Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue (2 page)

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.