“Did Delores and Carlos keep seeing each other?”
“Hon, they were star-cornered lovers. Nothing could’ve driven them apart.” She smiled.
“Or star-crossed,” I murmured.
“When Delores moved to town and finally decided to get a divorce, they spent all their time together-till she got sick. Even then, Carlos was at her side every step of the way, taking care of her right up to the moment she drew her last breath.” Her smile faded. “My poor friend. She just never seemed to catch a break.”
“But she did find true love,” I pointed out in a soft voice.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
We both fell silent for a few moments, with only the sound of Kong’s doggy panting.
“Does Beatrice know?” I finally spoke up.
She sighed again. “Delores never told her.”
I mulled over the revelations. Maybe Beatrice had found out and decided that Marco had to be eliminatedto avenge her mother’s unhappiness and keep Guido with her. Could it be possible?
“Mallie, your face looks like you just sucked a lemon. What are you cooking up in your brain, girl?”
“Nothing.” I gave myself a mental shake. Beatrice as a killer just didn’t jibe with the girl I had met, unless she was an Oscar-winning actress of grief. “I suppose their story just seems so … sad.”
“Like one of those Shakespeare-y tragedies.”
Sort of
I started to get us another cup of coffee, when a sudden pounding on my Airstream door startled me so much that I dropped my cup and it broke on the wood floor. Kong then awoke and began to bark.
“Who in the Sam Hill is that at this hour?” Wanda Sue exclaimed.
“Mallie, Mallie!” I heard a familiar voice yelling.
I cracked the door and saw Sandy, Jimmy, Madame Geri, and Anita-all shivering in the wind.
“Someone is trying to frame Jimmy,” Sandy cried out. “He’s going to be arrested!”
I swung the door open and hustled everyone inside my Airstream. One by one, they trooped in and found a spot on the sofa or nearby kitchen chair, all crammed tightly in the small confines of my trailer.
I scanned the clean-cut features of Jimmy, and next to him Sandy, worried and gnawing on a Snickers bar. Madame Geri appeared impassive, but I thought I detected a shadow of concern in her eyes. Hard to tell. Anita wasn’t so difficult to read; she was filing her nails.
“What are you doing here?” I asked my boss.
“I was still in the office, ordering another jar of the bee cream, when Madame Geri came in-“
“If I were you, I’d lay off that stuff,” I cut in. “Your face looks like a shriveled beet.”
“Rosy glow,” she responded, holding up her bony, wrinkled hands. “And it’s smoothing out my cuticles too.”
“Anita!” Sandy grabbed the nail file from her and threw it across the room. “This is my marriage and fu ture husband’s life at stake. Can you at least pretend to be interested?”
“Fine.” She batted her almost nonexistent lashes. “I came along for the ride, but I guess I won’t get a news story out of this debacle if I don’t appear to give a rat’s-“
“I could use some of that bee cream.” Wanda Sue scanned Anita’s red, swollen skin. “You don’t seem to have so many deep lines under your eyes like you used to.”
Anita glared at her. “You don’t exactly have supermodel-smooth skin on your face, kid.”
“Forget the bee cream-it’s not good for you,” Madame Geri said in a firm tone. “We’re here for Jimmy.”
“So what’s going on?” I eased myself onto the floor, out of chairs and sofa space. “Who’s framing Jimmy?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Madame Geri said. “After I took Pop Pop home, I had a partial message.”
“Text? Telephone?” I inquired.
“Telepathy.” She clamped her mouth in tight line. Anita rolled her eyes, and Wanda Sue crossed herself.
Silly me.
“Of course, I followed the spirit world’s directions and went to the restaurant. But all they told me was that Jimmy was in danger of being blamed for Marco’s death.”
“You went back to the Taste of Venice?” My eyes widened. I couldn’t imagine going back there for at least a year-enough time for the staff to forget what had happened. Well, maybe two years.
“No, Little Tuscany,” she corrected me.
“I thought it was closed,” Wanda Sue piped up.
“It is. Like that would stop me.” A tiny smile lifted the corners of Madame Geri’s mouth. “I went to Jimmy’s locker and found this… .” We all leaned forward as she produced a clear plastic sandwich bag filled with some kind of garbage.
“Eww.” Wanda Sue jerked back and held her nose. “Shrimp shells.”
“That stinks to high heaven,” Anita pointed out unnecessarily, as she whipped out a bee cream jar from her purse. “A little dab of this on my nose might take the smell away.”
“You mean someone stashed those shells in Jimmy’s locker so the police would think he placed the shrimp in Marco’s sauce?” I spoke the words slowly, thinking aloud about the possible motivation. “It was a frame!”
“Exactly.” Madame Geri raised her chin, her features kindled in anger.
“And you took the baggie out of Jimmy’s locker?” Wanda Sue said with a touch of awe. “I would’ve been shaking in my shoes to do something like that. You’re the bomb, Madame Geri.”
Sandy and Jimmy nodded in agreement.
“Who had access to the restaurant?” I stretched my legs out in front of me, taking in a deep breath, as I tried to piece together a new set of suspects. “And Jimmy’s locker?”
“Pretty much anybody, I’d think,” said Madame Geri. “The front door was unlocked.” Madame Geri snatched the bee cream away from Anita. “If you put any more of this stuff near your nose, it’ll fall off.”
“Not likely.” Anita produced another jar. “I keep two with me at all times just in case I run out.”
“Fine, I give up.” Madame Geri tossed it at her, but Wanda Sue stretched out her hand and caught the jar.
“Oh, Anita, I forgot to tell you,” Madame Geri added, “I had a message from your grandpa. He said to give Mallie a raise.”
Anita gave a laugh of disbelief. “That skinflint? Not a chance in hell.”
“That’s not exactly where he is,” Madame Geri added.
“Maybe I could try just a little bit of this bee cream?” Wanda Sue scanned the label for a few moments. “Doesn’t say anything about side effects.”
“You’ll see. I tried to warn you.” Madame Geri shrugged, then turned to me. “I locked up when I left the restaurant, but I couldn’t say who might’ve been in there before me and got into Jimmy’s locker.”
“That doesn’t help much.” I watched Wanda Sue slather on a layer of the bee cream. “Except that we know the murderer is getting worried enough to implicate Jimmy.”
“And try to kill Mallie,” Wanda Sue added, her skin turning pink.
“What?!” everyone said at once.
“Didn’t you see Rusty before you came in?” I scanned the room. No one responded, and I gave an exclamation of impatience. “The whole windshield is cracked because someone threw a coconut at it while I was driving home from the Taste of Venice.”
Sandy gasped.
“Did you see who it was?” Jimmy asked, patting Sandy’s hand.
“Nope. They drove off too fast.”
“And I’ll bet it was the same person who tried to frame Jimmy,” Madame Geri said.
“Another telepathic communique?” I couldn’t help the sarcasm that crept into my tone.
She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “A lucky guess.”
Wanda Sue began to scratch at her cheeks. “I feel all itchy.”
“Your skin looks kind of blotchy,” I pointed out, noticing the little red bumps that had just spread across her face. “It looks like … hives.”
Insta
ntly, she jumped up and dashed toward my bathroom; a small shriek followed as she strode back into the living room. “I’ve got measles!”
“No, it’s that damn cream,” I spat out. “You’re having an allergic reaction.” Not another one!
“Remember what happened to Mr. Santini,” Jimmy added unnecessarily, his brow furrowing with concern.
“Mercy me.” Wanda Sue clutched her face and moaned. “I’m too young to die.”
“You’re not that young,” Anita said, tossing the bee cream into her purse before I could snatch it away from her.
I rose to my feet. “We’d better get you to the ER, just to make sure you’re okay.”
Wanda Sue tapped her cheeks several times. “I’ve lost all feeling in my face-I can’t wait. I’m calling 911.” She flipped open her cell phone and punched in the numbers while we watched in helpless concern.
What next?
Two hours later, I drove Wanda Sue home from the ER. She’d been given Benadryl and a stern warning not to ever use bee cream again-or even look at a jar. (Okay, the latter was my suggestion.) By the time I made it back to my Airstream, it was after midnight, and all I wanted to do was curl up with Kong.
As I ducked inside my comfy home-on-wheels, I realized the air was almost as chilly as it was outdoors. Shivering, I toggled the thermostat a couple of times, but nothing happened.
Great. Just great.
The heater was on the fritz again.
After managing a few hours of sleep with the space heater chugging its meager puffs of warmth, I leaped out of bed at dawn and made a desperate call to Sam: “The heater is out again, and my Airstream is turning into an igloo. Help!” I crossed my fingers on both hands and looked up for divine support that the handyman might take pity on me.
I walked Kong, took a quick shower with the water as hot as I could possibly stand, dressed in the heaviest sweater and jeans that I could find, and hopped into my truck.
As the heat blasted out of Rusty’s vents, I relaxed enough to focus on the roller coaster events of the night before.
Had I really been at a luxury dinner at the Taste of Venice, followed by a tiff that almost came to blows between the restaurant owner/possible murder suspect and the island psychic? Had I actually shared a passionate kiss with Nick Billie, followed by an attempt on my life by a coconut? Had I really ended up in the ER with my landlady, who had a reaction to bee cream?
Island life was anything but mellow.
As I breezed into the Observer office a few minutes later, Sandy was seated at her desk writing an obit, and I could hear Anita yakking on the phone from her office.
Business as usual.
Maybe I’d dreamed the whole series of events last night.
Sandy stopped typing and motioned me over to her desk. After looking around surreptitiously, she opened a desk drawer, and instead of seeing the usual stash of chocolate bars, I spied the plastic baggie with the shrimp shells.
So I didn’t dream it after all.
“What are you doing keeping those things in the office?” I said, ramming the drawer shut.
She shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do with them. Madame Geri took Jimmy into town to talk with a lawyer, just in case he got called in by Nick Billie.”
“Or she’s questioned for tampering with evidence.” I tossed my hobo bag onto my desk, causing the small stapler, notepad, and empty wallet to spill out. I tossed the stuff back in. “I’m impressed that Madame Geri even knows an attorney”
“He’s a client. She’s been communicating with his deceased brother for him.”
“Of course.” I seated myself and flipped on the computer.
“Hey, kiddo, you need to get that Taste of Venice review up on the blog ASAP.” Anita stood at the doorway of her office, face red and peeling, matched now by a similar condition on her hands. I started to say something, then clamped my mouth shut again. What was the point?
I retrieved my notepad and held it up. “The details are all right here, at least as much as I could get before Madame Geri and Francesca started going at it.”
“Sounds like the fight was the best part. Add that to the blog.” She made a boxing jab at me, along with a little fancy footwork. “Keep it tight, none of that literature-major crap. And you can forget trying to have that crazy psychic get you a raise. If Grandpa were speaking from the dead, he’d be telling me to bump you down to minimum wage.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Was Wanda Sue okay?” Sandy asked, checking the desk drawer one more time, as if to make sure no one had taken the baggie in the last thirty seconds.
“She was fine, just a little embarrassed that she tried that stupid cream.” I made sure my voice drifted in Anita’s direction.
“It doesn’t work for everybody,” my editor commented before she disappeared into her office-no doubt to lay on another layer.
Sandy leaned forward and whispered, “She looks awful.”
“It’s a lost cause trying to tell her anything.” I flipped open my notepad, noticing how my handwriting had grown almost illegible last night as the restaurant fight escalated. I squinted, trying to make out the last part.
“We’re going to sit tight till the attorney tells Jimmy what to do,” Sandy continued, leaning her elbows on a small stack of wedding magazines. “The wedding is still on. For now.”
“It’s going to happen, I just know it. And Jimmy is innocent, so you’ve got that on your side.”
“Yeah.” She was working hard to sound upbeat, but I knew Sandy too well. The little frown line between her eyebrows gave away her true emotional state, as did the tiny crumb of chocolate on her chin.
“Did you tell Nick about the coconut incident last night?”
I paused. “Not exactly.”
“You’d better call him, just in case … uh, well, you know … something else happens.” She picked over her words as if she were tiptoeing over shells on a beach.
Torn between excitement and reluctance, I hesitated. After a few moments, though, both emotions took a backseat to the thought of another attempt on my life; it propelled me to pick up the receiver. As I punched in the police station’s number, I tried to suppress the images that arose of my encounter last night with Nick outside the Taste of Venice. Heat crept into my face, and my heart began to thud like a bass drum.
Please don’t let Nick answer. I wasn’t ready to talk to him. Fortunately, I got his answering machine, and I blurted out, “Nick, someone tried to kill me last night by throwing a coconut through my windshield, but I’m fine now.” I hung up.
“You might’ve given him a few more details,” Sandy commented.
“I … I’ve got to get that Taste of Venice blog entry finished, or Anita will have my butt in a sling.” That, at least, was true.
“Suit yourself, Mallie, but I think you’re making a mistake.” She opened one of the wedding magazines and began flipping through the pages. “Nick should know how desperate Marco’s killer is getting.”
“I’ll go talk to him-if you come with me and spill the beans about the mystery shrimp shells in Jimmy’s locker.”
Sandy bit her lip and closed the magazine. “Point taken. Let’s get back to work.”
Satisfied, I resumed typing up my blog entry, and she resumed composing her obit. Nothing like a little reality check.
“Just be careful,” Sandy warned, as her fingers flew across the keys. “I don’t want you, or Jimmy, to be hurt.”
“We’ll be fine.” I hoped my voice sounded more certain than I felt inside.
Sandy checked the drawer with the shrimp shells one more time. “Okay.”
An hour later, I had the blog entry completed and sat back, scanning the lines for any errors or extraneous verbiage, knowing my nitpicking editor would check it over for any slight infraction of the Anita Grammar Police Rules. After three attempts at proofreading, I found only one spelling misdemeanor and a punctuation felony. I uploaded it with a triumphant click of the ENTER button.
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The Observer Food Critic’s Corner blog looked pretty good, if I had to say so myself. And I did.
Happily, I reread the reviews of Le Sink and Little Tuscany-oops, I spotted a typo in the Little Tuscany blog where I referenced Marco’s secret sauce. It said Marco’s secret pauce. Yikes. The only miracle was that Anita hadn’t noticed it. As I made the correction, I noticed Beatrice had responded to the blog by pointing out that her Uncle Carlos had developed the sauce.
I blinked. Odd that no one had mentioned that to me. Odder still that Marco could actually make the sauce in his restaurant, unless Carlos had shared the recipe with him. And if Francesca had stolen the recipe for her sauce, how could she have taken it from Marco?
I jotted down those questions, puzzling over how the whole sauce thing might connect to Marco’s death.
Tapping my pen on the desk, I pondered that one-to no avail. I left a message for Beatrice and pondered some more.
The office phone rang, startling me out of my reverie.
“Jimmy?” Sandy picked up, and I held my breath as she said “uh-huh” a few times. Then she hung up, her face glowing. “Madame Geri said it’s going to be all right!”
I exhaled in relief. “Three cheers for the lawyer.”
“No, it was the spirit world that finally told her things would be okay,” she explained. “The lawyer said we had to provide the evidence for Nick-pronto. I’m going to meet them at the police station.” She retrieved the plastic bag. “Are you coming with me?”
I checked my watch, stalling. Was I ready to see Nick? “It’s almost noon. I need to walk Kong first.”
Sandy stood up. “We’ll wait for you.”
“Great” Could I hook up my Airstream and head to South America in the next half hour?
Unlikely.
I closed out my computer, grabbed my hobo bag, and headed for the door, trying to hearten myself that at least I had finished a well-written, perfectly edited restaurant review for the blog.
“I found a typo in the Taste of Venice blog.” Anita’s words sang out from her office in glee.
I gritted my teeth.
Damn.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool Page 12