The blond placed a hand on my companion’s arm. “Madame Geri, my boyfriend, Buzzy, says he doesn’t want to get married. Do you think I should stick around and wait till he’s ready?”
Madame Geri paused, presumably for an instant message from the spirit world. “You might need to move on…. Sorry, my dear.”
The girl’s lower lip quivered, and tears filmed her eyes. “I knew that. But I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“Real love is right under your nose. Your neighbor T.J. is available-and interested.”
Dawning realization touched the blond’s face, causing a wide smile to appear. “Oh, my, you’re so right. He’s been there all the time. Thank you so much”
I restrained myself from commenting.
Before Madame Geri could rearrange anyone else’s life, we exited the restaurant and found Mama Maria standing just inside the screen door of her house. “I knew you’d come. You heard about Rivas.”
“Are you doing okay?” I moved toward her.
She opened the door and gestured for us to enter. “He wasn’t arrested. Nick made that muy claro-very clear. Still, I’m worried. Rivas has a temper. He could say something that would make the police suspicious. But he would never have hurt Gina-he loved her. The police took Rivas in because they think someone k … k. . ” Her face crumpled, and the words wouldn’t come.
“No need to say it. We know,” I reassured her.
“Madame Geri. It’s an honor,” Mama Maria said, giving a little incline of her head as we stepped into the house.
Oh, not her too.
Madame Geri then did something that surprised me: she gave Mama Maria a hug-and I could swear that stupid bird even curled his wings around the grieving mother. Maybe I was beginning to semi-hallucinate.
“Mama Maria, I need to talk with you,” I broke in, swallowing hard. The last thing I wanted to do was press her for information, but it had to be done. “This must be incredibly hard, with your daughter having died a few days ago and now Rivas taken into the police station. But I need to ask you a few questions. They may seem a little odd, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it would help. My job is to find out what happened, and I have a lead of sorts-“
Marley squawked.
“Keep him quiet,” I whispered.
“He will-if you can get to the point.” Madame Geri led Mama Maria to a small sofa.
“I can’t help it. All the tension from today has shifted my motormouth into overdrive.”
Seating myself next to Mama Maria, I took her hand and clasped it tightly. “Let me try to be brief. Whoever did this awful thing to Gina is still out there, and I think I know who did it.”
Her hand tightened around my palm.
“Let me ask you a question: Did you ever hear Gina talking to Homer Finch on the phone?”
Surprise touched her face. “Homer?” Her head tilted down as she tried to remember. Minutes passed in silence. “I … I don’t think so”
“Did she mention his name at all?” I pressed.
“Uh … no. Wait, yes, she did.” Mama Maria’s head came up. “When she was reading about the history of Coral Island’s mango groves, she asked me about Papa’s connection with Mr. Harold Palmer and Judge Nathan Finch. They worked together years ago in the Palmer groves”
“Did anything … unusual happen during that time when your father worked in the Palmer groves?”
She shrugged. “I was just a girl then. And Papa got sick soon after.”
“Were the men working on any kind of special project together?” I continued to push for answers. There had to be a connection. “Something that could’ve made Palmer a lot of money? If so, your father might’ve been too sick to care, and Judge Finch was probably only too happy to cut him out of the profits. Gina may have found out and then hired Homer as a smokescreen for confronting him.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Madame Geri pointed out.
So my theory wasn’t foolproof. “All I know is, Gina paid Homer a small amount of money the morning she died, and it wasn’t the usual legal fee”
Mama Maria rubbed her eyes in weariness. “This is all so confusing. How can anything so far in the past relate to Gina’s death?”
“My editor, Anita, always says `follow the money,’ and it’s been my experience so far that she’s right. People will do almost anything when it comes to making big bucks”
“The spirit world has told me almost the same thing,” Madame Geri added-quite unnecessarily.
“Okay, Mama Maria, let’s brainstorm,” I said. “Do you remember how the Palmers made all their money?”
“Si. They created new types of mangos that grew better and tasted sweeter than any others. One was the best mango I’d ever eaten: Palmer’s Pride. It tastes like no other mango-like coconut and cinnamon.”
Something clicked in the back of my mind. The mango slices that Gina gave me on the trail had those exact flavors Mama Maria just described. “I think I’ve had that mango”
“Not possible.” Mama Maria waved a finger in dissent. “The Palmers don’t sell it locally. It’s prized all over the world, so they send it only to special places in Europe and Asia.”
“What does it look like?”
“Different from most mangos-very pale, almost milkycolored instead of the usual deep peachy-yellow.”
“Oh, yes!” I almost clapped. “Gina gave me some of that mango on the trail, the morning she died. Did she have it when she left the house?”
“No. I would’ve known”
“Where could she get some?”
“Only at the Palmer groves” Mama Maria’s startled eyes locked onto mine. “She must’ve gone there before she had breakfast at the restaurant”
I rose and began to pace the room, trying to piece together a theory. “So, first thing in the morning, Gina went to the Palmer groves and met Homer Finch. She gave him cash for some kind of legal services, picked up a few mango slices … and somehow a toxic pesticide wound up in her syringe.” My heart began to beat faster. “Of course, they’d have pesticides at a mango grove. It makes sense. Somehow, Homer got hold of Gina’s purse and tampered with her insulin kit.”
“Homer Finch? It still feels wrong to me,” Madame Geri chimed in.
I gave her a dismissive wave. “The spirit world doesn’t know everything.”
Madame Geri snorted.
“I’m going over to the Palmers’ groves to see if I can find any evidence.” I grabbed my canvas bag.
“Shouldn’t you call Nick Billie first?” Mama Maria inquired, wringing her hands.
“Not yet. All I’ve got is a theory. Let me see what I can dig up, and then I’ll call him. Nobody knows that we’ve figured out Homer Finch’s connection to Gina’s death, so we’ve got a little time. Hopefully, Homer left some kind of evidence that we can use to clear Rivas.” I smiled down at Mama Maria. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m coming with you,” Madame Geri announced.
“No, stay here with Mama Maria. She needs you more than I do. I’ll drive to the Palmers’ groves, look around, and be right back, okay?”
Madame Geri frowned. “The spirit world urges caution.”
“Not to worry.” I raised my chin in a show of pride. “I’m a trained professional journalist-and I have martial-arts training. I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.” Swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I strode toward the door. Then, I paused and turned. “Uh … where are the Palmers’ groves?”
Madame Geri sighed.
About thirty minutes later, with a couple of wrong turns (Mama Maria’s directions were a bit imprecise), I found myself lurching down a two-lane shell road that I’d never driven before.
The mango groves were located south of the island center in a heavily agricultural area. Palm-tree farms mixed with exotic nurseries, herb fields, and mango groves. Needless to say, the roads had potholes that seemed more like black holes. Rusty lurched and teetered.
As my body pitched back and forth, I prayed we made it there intact.
Since I’d never even purchased a potted plant, I had no reason to frequent this part of Coral Island. And, after today, I vowed never to return if all my organs survived the punishing ride.
Eventually, I spotted a sign decorated with multicolored mangos that read PALMER’S GROVE. Unlike the places I’d just passed, this acreage appeared very well kept. A row of neatly trimmed areca palms stretched across the front of the property, interspersed with decorative bougainvillea bushes. Beyond, vast rows of mango trees stretched in either direction as far as I could see.
I parked Rusty in front of a small frame building and looked around. The place seemed deserted for lunchtime.
Perfect.
I could look around without any encumbrances.
Sliding out of my truck, I gave my cell phone a quick check to see that I had plenty of battery power. That way, if anything happened, I had Nick Billie on speed dial.
I moved toward the building, inhaling the balmy aroma of mangos. Stronger than a scented flower, deeper than a perfume. The fruits were everywhere. Scattered under the trees, heaped in wooden crates, stacked in boxes. Mangotown.
Remembering the luscious taste of the mango slices still in my fridge, my mouth began to water. I touched one; it was soft and ripe, almost mushy, and ready to eat. Maybe later.
Tapping on the door, I took another nervous glance around. Nick Billie would pitch a fit if he knew I was trespassing on Palmer land just to find evidence. But I had to know the truth about Homer Finch’s involvement in Gina’s death.
When no one answered, I found the door unlocked and slipped inside. For a few moments, I gulped in the airconditioning provided by a small window unit. Gamely, it chugged along, lowering the temperature from ninety-five degrees to a cool ninety-marginal improvement at best.
I glanced around. The building appeared little more than a large, unfinished storage shed. A long counter stood in the middle of the room with postal scales and sealing tape on top. Sample bags of mango slices, similar to the one Gina had the day she died, layered the bottom of a wooden tray. Proof. And I had Gina’s bag in my fridge. I swiped a couple more-for evidence, of course.
Then I threaded my way through shipping boxes with the label PALMER’S PRIDE that littered the floor. Obviously, this was the spot where the Palmers dispatched their famous mango.
What about the pesticide?
Shelves lined the back of one wall, stocked with various agricultural paraphernalia, from pruning sheers to Weedwhackers. I methodically checked each shelf, one by one, for a pesti cide container but found nothing. The adjacent room held mango-filled boxes, ready to be mailed out. Nothing again.
Damn.
Maybe this was just a shipping center. But Gina had to have stopped here the morning she died, and it was the only opportunity Homer had to put the pesticide in her syringe.
I checked my Mickey Mouse watch. Almost 1:00 P.M. People would be trailing back from lunch, so I had to get out of there.
As I pivoted to leave, I spied a small bathroom off to the left of the counter. Hesitating, I checked my watch again. Okay, I had time for a peek.
I entered the tiny room and did a quick scan. Plain white toilet (not too clean) and cabinet with sink (even dirtier). Ick. I opened the cabinet doors and found only a stack of paper towels. As I was about to close the doors, something caught my eye.
A plastic container.
My heart began to beat a little faster. I took one of the paper towels and edged the bottle out, so as to not tamper with any fingerprints. The label read PESTICIDE: DANGEROUS IF SWALLOWED. Evidence?
All I had to do was call Nick Billie and get him over here to secure a sample and see if it matched the pesticide found in Gina’s blood.
I reached for my cell phone but couldn’t get a signal. Leaving the pesticide container, I rushed back into the main shipping room, frantically pressing the buttons on my cell phone.
“What are you doing here?” a man’s voice asked.
I looked up. It was Homer Finch.
Uh-oh.
… I might ask you the same question,” I stammered. He didn’t appear to have a weapon. That, at least, was good news.
“You found out, didn’t you?” he inquired, his ferretlike face taut with strain.
“I don’t know what you mean. I came here to … uh … pick up some mangos. See?” I held up the plastic bags. “These Palmer’s Prides are delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it. I mean, the mango wasn’t really my favorite fruit, but once I tried this, I was hooked. The blend of flavors is like something-“
“Shut up.”
“Okay” I bit my lip. Not the time for the motormouth to kick in. It seemed to irritate most people-especially those on the verge of admitting to murder. “I’ll just put these away.” I placed the mango samples into my canvas bag, along with the cell phone-but not before I’d surreptitiously punched Nick Billie’s speed-dial number again. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I heard Isabel call you about the messy desk. I figured some thing was up, so I drove to the Observer and followed you from there to Mama Maria’s and, finally, here,” he explained in a smug voice. “You know, my storage closet at Finch and Harris is right next to Island Decor’s stockroom, so I can hear everything that goes on in there through the ventilation system. It’s been mildly interesting over the last few years” He still hadn’t made a move in my direction. “I thought I’d gotten rid of all the evidence when I stole the invoice and wiped Gina’s hard drive clean. Sadly, I was mistaken.”
“Why did you do it, HOMER?” I said in a loud voice, hoping Nick could hear on the other end of the cell phone.
“I’m not a thief. I came here to try to tell my side.” Homer spread his arms in appeal. “I knew if anyone found that invoice, they might question my integrity-and Gina’s rightful title as Mango Queen. That poor, sweet girl. She had so much life ahead of her.”
“You regret what happened. I know. And the police will take that into account, I’m sure” I cleared my throat audibly. “But you didn’t answer my question. WHY DID YOU KILL GINA?”
“What are you saying?” His features became more pinched. “I didn’t kill her.”
“YES, YOU DID”
“No, I didn’t.”
“THEN WHY DID YOU STEAL THE INVOICE?”
“Because I thought someone might think I rigged the Mango Queen pageant. Gina paid me a hundred and fifty dollars the day after she became the queen-that would look suspicious to anyone. But she won fair and square. Gina deserved to be Mango Queen.”
I blinked back my puzzlement. “WHAT IS THE INVOICE FOR?”
“Why are you shouting? I’m standing right here.”
“Oh, sorry. I … do that when I get nervous. I talk a lotand loudly.”
“The invoice was for her pre-nup”
“Huh?”
“She hired me to write up a prenuptial contract for her marriage to Brett Palmer,” he explained. “That’s why I met her the day she died. She wanted to pay me for the legal work.”
“That’s it?”
“‘Fraid so.”
I stared at him, still confused. “What about the pesticide?”
He shook his head. “You’ve lost me there.”
“You know Gina was diabetic?”
“Yes, that’s what killed her.”
I drilled him with my stare. “No, she died because of a toxic pesticide someone put into her insulin syringe.”
His mouth dropped open. “But … but … I thought she died from diabetes complications. Sure, I heard some rumors around the island, but I didn’t believe them. I mean, who could’ve harmed Gina-” He broke off, an expression of horror crossing his face. “You don’t think that I would’ve done something like that?”
“You met her here the morning she died. And the pesticide they found in her body was the brand used on mango treeslike the kind I found back there in a cupboard.” I
pointed in the direction of the bathroom.
“It wasn’t me, I swear!” he cried out.
“ARE YOU SAYING YOU DIDN’T KILL GINA, HOMER?” I tilted my face toward the canvas bag, just to make certain it got through on the cell phone.
“I’m not deaf, you idiot.”
“Oh, sorry” I checked the window, but no sign of Nick Billie yet. “Why don’t you turn yourself in?”
“I told you, I didn’t kill Gina.” His voice took on a note of anguish as he slumped into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, God. I never dreamed that she could harm Gina-“
“Who are you taking about? Do you know who did it? Are you protecting someone?”
His head shot up.
Pay dirt.
“Homer, if you know anything, you need to tell me,” I urged. “Rivas Fernandez was taken in for questioning this morning. You can’t let an innocent man take the rap for a crime he didn’t commit.” I knelt down next to him. “Was there someone else here the morning you met Gina?”
“Maybe”
“Who? WHO ELSE WAS HERE WHEN YOU MET GINA?”
Homer began to whimper.
“Jeez, I’ve heard enough of this crap,” Trish Palmer said in a disgusted tone as she strolled into the room from the rear door. She leveled a gun at me, throwing a momentary glance of derision in Homer’s direction. “You gutless weasel.”
I straightened, my legs slightly unsteady. Her eyes glittered with a hard, unbalanced edge-the kind of look I used to get from half-crazed parents who’d dragged their kids around Disney World all day and were ready to take out Mickey Mouse at any cost. I was in deep trouble.
“TRISH PALMER. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Sweat broke out across my forehead. “WHY DO YOU HAVE THAT GUN?”
“Pipe down”
Homer whimpered more loudly.
“Why did you do it, Trish?” I asked quietly. “Because of Brett?”
“Pffft. She could have Brett. He never would’ve made sen ator. He’s too damn nice.” She ground out the last word as if it were a vicious insult. “I killed her because she could ruin us. She’d found out that it was her grandfather who developed Palmer’s Pride-“
“And was swindled out of its big profits” I checked the window again. Still no sign of Nick. Where was he? “How much money are we talking about?”
Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves Page 16