A Mango Bay Mystery
ccI’d sell my soul for a decent news story,” my editor, Anita Sanders, muttered as she kicked the dented wastebasket near my desk. “Just gimme a little arson job. A robbery. Cripes, I’d even settle for a carjacking at this point.” She turned to me, tossing last week’s edition of the Coral Island Observer onto my desk. “I can’t take another article about that stupid bike-path controversy. What’s our lead for next week?”
I swiveled my computer monitor in her direction. “Tonight’s Town Hall meeting. From the agenda, it looks like they’re going to cover a lot of scintillating stuff-the possible purchase of a swing set and two new kiddie picnic tables for the island park”
“Ugh” She popped a piece of mint gum into her mouth-the kind that’s supposed to help you stop smoking by supplying a tiny amount of nicotine, though not nearly enough for a two-pack-a-day habit. “I can’t take one more boring front page. It’s killing me”
I was tempted to point out that her high-anxiety reaction to cutting out the cigarette habit might be the cause of some of her dissatisfaction, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. Life was tough enough for Anita as editor of a small-time, weekly newspaper on Coral Island after her stint as a junior reporter for the Detroit Free Press. I’d often been moved to pity her present doubleintensity stress the last couple of weeks, but then she’d trash one of my stories for the umpteenth time, and I’d feel secret glee at her nicotine withdrawal and journalistic purgatory.
“This paper is a joke, and this office is a dump” She tossed her gum into the wastebasket and unwrapped another piece. I took a quick peek to check that her used gum had actually made it into the can. I’d been stepping on gooey leftovers for the last month and was tired of scraping them off my sandals. Luckily, her aim had proved accurate this time.
I tilted back in my chair, careful not to place my weight over the missing roller on the left rear leg. The office furniture had been purchased from a local flea market eons ago; it had the look of tacky faux oak and creaked with every movement. “Anita, it’s after six. Everyone’s gone, and I’ve got to be at my martial arts class in about twenty minutes. Then I have to spend two hours covering a boring Town Hall meeting. Can we save this conversation for later?”
Her wrinkled, thin face sagged into a frown. “Fine, but you’ll never win a Pulitzer by keeping bankers’ hours.” She strode out of the office, slamming the front door behind her.
I shrugged and shut down my computer.
An hour later I was wishing myself back in the office as I lay sprawled facedown on a padded mat, thumping it with my open palm-the universal martial arts signal to let up. “Okay, Sam, you made your point. I left myself open to your attack” I was going to end up doublejointed if he didn’t remove his knee from my back and loosen his hold on my arm-pronto. Besides, I could hear the Jordan sisters giggling, and I didn’t want to prolong the indignity. Sixteen-year-old twins and incredibly limber, they spent most of their time in Tae Kwon Do class snickering at my awkward attempts to learn self-defense moves.
“Good job,” Sam said as he released me.
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got two working arms” I struggled to my feet as I massaged my shoulder. “Could you give me a heads-up next time before you squash my face into the mat?”
Sam smiled and shook his head. “An opponent won’t give you that courtesy-trust me. The first rule in Tae Kwon Do is, always be ready for an attack. It can come from anywhere and anyone. You have to be alert to your surroundings at all times.” He straightened his do bohk- the white cotton pants and jacket that were de rigeur for class. Their appearance is supposed to symbolize the “way,” the absence of ego, but secretly I thought we looked like escapees from an overly zealous chef’s school. The belt helped a little, but since mine was white, it hardly made a difference.
“Let’s call it a night,” Sam said.
All I could do was nod in mute gratitude as our class moved into the final, formal bow.
How did I, Mallie Monroe, late twenty-something motormouth extraordinaire who got all squeamish when I had to kill a bug with a rolled-up fashion magazine, end up face-to-face learning mortal combat in a Tae Kwon Do class?
Since coming to Coral Island on the southwest coast of Florida, I’d done a lot of things that I never would’ve imagined possible. I’d settled into a job as a reporter for the local island newspaper, I’d created a semipermanent home for myself at the Twin Palms RV Resort; and I’d helped solve the murder of a local writer.
It was that last item on the list that had propelled me into the twice-weekly Tae Kwon Do humiliation. I’d almost been shot and dumped in an archaeological pit saved only by my own desperation and the quick thinking of island curmudgeon Everett Hall.
Not that I expected to be confronting psycho killers at every turn of a corner, but, in the course of writing my newspaper stories for the last six months, I’d been yelled at, shoved, and on the receiving end of a wide variety of obscene hand gestures, some of which I’d never seen before. Not to mention that I’d had a chocolate chip ice cream cone shoved down the back of my blouse and my butt pinched during a Town Hall meeting. In all fairness, the ice cream incident might’ve been an accident because my attacker-Old Man Brisbee- had just been diagnosed with macular degeneration and couldn’t see too well as he strolled around with the cone. As for the butt pinch, I think Brisbee knew exactly what he was doing.
I’d realized a little self-defense might come in handy-especially if I intended to deflect the crazies I met on the job and keep out of the way of flying chocolate chip ice cream cones.
My great-aunt Lily, grande dame of Coral Island, was the one who’d suggested the Tae Kwon Do. She’d seen a television program about a martial artist somewhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty years old who’d chopped through four concrete blocks with his bare hand and taken on a gang all by his lonesome. He’d probably broken every bone in every finger and acquired a few gray hairs, but she was impressed. I was skeptical but willing to give it a try. Hey, it couldn’t hurt.
That’s what I’d thought-at first.
It did hurt-a lot. And not just my body. My ego took a bruising in every class, leaving it permanently black and blue.
When I’d signed up at the Island Fitness Center for Tae Kwon Do, I wasn’t the least bit surprised when Sam showed up as the instructor the first night. Of medium height, bald with a gold stud in his left ear, he looked like a cross between a pirate and the Dalai Lama. He had to be almost sixty, but his wide-chested body was trim and fit, each muscle finely tuned. He wore his do bohk and black belt with quiet pride yet with total self-command. Known around the island as the “metaphysical handyman,” Sam had a Zen-like attitude toward everything from fixing a broken screen to understanding the meaning of life. He also possessed a wicked sense of humor that offset the philosophical bent. Or maybe enhanced it.
“We each have our own potential.” Sam turned to me as the class members trailed out. “First you have to know what it is; then you can develop it to its natural end. Some martial artists can walk across nails or bend steel bars. Some can kick ten feet in the air. Some just like to kick the hell out of people. The point is not to do the impossible but to find out what is possible. In your case . . ” He trailed off with a grin.
“I’ll be lucky to bend a paper clip,” I finished for him.
“Not exactly. You’ll surprise yourself one day” He winked at me.
I winked back. “See you on Thursday” I grabbed my gym bag and exited the dojo. A chilly blast of wind greeted me, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. It was only mid-November, but an unseasonably early
cold snap had swept through southwestern Florida a few days ago. It caused islanders to scurry around trying to find suitable cold-weather gear. Since the temperature didn’t dip this low all that often, it was hard to come by suitable clothing. Plaid flannel shirts with corduroys cropped up everywhere, along with tattered warm-up suits and the occasional fringed leather jacket.
Unfortunately, my do bohk’s thin white cotton didn’t provide much warmth.
I hurried toward my truck, Rusty, which stood parked between Sam’s immaculate Volvo and the Jordan sisters’ cherry-red Mustang convertible. I always noted what make and model vehicle people drove. To me, cars were more psychologically revealing than Rorschach or word association. Besides, it was fun to play “car shrink.” Sam obviously enjoyed sturdy reliability and had no interest in fads or frills. The Jordan sisters’ vehicle screamed “two cool chicks.”
Rusty was neither particularly attractive nor cool. But he could pull my 4,225-pound antique Airstream trailer and never failed me when the chips were down. Oh, sure, sometimes the window wouldn’t open or the door would jam, but my battered truck had heart. Most cars were merely engine and chassis. Mine had personality. It also showed I was living from paycheck to paycheck and couldn’t afford a decent paint job.
I drove out of the parking lot at the fitness center and turned onto Cypress Road, the main drag of Coral Island. This little piece of Florida paradise was twenty miles long and about a mile wide. It ran north and south, tucked behind a ring of upscale, tourist-laden barrier islands. Neither upscale nor a magnet for tourists, Coral Island boasted one hotel, a tiny beach, and assorted communities. Originally a homesteaders’ haven, Coral Island maintained its rural ambiance. People made a living from the land and sea. They prided themselves on their fierce independence and quirky lifestyle.
I fit right in.
Except I didn’t wear the knee-high white fishermen boots known as “island Reeboks” Otherwise, I could be mistaken for a native. Sort of.
Not that most islanders saw me as such. I was a long way from being accepted, even if I had played a small part in clearing the name of a local fisherman who’d been accused of murder last summer. I was still new to the island and, therefore, treated with a certain degree of suspicion.
I cranked up Rusty’s heater, and a gust of warmth poured from the vents. My truck might not have airconditioning, but it possessed a heating unit second to none. In no time a toasty feeling flooded through me.
Reluctantly I headed for the Town Hall meeting.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I drove up to the Twin Palms RV Resort at Mango Bay, the northernmost tip of the island.
I parked in front of my shiny silver Airstream trailer, which occupied one of the choice spots only five hun dred feet from the tiny strip of sand that passed for a beach. Areca palms decorated the grassy parts, and I’d planted a small bougainvillea, which was in full scarlet bloom. I noticed that the site to my right remained empty.
Then my eyes widened as my glance traveled to the site on my other side. Taking up almost the whole space stood a forty-foot Wanderlodge LX. I’d only read about this particular RV, never actually seen one with its rich, metallic bronze body and fancy black trim. Almost the size of a Greyhound bus, it was sleek and outfitted with the finest accessories-awnings on all the windows, double slide-outs, and a scenic mural of the Rocky Mountains on the back. Wow.
A tap on my window startled me out of my awed fascination. I turned my head and switched off Rusty’s engine. It was Wanda Sue-owner, general manager, and one-woman gossip grapevine of the Twin Palms.
I opened my door and slid out. “Kinda late for you to be out and about, isn’t it?” I asked, folding my arms to keep from shivering.
“Slap me for being a fool if I don’t know it. Brrrr!” she exclaimed, pulling her yellow flannel shirt tightly around her plump body. Two sturdy legs encased in tight black leggings peeped out beneath the shirttails. Farther down, white socks and pink high-heeled sandals completed her ensemble. “It’s cold enough to freeze the palmetto bugs right off the trees.”
“I’ll say” I wasn’t sure how cold it needed to get to freeze palmetto bugs, but I guessed we were approaching it. “Who owns the RV behemoth next to me?”
“Can’t tell you. It’s real hush-hush” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “All I can say is that you’d recognize them if you saw them”
“A famous couple?”
“Maybe”
“Movie stars? Country-western singers?” I couldn’t help the eagerness that lit my voice.
“Possibly” Wanda Sue made a locking-key motion in front of her mouth and said nothing else.
Oh, great. What a time for the island’s biggest busybody to turn mute.
She patted her new canary-yellow bob in selfsatisfaction. I was always amazed at how each evolving hairstyle remained in rigid formation, no matter what the weather. She could stand in a tropical-force wind, and not a hair blew out of place.
“Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?”
She shook her head.
“You know, word is going to get out on the island that you’ve got a famous couple staying here…:’
“I promised to protect their privacy, so please don’t pass it on”
“All right.” I scanned the Wanderlodge again. Lights were on inside, but the shades were drawn. Wouldn’t you just know it? I couldn’t make out anything or any one. Then something occurred to me. “If I guess correctly, would you tell me if I’m right?”
She paused. “Okay-deal.”
We shook on it.
Wanda Sue lingered, shifting from foot to foot. She cleared her throat. She sniffed. Then she cleared her throat again.
“Wanda Sue, is something wrong?” I asked.
“Maybe-I don’t know for sure.”
“What’s up?”
“It’s my daughter, Sally Jo. She’s married … well, sort of. She and her husband, Tom Crawford, are separated right now.” She frowned, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “They’d been getting some counseling from a shrink on the mainland, and things had improved. They were talking about getting back together. But then, out of blue, Tom up and disappears with their son, Kevin.”
“Did he kidnap the boy?”
“I don’t know. It was Tom’s day to pick up Kevin from school and drop him off at Sally Jo’s house. He swung by the school about three o’clock, got Kevin, but then never showed up at Sally Jo’s trailer.”
“When was that?”
“Today. I know it seems kinda alarmist, but you can’t be too careful when it comes to kids.”
“Did Sally Jo call Detective Billie?” He was the island’s chief lawman. A rugged, reserved, by-the-book, kind of cop who also just happened to exude sexy masculinity out of every pore.
Wanda Sue shook her head. “She isn’t really sure they’re missing.”
“Did she try to call Tom?”
“Yep. No answer”
A gust of wind whipped my hair across my face. “Is it possible they took off for a few days and just didn’t tell Sally Jo?”
“That’s what I told her. They might’ve gone fishing, and Tom forgot to mention it. I swear, that man wouldn’t remember his own birthday if Sally Jo didn’t remind him.”
“You think they could’ve gone fishing in this weather? Isn’t there an advisory out?”
“Maybe” Wanda Sue’s concerned eyes met my glance squarely. I had my answer.
“What can I do?”
“Poke around. See if you can find out if anything has happened to ‘em.” She touched my arm. “I wouldn’t ask, Mallie, except that Sally Jo is practically beside herself with worry, and I don’t know who else to turn to. You figured out who murdered that writer guy last summerdigging and digging until you found the truth.”
And almost got myself killed, I added to myself.
“I sure would appreciate it, honey” Her voice broke.
“Okay. I’m covering the Autumn Festival at the elemen
tary school tomorrow, so I’ll see if anybody knows anything.”
“Thanks a million,” she gushed. “You’re a real friend.”
A slow smile spread across my face. “I don’t suppose you’d like to rethink letting me in on the identity of my new neighbors.”
“No can do”
My smile disappeared. “It was worth a try”
Wanda Sue shook her head as she tottered off. I watched her hair recede into the night like a yellow beacon, and a little voice inside my head told me I was getting myself into something more complicated than an errant husband. Nothing was ever that simple on Coral Island.
My editor, Anita, just might have her wish for a decent news story after all.
I awoke the next morning to the familiar, slightly icky sensation of a long, slobbery tongue being drawn across my face. “Kong, please.” My eyes fluttered open, beholding all 2.8 pounds of my apricot-colored teacup poodle. He was on the small side even for a miniature canine dust mop, so I’d named him-on the recommendation of a doggy psychologist-after the fearsome giant ape in hopes that he’d outgrow his passive-aggressive behavior.
So far my plan hadn’t worked.
He still took on strangers as if he were a German shepherd in his aggressive moods but then had to be dragged down to the shoreline for a simple walk along the surf in his passive moments. Whoever heard of a dog who terrorized people but panicked at the thought of dipping one paw into the water? He could’ve been playing mind games with me, but I wasn’t sure. I had my suspicions, though.
Right now Kong was my only companion, so I overlooked his slight personality disorder.
He began to lick my ear.
“Enough already” I threw back the covers and shivered. Rubbing my hands together, I made a beeline for the thermostat. “Jeez. It must’ve dipped almost to freezing last night.” I jerked the lever upward toward seventy. Nothing happened. I toggled it a few times and tapped on the plastic thermostat cover. Heat finally blasted out of the floor grates. Raising my eyes to heaven, I gave a silent prayer of thanks to the heat gods. My Airstream might be refurbished, but it was over twenty years old and didn’t like freezing weather any more than I did.
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue Page 1