Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (8 page)

“Early homesteaders on the island removed the top
layers of sand and shell shell to build roads on the island.” His voice took on an indignant tinge. “Imagine
that. Disturbing an ancient archaeological site to build
a stupid road.”

“People had to get around the island. In those days it
was tough going,” Everett chimed in. He was now picking up shells and tossing them toward the shoreline
below.

“It must’ve been so peaceful and unspoiled when the
Caloosa lived here” I could almost envision these ancient Indians living a quiet life, fishing and living off
the land.

“It wasn’t exactly like that.” Bradley shattered my
pastoral fantasy. “The Caloosa were warriors-six feet
tall and covered with tattoos. They raided neighboring
villages constantly and took their captives as slaves.”

“Did they trade in gold?”

“Nope … shells were their currency.”

No treasure. No gold. And no motive up here to kill
Hillman. “At least they didn’t practice human sacrifice
or anything,” I joked.

Bradley’s face grew somber. “I’m afraid to say they
did.”

I grimaced. There goes paradise.

“Seems like a practical way to get rid of people you
don’t like,” Everett said.

Bradley laughed. “And I suppose you’d start with the
archeaologists up here”

“Maybe. Like I said, they’re meddling in things
that’s better left alone.”

“The research foundation is doing everything it can
to maintain the integrity of the mounds.” Bradley gestured toward the neatly roped-off area.

“It’s my land and I should have the final say so about
what’s done on it,” Everett bristled.

Bradley blinked several times in rapid succession and
pushed the glasses higher on his nose. “I thought you
and Hillman jointly owned this mound.”

“We do. This blasted dig sits smack dab in the middle
of our property line,” Everett spat out. “Not that Hillman recognized it. He was trying to get some surveyor to cheat me out of my land, but nothing was settled” His
mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “Leastwise, he won’t
be able to argue about it with me anymore.”

“Did you two finally settle your differences?” Bradley
asked.

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s settled all right.”

“Really? I’m so glad you-“

“They haven’t agreed on anything,” I cut in. “Mr. Jacobs is referring to the fact Jack Hillman died last night.”

“Good god” His eyes widened behind the glasses. “What happened? I mean, I didn’t even know he was
ill”

“He wasn’t,” I said grimly. “Someone murdered him.”

Bradley’s mouth gaped open. “Murder? I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill him?”

“Pick a number and stand in line,” Everett quipped.

“The police are investigating and questioning everyone who knew him.” I chose to ignore Everett’s rude interruption, but made a mental note of it. Everything he’s
said so far made him my number one suspect. He hated
Hillman and seemed just ornery enough to kill him. “I’m
actually doing a story about his death for the Observer.
Do you have any comments?” I brought out my notepad
and poised my pen above it.

“Uh … no. Well, yes, I suppose I’m shocked and
dismayed that anything like that could happen on Coral
Island. And, of course, the loss of Jack Hillman will be
felt far and wide in the writing community-both here
and elsewhere across the country”

“She asked for a comment, not a speech,” Everett
said.

“That’s what I’m doing, damn it,” Bradley replied,
his eyes kindling in sudden anger. “Jack was a friend of
mine and I, for one, will miss him sorely. He donated
generously to the museum and frequently did public
appearances for fund-raisers.” Bradley removed his hat
and waved it back and forth in front of his face. “Have
a little respect, will you?”

“Respect is for them that earns it.” Everett’s eyes
hardened. “As far as I’m concerned Hillman could’ve
been one of those ancient sacrifices you were jabbering
about. Maybe those Caloosas didn’t have such a bad
idea. I don’t think they sacrificed victims to their godsthey were probably getting rid of people who’d become
public nuisances.”

“Everett, you’re a surly old curmudgeon,” Bradley
exclaimed.

“So tell me something I don’t know. At least I’m not
pretending to mourn someone who I didn’t give a rat’s
patootie about”

I took a glance at the old man’s face. His mouth, outlined by his beard, was set in a mutinous line. His eyes
hard and cruel. An oddly primitive warning sounded
off in my brain, and I was grateful that Bradley had
showed up. At that moment, Everett looked just mean
enough to commit murder.

“Do you know if the police have any leads?” Bradley
replaced the hat on his head.

“I’m not sure,” I evaded an answer, stepping away from Everett. “Detective Nick Billie is handling the
case”

Silence descended on our little group, the shadow of
murder hovering over us. Everett had resumed kicking
shells and Bradley seemed lost in his own thoughts. I
was struggling hard not to remember the sights and
smells of death that I’d seen last night. No matter what
I did to keep a lid on the memories, they kept surfacing,
rising to the top like debris from the darkest regions of
the ocean floor.

Maybe it was this place. It was already filled with
ghosts. All the lost souls of the long-dead Caloosa
who’d lived and died here. The shells and the mounds
were a mute testimony from another time … and a civilization destined not to survive.

“What happened to the Caloosa?” I finally asked, attempting to divert my thoughts.

Bradley looked out at the water of Coral Island Sound.
“When the Spaniards came, they brought their diseases
with them. Smallpox, yellow fever, measles-you name
it-the Caloosa had no immunity. They were wiped out
in probably less than a century. Some might’ve made it
to the Everglades where they intermarried with the Miccosukee, but no one knows for sure”

“Except that they’re gone.” My words echoed around
the stillness.

Everett emitted a scoffing sound. “When the dead
are dead, there’s nothing you can do to bring them back. No good comes from poking around, except stirring up
all kinds of bad feelings that could end up causing
more harm.”

Everett shot a glance in my direction. Was that a
warning? Was I bringing harm on myself by asking too
many questions? I didn’t dare inquire. I was afraid what
I would hear.

B y midmorning the next day I wasn’t thinking about
the Caloosa Indians or crusty old Everett Jacobs. I’d
been trying to pound out the Hillman story at the Observer office with Anita breathing down my neck.

“Haven’t I told you a hundred times you’ve got to include a strong hook in the first paragraph?” Anita
grumbled, her cigarette bobbing up and down with each
word.

“I thought I did.” I pointed at the first paragraph on
my computer screen.

“Think again.” Anita leaned in closer and I couldn’t
help it-I inhaled. Something else besides the usual
smoky haze emanated from her. I took a surreptitious
whiff. Then another. What was that smell? I couldn’t
quite place it. Then I realized-gasoline. She must’ve hit the self-serve pump at the Circle K-the only place
to get gas on the island. Smoke and gasoline made a
heady combination first thing in the morning, to say the
least.

“Look at that first sentence,” she cut in. “You’re using passive voice and too many adjectives. `Jack Hillman, famous writer of gritty true crime thrillers, was
found dead in his Coral Island home in the late evening
of June fifth.’ Blah. Blah. Blab.”

“But I have who, what, when, and where,” I protested.
“You said those were the important things to include in
the first paragraph”

“Yes, but not with passive voice.” She thumped the
top of the monitor for emphasis. The old computer
screen tilted precariously for a few seconds and I raised
a hand to steady it.

“All right, I’ll tweak it some more. What about the
rest of the story?”

“It doesn’t exactly stink,” she grudgingly admitted.

“Thanks” Hatchet-face, I added silently.

“Look, kiddo, I thought you wanted to be a journalist. If you do, you need to work on your writing. That
never ends. It’s always progress, not perfection.”

I sighed and looked over at Sandy. She offered a
sympathetic smile as she downed her third lowfat yogurt of the morning.

“We want the truth about Hillman in this article, but
play down the content about his early years as a security guard. No one cares about his experiences keeping the Coca-Cola factory safe for democracy” She hit the
scroll button. “The stuff on his literary fame and the
Writers’ Institute is okay. Then wrap up with Bradley
Johnson’s comments.”

“He was about the only person I talked to who had
anything good to say about Hillman.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes when you become famous, people get envious. It happens.”

“Do you think that’s why he was murdered?”

“Nope. Murder takes something stronger-hatred,
jealousy, greed-emotions that make your blood boil.”

“His neighbor sure seems to hate him,” I said.

“Everett?” She waved a hand dismissively. “He’s just
cranky. Been that way for as long as I’ve know him.
He’s threatened to sue practically everyone on the
island-including our paper.”

“No way.”

“Yep. Said we misquoted him on an interview about
the excavation of the shell mounds”

“Did you?”

Her thin mouth puckered in annoyance. “If there’s
one thing I know it’s how to quote a source. He was just
making trouble.”

“I think he’s way beyond the `making trouble’ category when it comes to Hillman. Everett hates him.”

“We’ll see. If he did murder Hillman, we’ll be the first to print it. Remember, follow the money,” Anita
cackled, as she gave me a swift pat on the shoulder.
“Back to work, kiddo. I’m going to call the coroner to see if he has any new information” She disappeared
into her office.

I made the changes my hard-nosed editor wanted,
then decided to check the Internet for any other Hillman interviews. After researching for another hour, I’d
found only one other interview he’d given to the Miami
Herald during the South Florida Library Festival two
years ago. I scanned it and stopped in amazement about
halfway through.

“Did you ever meet Jack?” I asked Sandy who had
finished her yogurt and was now carefully checking to
make sure the price tag was tucked into the short sleeve
of her soft lavender cotton dress. I eyed the latest addition to her endless parade of temporary clothes with
envy. The tag subterfuge provided some distinct advantages. My own meager salary hadn’t allowed me to purchase more than my usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans,
both of which I wore today.

Maybe I was hallucinating from staring at the computer screen all morning, but she looked a bit thinner.

“I met him several times.” She tossed the empty yogurt container in the trash can.

“This article says he volunteered for Big Brothers/Big
Sisters and donated a sizable amount of money to help
open the Island Museum”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s all right here” I pointed at the screen. “He
was a Big Brother to an island boy named Todd Griffith
for six years … the kid’s grandmother later took him and his mom in, and he’s finishing high school in Miami now. And Hillman also contributed ten thousand
dollars to the Island Museum. Wow. He actually did
something nice.”

“I guess.” Sandy shrugged. “It’s hard to be impressed
with someone who refuses to speak to you”

“You mean he came by the office and ignored you?”

“He sure did-once he got a look at me”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he was prejudiced against overweight
women.” Her lower lip trembled, but she tightened it in
a firm line. “I know the type. They’re all sugar sweet
over the phone, but when they drop by and see I’m a
large gal, they simply pretend I’m not here. Like I’m
some kind of piece of furniture or something.”

“I … I’m sorry,” I said. Chalk up another black mark
against Jack. So far he had two white marks and a slew
of black ones. “Sandy, you know I don’t feel that way
about you”

“I know.” She rearranged the blue ceramic bracelets
on her wrist. “In spite of Hillman’s `good works,’ I
wasn’t exactly heartbroken to hear that he’d been
killed.”

“Welcome to the island club,” I muttered.

“Not that I’d do him in, of course. I’ve dealt with my
anger through focused imagery-a technique I read
about in one of my self-help books. But I’m telling
you, it was incredibly tough to work my way through all
the negative emotion that man aroused-I had to use candles, incense, tapes and my special quartz crystal.
The works.” She spread her arms expansively.

“I’m glad that you were able to … uh … let it go”

“Me too. Speaking of which… ” She reached for
her iPod. “I’ve got to do my morning affirmations”