Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves (8 page)

He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his jeans. “I know I
must’ve seemed loco in there. But I’d just heard Gina was
dead-it hurts so bad” He took in a long, deep breath. “You
know, the kind of pain that hits right in the gut. I’m sorry if I
scared you.” The stricken expression on his face halted me.

“I … I guess I sort of understand. She was your sister, after all.” Still, I kept a healthy distance between us. “What did you
want to tell me?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said Brett Palmer’s family hated
Gina. They would’ve done anything to get rid of my sister.”

“Even kill her?”

“Si.” His mouth turned mutinous. “I overheard Brett’s parents
talking at the engagement party. They said the marriage would
never take place-they’d make sure of it-no matter what”

“They may not have wanted Gina as part of the family, but
that doesn’t mean they killed her. Sometimes people just say
things.” And think them. I refrained from telling him that I’d
frequently contemplated all sorts of ways to avoid every family
gathering my mother had planned over the years-including
the annual family reunion picnic in the Midwest. Every one
was the same: sour lemonade, dry ham, and overachieving siblings. Ugh.

Rivas mumbled something in Spanish under his breath.
“The Palmers were serious.”

“Well..”

“You’re a reporter. It’s your job to ask people questions.”
He weighed me with a critical squint. “You can find out if they
did something to harm my sister.”

“That’s not exactly what I do, you-“

“Gina’s dead!” He thumped his chest with his fists. “Her
soul won’t rest until I find out what happened to her.”

“You might want to talk to Detective Billie. He’s conducting the investigation.”

“Police. Bah.” He ground the cigarette butt farther into the
ground. “They do nothing to help the island workers”

I hesitated.

“Please. You must help us” His eyes had a tortured sadness
in the depths that tugged at my heart.

Mentally kicking myself, I reached into my cavernous canvas bag and pulled out my notepad. “Give me the address of
Brett’s parents”

“They live in muy elegance Sea Belle Isle Point-1565 Hibiscus Court. That’s where they had the engagement party.”

“Is there anyone else I could talk to about Gina?”

“Her partner, Isabel. They ran a decorating business together called Island Decor.”

“Oh, yeah, I know where that is-near the island center.”
Needless to say, I’d never set foot inside. One could only do so
much with an Airstream trailer like the one I lived in. The furniture was built into the unit, and I’d fixed it up with my version of shabby chic-heavy on the shabby, light on the chic.
“I’ll see what I can dig up, but I can’t make you any promises.”

“Gracias. I won’t forget this.” He gave a brief nod and went
back inside Mama Maria’s restaurant.

I flipped my notepad shut. Something told me I was getting
myself into a big, messy muddle. But what could I do? Aunt
Lily had begged me to find out what happened to Gina. Now
Rivas Fernandez was doing the same thing. And both of them
thought there was something suspicious about Gina’s demise.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire-or at least there might be.

Certainly I was becoming more and more intrigued that
people thought Gina’s death seemed suspicious.

I drove toward the island center, passed the Observer office,
and stopped at the suite of offices near the four-way stop that
led off the island. Unlike the tiny, ground-level strip mall that
housed our newspaper office, this structure was up four feet on
concrete blocks, fashioned in a quad of offices, with latticework
along the bottom and a sparkling new tin roof.

It had that “old Florida” look that was hot right now. But
with plastic siding, plastic porch rails, and plastic shutters, it
was old as in the Neo-Plastic Era.

I located the Island Decor suite and swung open the door,
causing a tiny chime to tinkle somewhere in the back. Inhaling
the sickly sweet odor of a vanilla candle, I grimaced and took
stock of the place. Plush carpet, expensive knickknacks, and
an antique desk graced the room, along with a wall filled with
paint chips and fabric-swatch catalogues. Swanky decorators.
Not that I had ever consulted them, but my mother was a
frequent purveyor of decorating experts. She liked to call it
“having the house done.” Luckily, I never had to bother with
paint choices-Airstreams came in three basic colors: silver,
silver, and silver. Period.

“May I help you?” a young woman asked. She looked to be
about Gina’s age but much taller. Dark hair with deep gold
highlights and hazel eyes. Quite striking.

“Are you Gina Fernandez’s partner?”

“Yes. I’m Isabel Morales. We co-own Island Decor.” She
shook hands with me. “We offer a full range of services that
cover all aspects of decorating, from soup to nuts” She laughed
at her little metaphor. “You name it, we can do it. Gina and I
have decorated some of the finest homes on Coral Island, and
I mean the ritzy mansions on Sea Belle Isle Point.”

“I get the drift.” Translated: Unless kidnapped by decorating terrorists, she wouldn’t even drive into the Twin Palms RV
Resort where my Airstream currently resided. No big money
there.

She picked up a clipboard and handed it to me. “Here is the
questionnaire that we have all our clients fill out. I need to know
what your color preferences are, what type of furniture you
prefer-modern or traditional-what your decorating budget
allows, and-“

“I live in a trailer.”

“Oh” She snatched the clipboard back.

Guess that was the deal breaker “Well, I’m not here for decorating advice anyway,” I said, noting the haughty tilt her
head had assumed. “I’d like to talk about Gina.”

“She won’t be in until tomorrow. She had some sort of
trail hike to do this morning and was going to spend the afternoon shopping with her fiance, Brett” Her lip curled as she
said his name. “If you want, I can take down your phone
number and-“

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Was it possible I’d finally
met someone not plugged into the island gossip grapevine?
Oh, dear.

“Heard what?”

I paused. “You might want to sit down.”

Her eyes widened in alarm as she sank into an overstuffed,
flowered-chintz sofa.

“Gina … uh … died today.”

“But … no, that can’t be” Her hands tightened around the
armrest until her knuckles turned white. “She was fine this
morning when we had coffee at Mama Maria’s. I don’t understand.”

“The cause of death is still undetermined, but she was found
under a mangrove tree near the entrance to the Little Coral Island Trail.”

“Madre de dios.” She crossed herself, the haughty demeanor
falling away as if it were a discarded piece of clothing. “She
didn’t even want to go on that stupid trail hike, but Brandi insisted. Said it was her first official duty as Mango Queen”

“I know you’re probably upset, but let me try to reconstruct
what you know.” I reached into my cavernous canvas bag and
pulled out my notepad. “You had coffee this morning at Mama
Maria’s with Gina and Brandi. Then they left to hike the trail,
and you came here to work”

“Yes. We had a big job to finish-her prospective in-laws’
house. I was having trouble with the bathroom vanities. Trish Palmer wanted them raised five inches higher than standard,
but it was hard to find a carpenter to do it within the time frame
she wanted for completion. So I was on the phone all morning.
Then I had to drive onto the mainland to pick up these special
gold faucets for the master bath.” Her mouth trembled. “I just
got in this minute.”

“And I had to be the one to give you the bad news” I cleared
my throat. “So sorry.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Why are you so interested in
Gina?”

“I work for the Observer-Mallie Monroe. I’m writing a story
on Gina, about her life and sudden death” No need to tell her
that I’d found the body-or seen that syringe. “People on Coral
Island will want to know what happened to their Mango Queen”

Isabel buried her head in her hands and emitted a sound
somewhere between a sob and a groan. “That stupid contest.
I don’t know why she was so obsessed with being Mango
Queen” She raised her head, tears streaking mascara down her
cheeks in long black tracks. “She spent months and months
learning about the island’s history and the mango industryall so she could claim the title and impress Brett’s parents”

“They must’ve respected her if they hired her to decorate
their house”

She gave a scornful laugh. “‘Hired help’ is a far cry from
daughter-in-law. We’re good enough to decorate their house,
but not to live in it. They tolerated Gina’s engagement to Brett,
but I don’t think they’ll be mourning at her funeral.” Her tone
had turned bitter.

“She and Brandi seemed to be friends.”

“No way” Isabel wiped her cheeks with the back of one hand.
“Brandi pretended to like Gina because of Brett. They’ve always
been a close brother and sister. But make no mistake, Brandi
wanted to be Mango Queen by hook or by crook. She was seething with envy this morning when Gina walked into Mama
Maria’s wearing her Mango Queen crown”

“Huh?” I stopped scribbling. “Was it made of … mangos?”

“No, of course not. It was a tiara, like the beauty queens
wear.”

This Mango Queen thing was big. A tiara? On Coral Island,
where most of the population rarely wore shoes? “So you think
Brandi might’ve wanted to see Gina out of the way so she
could be the Mango Queen?”

Isabel blinked a couple of times. “Wait a minute. How did
Gina die? Is there something suspicious about her death?”

“I can’t say for sure. As I told you, it’s undetermined.”

“But you’re asking a lot of questions.”

“That’s my job” At least it was when I left the office that
morning. Who knew what changes Bernice had made since
then?

“This is just … unbelievable. Gina was my friend and partner.” She gazed up at me with desperation. “What’s going to
happen to our decorating business? I can’t run the company
on my own. Gina was the one who brought the clients
in…” She broke off, staring into the distance as if she could see a
bleak, dismal future.

The door chime rang, and I looked over at the entrance. A
thin, middle-aged guy with a ferretlike face stood there. He
wore a slate-gray suit and loafers-formal dress indeed for
the island. “Hi, Isabel.”

“I just lost my business partner-Gina,” she sobbed.

Shock registered on his pinched features. “Oh, I’m so sorry.
I just saw her a few nights ago when she was elected Mango
Queen. She died?”

“Yes.” I spoke up. “I’m Mallie Monroe from the Observer,
and I’m writing her obituary-that’s why I’m here.” Sort of
true.

“Homer Finch-my law office is next door.” He blinked
several times in rapid succession. “I didn’t know her very
well, but she was lovely.”

Isabel nodded mutely.

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” he said to Isabel. He stood there in awkward silence for a few moments
and then exited.

I turned back to Isabel. “Can you give me any more information on Gina?”

“Here’s the brochure we give to potential clients. It has a
short bio on each of us”

I flipped open the glossy white document. Pictures of Gina
and Isabel dominated it, each posing on various lushly
colored pieces of furniture. “Distinctive photos”

“They were Gina’s idea. She always said that first impressions count”

“Thanks.” I gave her one of my cards. “Call me if you have
anything else you want to pass on”

She gave a brief nod.

I exited Island Decor to the tune of the tinkling chime. I
hadn’t found out much, except that, as I’d suspected that morning, Brandi might’ve been pretending to be Gina’s best friend.
Apparently she had coveted the Mango Queen crown.

Enough to want to kill Gina?

It was late afternoon by the time I returned to the Observer
office. For a few minutes, I stood outside the door in the suffocating heat and humidity, preparing myself for whatever unpleasantness would greet me once I entered. The words that
Dante wrote about hell in the The Divine Comedy came to
mind: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

I tossed my curls in defiance and pushed open the door.
This was no time to let my comparative-literature imagination run away with me. Maybe this wasn’t paradise, but it wasn’t
exactly the inferno, either.

Not yet.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Uh-oh. The standard
office aroma usually contained a combination of odors from
Sandy’s burned low-fat popcorn, burned snacks, and burned
coffee. But a new, strange scent permeated the air. I sniffed, trying to pinpoint it: fish. Raw fish.

I looked at Sandy. She sported a miserable expression and a
too-tight T-shirt that read Hooked on Bait. Next to her desk sat
a large white cooler with the lid flung open.

“What’s going on?” I approached her desk, and the fish
smell grew stronger.

“Bernice’s new idea. Advertisers with the paper get to display their products here-she thinks we get enough foot traffic
from people coming in to pay for their subscriptions to make
it worthwhile. Danny from the Bait Shack bought a quarterpage ad, so Bernice said he could keep some of his best
shrimp bait here for people to sample.” She pinched her nostrils and groaned. “I’ve never had to smell something so vile.
What’s more, she’s got me wearing this hideous, too-small
T-shirt.” She pulled out the sides, but the thin cotton fabric
snapped back and outlined every generous curve. “I ate two
more candy bars since the cooler arrived, and I can’t seem to
stop. If I keep going at this rate, everything I own will be too
small pretty soon. I’ll be back to shopping plus women’s sizes,
and-“

“Sandy, calm down. That’s not going to happen”

She released her nose, then wrinkled it again as the odor
penetrated her nostrils. “It’s just so humiliating to sit here next
to shrimp bait. This is an office, for goodness’ sake”