Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue (21 page)

Madame Geri placed a hand on my shoulder and
spoke in a quiet voice. “It’s okay. You’re doing everything you can.”

Much to my surprise, her composure seemed to settle
my rising panic. I blinked back the tears and focused on
stopping the bleeding. I pressed down hard on the wound,
no longer averting my eyes from the red blotch. I was doing something. Frank King was going to live if I had anything to do with it.

At that moment, sirens approached. In less than two
minutes paramedics rushed into the store, strapped Frank
to a gurney, and hooked him up to an IV.

“Is he going to make it?” I asked one of young guys
who was bandaging Frank’s wound.

“Can’t tell. He’s lost a lot of blood. But we’ll do
everything we can.” His hands moved deftly, covering
the wound in a matter of seconds. Then he and another
guy wheeled Frank outside.

Madame Geri and I moved to the front of the store
and watched them put Frank into the ambulance. Nick
oversaw the whole thing, speaking a few words to the
paramedics before they left.

When they drove off, I kicked a wooden decoy out
of the way and leaned against a wall, suddenly aware
that my legs were shaking. Remarkably, Madame Geri
seemed unfazed by the whole series of events, though
Marley appeared somewhat agitated. “I can’t believe
you’re so calm,” I commented with some envy.

“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?”