is going down again.”
“Maybe Santa will come early and bring you a new one-along with a lifetime supply of Poligrip for your new love.”
Sandy giggled again.
“Not funny!” I turned on Sandy. “And you should know better. If someone killed Marco, your fiance, Jimmy, might be a suspect.”
Sandy’s face crumpled, and tears sprang into her eyes.
Instantly, I regretted my words.
“My poor Jimmy,” she said, her head drooping. “Madame Geri was right-murder is afoot on the island, and my wedding will never take place. We’re doomed.”
“I’m sorry, Sandy.” I reached across my desk and patted her hand. “That was stupid of me to say-your wedding will occur just the way you’ve planned it.” I added a smile to reinforce my encouraging words.
“I’ve got to call Madame Geri,” she said, picking up the phone and punching in some numbers.
Igroaned.
“See what you did?” Anita gestured an imaginary gun in my direction. “Instead of riling up Sandy, you should be working on your review. If we don’t sell papers, you don’t have a job.”
Didn’t I know that? I’d had a string of low-level, lowincome jobs as I had worked my way south from the Midwest, and the last thing I wanted was to lose my employment at the paper. Not that the island weekly comprised more than a few local stories, real estate ads, and Chamber of Commerce stuff, but I had a regular paycheck.
What could you do with a degree in comparative literature but hope and pray you didn’t have to become a janitor to pay the rent?
Truth be told, I’d done even that: during my undistinguished tenure at Disney World, one of my jobs had been to walk around with one of those “trash grabbers” and clean up after the hordes of tourists who dropped everything from half-eaten turkey legs to used diapers-at seven bucks an hour.
“I’ll have that review done in a jiffy,” I said to Anita, poising my fingers above the keyboard.
“That’s the attitude I want to hear.” She hopped off Sandy’s desk and tossed something at me. I caught it and looked down.
A jar of bee cream.
“You might slather some on Pop Pop and see if it helps with his those crevasselike wrinkles on his face.” She cackled again. “See what it’s done for me already?”
She patted her cheeks, which had taken on a bright red tint.
“It looks like an allergic reaction,” I pointed out.
“Bull.” She produced another jar, scooped out a large amount, and dabbed it around her eyes. “I’m getting the glow of beautiful skin.”
I shrugged and turned back to my review of Little Tuscany. Glow, my eye. Let her face ignite into flames-as long as she didn’t fire me.
I laughed inwardly at my own pun.
Anita strolled toward her tiny office. “When you’re done, check with Nick about Marco’s cause of death. We can always hope …”
“That he died of natural causes?” I finished for her.
“That someone killed him,” she corrected me as she disappeared into her office.
Hag.
While Sandy chatted with Madame Geri on the phone, I grabbed another cup of coffee and knocked out th
e draft of my restaurant review for Little Tuscany. I covered the faux Italian decor, the mouthwatering pasta dishes, the homemade bread, and the owner’s death throes-all within the 750-word count. It was my first foray into being an Official Food Critic, and I felt pleased with myselfeven though I knew the small paragraph on Marco’s tragic demise wouldn’t be enough to please Anita.
After I saved the review on my flash drive, I printed out a hard copy and left it on Anita’s desk while she was at lunch.
“I’m heading over to the island police station to check with Nick to see if he has any info about Marco’s death,” I told Sandy, as I picked up my hobo bag.
She placed her hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Madame Geri says Carlos’ and Marco’s deaths are related; the spirit world is sending her messages even as we speak-“
“Tell Madame Geri to send my regards to the spirit world,” I said on my way out, not wanting to spoil my writer’s high with New Age mumbo jumbo.
I jumped into my truck, eyeing myself in the side mirror for a few brief moments, just to make sure my red curls still looked bouncy and my light makeup still appeared intact before I saw Nick Billie. Of course, nothing completely covered my freckles, but I’d learned to live with them. Sort of. I gave my mouth a quick swipe of pink lip gloss for some added glamour. Kind of.
My hands shook with a nervous tremor as I started up Rusty’s engine and cranked on the heater. I was supposed to be asking Nick about Marco’s cause of death, but I really wanted to know if he was still speaking to me after the little fiasco last night.
What had gotten into me? Why couldn’t I just decide to take up with Cole again or move on to Nick?
Because making a decision has always been my weak spot, a little voice echoed softly inside me. And I didn’t really trust that either man was right for me; both of them had commitment problems. Okay, I’d said it, at least to myself.
Maybe I’d be better off dating Pop Pop after all. At least I could trust that he’d always be there for me-as long as he was still partially mobile.
Taking in a deep breath, I resolved that this time I would be different. I would take control of the situation and confront Nick about his feelings for me, ask that he forgive me-and demand to know what (or who) killed Marco Santini.
I shoved my truck into gear, and the engine promptly cut off. After pumping the pedal lightly, I tried to start it again-nothing. Just an odd clicking noise.
My take-charge, no-hostages-allowed approach to the men in my life would have to wait. I had to jumpstart my battery first.
Typical.
I called the Island Garage on my cell phone, and without asking, the head mechanic, Stan, arrived twenty minutes later with jumper cables. After the engine had begun to hum, he warned me that if I turned it off again, the battery might not start.
“Bring the truck by my garage today, and I’ll put in a new battery for you-at a discount. But it’s only a matter of time before this old heap of a truck gives out. If you want to keep it running, you ought to get yourself a man who knows his way around a car engine,” Stan advised as he hitched up his pants around his middle-age paunch. The pants promptly settled back under his belt and stayed there, despite a couple more hitching attempts. Muttering an expletive, he threw the cables into the backseat of his aging Buick-the kind with wide seats and a finlike design in the back. Nice match.
Still, he had a point about my getting a regular guy in my life who could keep Rusty in working order. I gave Stan all the money I had with me, five dollars, and drove off with renewed vigor. Using my car psychology, I reasoned that I should try and patch things up with Nickhis Ford F-150 always seemed to be in smooth working order, so that alone made him good boyfriend material. His hard-planed, darkly handsome face didn’t hurt either.
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 sh
ut, 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.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool Page 7