Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue

by Marty Ambrose

  “Once the spirit world let me know that Frank was going to live, I knew there was nothing to get upset about” She stroked Marley’s turquoise feathers and murmured soothing words.

  I took in the serene expression on Madame Geri’s face. Maybe she wasn’t quite so half-baked, after all. There was something to be said about having a pipeline, whether real or perceived, to the spirit world. I was willing to concede that, unlike my fellow practitioners at the psychic hotline, she did cherish a true faith in her own brand of New Age nuttiness. And, in this world, that practically amounted to sainthood.

  Detective Billie came bursting back onto the scene, his gun in its holster. “You didn’t touch anythingespecially that anchor-did you?”

  “Gee, that’s a nice way of saying thank you” My legs had settled down to minor tremors.

  He looked at me blankly for a few moments. “Sorrythanks” He flipped on the overhead lights.

  “Don’t knock yourself out” Under the glare of the fluorescents, I noticed that my hands were stained with Frank’s blood. That faint feeling passed over me again.

  “Here, take this.” Nick grabbed a couple of rags out of a barrel that was positioned near the door, then sprinkled paint thinner over them. Rubbing my hands, he removed the redness.

  “Better?” he questioned, tossing the rags out the front door.

  “Sort of.”

  “Mallie, keep it together, okay?” His voice deepened in concern.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Concentrate on your yin, not your yang,” Madame Geri chimed in.

  “Take a few deep breaths,” Nick continued. “Nice and slow.” He moved in closer and stroked my back with a gentle touch. “That’s it.”

  I allowed myself to lean on him while my breathing returned to normal. Several aromas assailed my senses. Woodsy aftershave. Leather. Paint thinner. My head was spinning.

  “Look, Mallie, I need you… ” He paused, grasping both my arms.

  “Yes?” I asked, breathless.

  “To identify the fishing lure you gave Frank. Do you remember what it looked like?”

  “I … uh … I think so” I felt an instant’s squeezing hurt inside. A pang. Or maybe it was still a tremor. I didn’t know. My wits were totally scattered at that point.

  “Good” He led me toward the back of the store. As we moved away from Madame Geri, I motioned her to follow us.

  “Who do you think attacked Frank?” I asked as we passed the rows and rows of island Reeboks.

  “Someone who thought Frank had a piece of evidence that could incriminate them.”

  “Tom’s murderer?”

  “Exactly”

  “So the fishing fly is important to the case,” I continued. “It could point to the killer.”

  He nodded. “That’s why it would’ve helped if you’d turned it over to me when you found it.” His fingers tightened around my hand. It was not gentle. More like a punishing vise.

  I winced.

  Once we reached the long counter that stretched almost the entire length of the back wall, Nick released my hand. It dropped to my side, cold and bereft.

  “Do you see the fly anywhere in that pile?” He pointed at a large assortment of fishing flies scattered across the counter.

  I rummaged through deceivers, buzzers, and nymphs, seeking the distinctively colored feathers of the fly I’d found on Tom’s boat.

  “No luck” I held up a lemon drop deceiver. “It looked like this, but the feathers were real, the shank black, and the color more of a chartreuse”

  “That helps a lot,” he muttered.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” I tossed the yellow deceiver back onto the pile. “Do you think Frank’s attacker took it?”

  “That would be my best guess” His mouth turned down.

  “What about all these books?” I picked up one of the several thick books lying open next to his computer. I noticed its screen was lit up-the source of that glowing light I’d seen before. Frank had left his computer on. “Looks like he was also checking Internet sites.”

  Detective Billie nodded. “He was probably researching the fly in both places, trying to find out who might’ve made it.”

  I glanced at the book in my hand. The Comprehensive History of Fishing Flies. That sounded like a best seller. I picked up another one. Fishing Flies for the Discriminating Saltwater Fisherman. “Wow. Just the kind of sizzling book I’d like to read on a Saturday night.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say” He stacked two more books into my arms. I staggered slightly under their weight. So much for the tender moment. “While I check out his computer, you can go through these books,” he continued.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I struggled to keep the stack straight.

  He cocked one eyebrow. “I think it’s the least you can do, considering you were withholding crucial evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “You really know how to hit a girl where it hurts, don’t you?”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.” He bowed his head.

  I glared at him.

  “There was anger in this room,” Madame Geri said, setting Marley on a merchandise shelf. She was running her hands up and down her arms. “No, more than that. Anger drove him, but also fear. He’s afraid you’re getting too close-wants to protect himself at all costs”

  “You said ‘him.’ A man?” Detective Billie rubbed his chin. I noticed the five o’clock shadow appearing along his jawline. All at once, he looked tired.

  “Maybe” She raised both hands and turned her eyes upward. I could only presume she was trying to force an answer from the “other world” “The spirits are silent,” she said with a sigh.

  Madame Geri said no more. She didn’t need to. The atmosphere in the Fish and Bait Shoppe turned deadly quiet. My motormouth was lodged in permanent Park. Detective Billie had become as silent as the grave. Now why had I suddenly thought of that image?

  Whether Madame Geri really was conversing with spirits or not was moot. She had stated an obvious truth: It was very possible that Tom’s killer had attacked Frank King and might strike again.

  Ascant few hours later, I was ensconced safely in my Airstream, huddled under the electric blanket with Kong snuggling next to me. It wasn’t supposed to go below forty tonight, but my heater had decided to grant me only a few puffs of tepid air. I didn’t know if the thermostat had finally gone on the blink, or what, but I couldn’t get Pop Pop Welch in to look at it until morning. At his age, bedtime came right after the six o’clock news.

  I fluffed up my pillows and propped up The Comprehensive History of Fishing Flies on my stomach, holding it in place with my drawn-up knees.

  Reading this tome was the last thing I felt like doing, but Detective Billie had shamed me into it. Once he had dropped Madame Geri at her house and me back at Sea Belle Isle Point, I’d cranked up Rusty and headed right to Mango Bay to get started on my Saturday night reading. He was heading back to Frank’s store to analyze the data on Frank’s computer.

  Much as I wanted to know who had made the deceiver, I’d found a hundred things to do before I actually got down to opening the book. Shakespeare it wasn’t, but I’d finally cracked it open.

  Sighing, I started scanning the pages again. About ten pages later, my eyes started drooping. I forced my lids open. I had to read this book.

  Unbidden, images of Tom’s body splayed against the mangroves and Frank lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood flooded through my mind.

  I shuddered. But at least I was wide awake.

  I flipped back to the Table of Contents and found the chapter on deceivers. Locating the section, I read the introduction to Bernhard “Lefty” Kreh, the man who’d created the deceiver. From all the hyperbole, you would think he was the god of the fishing flies. Or, as they so quaintly put it, Lefty Kreh, the Michaelanglo of Master Builders.

  I yawned.

  I scanned the descriptive pages that explained why the deceiver was one
of the best-known patterns in saltwater fly fishing.

  Highly adaptable, this pattern can be used to imitate a specific species of bait fish, a category of bait fish, or a general bait fish imitation.

  So versatile, deceivers can be taken anywhere!

  A durable tie, it can take the punishment of big-game fish.

  It’s aerodynamic!

  I yawned again.

  This was a going to be a long night.

  Scanning the next twenty pages, I was treated to further information on Lefty-Lefty’s life story, Lefty’s contribution to the wonderful world of fly fishing, Lefty’s later years, Lefty’s master fly building disciples …

  I halted.

  Was it possible that the murderer was one of Lefty’s followers?

  Quickly I scanned the names. John Kilgore, Ed Mitchell, Lou Tabor, Dick Stewart. None of them rang a bell.

  I jotted them down, making a note to research them on the Internet as soon as possible. If Frank King had found something there, so could I.

  Kong raised his head and looked at me with sleepy brown eyes as if to say, “Turn out the light, for pete’s sake”

  “Just a few more pages,” I promised him. I continued to the section, Tying Your Own Deceiver. After a few lines of putting your hook into the vise, catching the ty ing thread into the hook at the eye, winding down to the bend … I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, as I struggled to open my eyes, I became aware of an unfamiliar weight pressing down on my chest. Kong? No way. He weighed less than three pounds soaking wet. I raised my hands above my waist and encountered-“the book” The sacred Comprehensive History of Fishing Flies that had put me into a deep, dreamless sleep the night before.

  With some exasperation I pushed it aside and slid out from under my toasty electric blanket. I waited for the blast of cold air but was greeted with a temperature that surely reached into the seventies. Hallelujah! My heater must’ve fixed itself during the night. I didn’t ask why or how. I probably wouldn’t have been able to figure it out anyway. The only important thing was that I now had heat. Lovely, skin-warming, glorious heat.

  “Kong, this is going to be a great day!” I sang out, stretching my arms above my head. He stood up on the bed and, catching my mood, began wagging his tail.

  Then my cheapie deluxe phone rang.

  My arms dropped to my sides as I checked my alarm clock. It was seven-thirty. That could be only one person. My mother.

  I debated letting the answering machine pick up but knew I would be postponing the inevitable.

  Slowly I reached for the receiver.

  “Mallie, this is your mother.”

  “Hi, Mom. What a surprise” I moved into the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot. It always helped if I occupied myself with mundane tasks during these little mother-daughter conversations. Gave me something to focus on besides my own rising irritation.

  “You know me-I like to be unpredictable.” She let out a trill of laughter.

  I almost dropped the glass pot. The closest my mother came to spontaneity was when she forgot her appointment book and showed up at her hairdresser’s an hour early.

  “I wanted to let you know that we should be seeing you in a day or two”

  This time I did drop the pot, but it landed on a small imitation-silk braided carpet I had laid in front of the sink. The pod didn’t break, but the plastic handle loosened.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Sure did.” I set the pot on the counter, not trusting myself to continue if my mother insisted on dropping these early-morning bombs. “Where are you?”

  “Nearby. Actually, close enough to feel the cold snap.”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s been downright miserable.” I seized on the opportunity to bad-mouth the island. “You might want to rethink your itinerary. I heard that the temperature might dip even lower.”

  “It’s okay. We brought our winter coats with us” She sniffed in a determined manner. “We’re looking forward to seeing you”

  “Me too,” I managed to eke out.

  Strains of rock music drifted out of the Wanderlodge and distracted me for a moment. Not the hard-driving, punk stuff but the more soft-rock songs of … Christina Aguilera. That’s it! I snapped my fingers. Christina and Jordan Bratman-the guy she married in a fantasy wedding in the Napa Valley. They were my neighbors. Unbelievably cool.

  “We’ll call you. Ta-ta” She hung up, and my attention turned back to the phone.

  I stared at the receiver for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the conversation. Oh, joy. Could it be? Was Coral Island big enough to share with my parents?

  The bigger question, though, was, was I sharing space at the Twin Palms RV Resort with a famous pop singer? Only one woman could answer that question: Wanda Sue.

  In no time flat, I had walked Kong, showered, and dressed and was heading through the doors of the Twin Palms reception building. It was built in a large octagonal shape, supported by wood pillars with a split-log roof. A check-in desk stood to one side. The rest of the place was taken up with shelves that stocked various RV necessities, such as biodegradable toilet paper and sewer hoses.

  “Mallie, honey, you’re up early!” Wanda Sue exclaimed from behind the check-in desk. She was wearing her “church clothes”-a familiar ensemble that included a bright lime green flowered dress, green high heels, and a little hat perched on top of her head. Today she’d added another festive touch-a pair of dangly earrings in the shape of tiny gold Florida ‘gators. Cute.

  “I’ve got a good reason-I figured out who’s in the Wanderlodge.” I strolled up to her, leaned down, and whispered, “Christina Aguilera and her hubby.”

  Wanda Sue burst into laughter. “Oh, honey. You’re so cold, your legs are gonna freeze right up to your butt”

  My bubble burst, and I slumped into a chair. Wrong again. “I give up. Here I am on a murder case again, and I can’t even figure out who’s living next door to me. I’m some kind of bum investigative reporter.”

  “Whaddya mean? Detective Billie arrested Jake Fowler, and it’s all because of you”

  “Jake?” I jerked upright. “What? When? Why?” At least I remembered my journalist’s questions.

  “It happened like this: I was discussing Frank’s attempted murder over coffee with the clerk at the Circle K, when who should stroll up but Old Man Brisbee? He told us Nick arrested Jake late last night on account of finding Jake’s fishing net wrapped around Frank’s head. All the island guys tag their nets with their names, so they knew it was his.”

  “Wait a minute.” I held a hand up. My motormouth might get stuck in high gear, but Wanda Sue could get a good head of steam going herself, rolling right along like a runaway train. “Let me get this straight. Jake Fowler was arrested for trying to kill Frank King?”

  She nodded.

  “Anything on the grapevine about Tom’s murderer?”

  “Nothing ‘bout that yet, but if he attacked Frank, don’t you think he’s probably Tom’s killer? I heard tell you had Frank closing in on the murderer’s identityJake probably knew that and wanted to stop him.”

  “Possibly.” Doubt rose up in my mind like a noxious fume. What about the deceiver? Jake couldn’t have made something that intricate. “Have you heard how Frank’s doing?”

  “They took him to the county hospital on the mainland. He’s holding his own. Looks like he’ll live.” She gave a coy smile. “Sally Jo called me. She drove into town this morning and checked on him.”

  Okay. “Was he conscious yet?”

  “Nope. He’s all wired up to those machines.”

  I grabbed my canvas bag. “I’d better check in at the paper and see if Anita wants me to try to get a quick blurb about all of this into the upcoming edition.”

  “You’re becoming a regular Woodstein and Bernward” Wanda Sue patted my hands. “Things are looking up for Kevin now-thanks to Madame Geri and you. Now we can help the boy start to heal from all this mess.”

 
“I didn’t do that much” I cleared my throat awkwardly. Madame Geri had done even less. Still, it wasn’t every day that a girl got compared with Wanda Sue’s mangled version of the Washington Post journalists who broke Watergate.

  “Are you kidding? You put yourself on the line for my grandson, and I’ll never forget it.” She gave my hands an extra squeeze. “I owe ya, honey.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to pay me back by telling me who’s in that huge RV next door?”

  She slapped her thighs and laughed. “You’re one stubborn woman, Mallie Monroe. But that’s okay. So am I”

  “Two peas in a pod . . ” I joined in her laughter, which lasted all the way out to Rusty. I turned my face up toward the sky. It might’ve been my imagination, but some of the dark clouds were beginning to clear. And the wind had abated. It was turning out to be a good day, even though I wasn’t sure about Jake’s guilt on either crime. The deceiver niggled at me. But at least Kevin would be in the clear-that was the best news.

  Humming, I climbed into Rusty and cranked up the engine. It made a clicking sound. I tried again. Same sound. My battery was dead. Typical.

  So the clouds weren’t completely gone.

  After waiting an hour for Pop Pop Welch to shuffle the short distance from his cottage to my truck, and another forty minutes for him to jump my battery, Rusty and I finally limped along to the Observer office.

  When I arrived, I noticed that the parking lot was empty. Yippee. I had beaten Anita to the office. Okay, it was Sunday, but news was Anita’s religion. Maybe she hadn’t heard about Frank’s attempted murder yet, and I’d actually be able to scoop her for a change.

  I let myself into the office, cranked up the heater, and ambled over to my rickety desk. On top was a sheet of paper with an angular scrawl: I was here an hour ago. Tried to call you at home, but no answer. Forget the fishing tournament story. I need a short piece on the events at Frank King’s bait store and Take Fowler’s arrest by Monday morning. Chop-chop, Anita.

  I crumpled the paper. Did that woman ever sleep? More to the point, did she ever think I needed a break?