Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (3 page)

“Just as well,” Sandy said. “I like ‘em. They suit you.”
She tapped on her keyboard and then fastened her glance
on the screen. “What’s on your calendar this week?”

“Hold your breath-my main story isn’t logged in
yet.” I paused for effect. “I’m the Observer’s new food
critic for the upcoming `Taste of the Island.’”

“Oh, wow. What I wouldn’t give for that assignment.
I’m so sick of writing obits.” She glanced down at her
midsized thighs with a sigh and gave them a little pat.
“But with only two weeks before my wedding, I couldn’t
be a food anything-I’d never fit into my dress.”

“Before you get too nostalgic for your triple-chocolate
ice cream days, you might want to know where I’m having lunch.”

“The Starfish Lodge?”

I shook my head at the name of the island’s best restaurant.

Don’t I wish.

“The Seafood Shanty?”

“Nope.” Their specialty-warm beer and peanutssounded good.

She held up her palms in baffled anticipation.

“Le Sink.”

“No!” Sandy gasped and swallowed audibly. “I thought
the Board of Health closed down their kitchen.”

“I guess they opened up again.”

“You’d better lay in a stock of Pepto-Bismol. I’ve
heard the hamburgers are … well, hard to digest.” She
grimaced.

“You’re being diplomatic,” I said. “I’ve heard the food
can burn a hole in your stomach as wide as the Gulf of
Mexico. Kind of gives a whole new meaning to `junk
food.’ And that’s pretty strong talk coming from someone like me who eats three doughnuts for breakfast with
a half gallon of coffee for a chaser.”

“Well, maybe you could just take a nibble and then
write the review,” she offered with an encouraging nod.
“That might not be too bad.”

“I think I’ll have to eat more than just one bite to
write a review.” I groaned, closing my eyes for a brief
moment. “Why is it Anita always comes up with an assignment that seems more like a prison sentence?” I’d
been working at the Observer for over a year, and I still
covered mostly senior-center events and cutesy-kid sto ries. No matter what I did, it was never good enough for
her. Just like my mother.

Oh, jeez. Where had that come from? Was that why I
stayed? To prove myself?

Okay, too heavy. I made a practice of no self-analysis
before lunch-or after. I liked to take life just as it
comes-at face value.

“She can’t help it, Mallie. Remember what Madame
Geri said about Anita? She’s a Gemini and likes to do
things her own way, even when it seems like a whim to
everyone else. You have to ride out her craziness.” Sandy
gave a knowing wink. “Now that she’s dating Mr. Benton, maybe he’ll rein her in a bit.”

“Since when did you get so wise?”

“Hey, I’m marrying Madame Geri’s son-I’ve got a
pipeline to the psychic truth.” She tilted her head upward as if her prospective mother-in-law were some kind
of divine presence. “I feel almost like I’m marrying into
royalty.”

More like a noble nutcase.

“I know you don’t always agree with Madame Geri,”
Sandy continued, focusing on me again. “But you have
to admit, at times she’s really awesome.”

I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Madame
Geri, though worshipped on the island like some kind of
tropical Oracle of Delphi, made predictions one step up
from a fortune cookie. Still, she occasionally hit the
mark-and that scared me. One of my many jobs had
been at a psychic hotline, and I was a total sham. Just listening and responding with “uh-huh” and “oh, no” was
the extent of my mystic abilities. Most of the people who
called knew what they wanted to do; they just needed a
willing ear at $1.99 a minute.

But one woman who’d worked with me, Irene, had
stunned me with her “reads” over the phone. She always
knew the truth behind every caller’s dilemma-totally
intimidating.

In fact, I’d been tempted to call her many times after
I’d left yet another job, but I didn’t want to know my
future.

That scared me even more.

Sandy glanced at me, still waiting for a response.

“Yeah, Madame Geri is a … piece of work all right,” I managed to get out.

Sandy shook her head. “You’ll agree someday. She’s
generally right on target.”

“I hardly need a prediction to know how my first dining experience as the Observer food critic is going to
turn out.” I turned on my computer and Googled Le Sink,
while Sandy clicked away on an obituary. Surprisingly,
they had a Web site with a picture of the actual restaurant
(and I use that term loosely). It appeared to consist of an
open-air counter with “picnic table seating” and variously
colored old ceramic sinks littered around the yard. “Do
you think they clean these tables?” I turned my computer
screen toward Sandy.

“Rarely,” she answered without a glance. “I went there once with Jimmy. We had to wait two hours for our dinner, and it was … Well, you’ll see.”

I groaned again.

“Oh, and don’t use the Porta Potti. It’s beyond nasty.
You could slap a saddle onto the palmetto bugs and ride
them out of there.”

“You’re not helping much.”

“I’m just trying to be honest. Forewarned is forearmed,” Sandy murmured as she kept clicking on her
keyboard. It always amazed me when she could simultaneously hang on the phone, type on her computer, and
carry on a conversation without a blink-or losing her
train of thought. Sandy’s uber-ability to multitask was
legendary on Coral Island, which is why Anita kept her
employed at the Observer, even during her borderline
“price tag” years, when Sandy wouldn’t cut the tags off
her clothes because her weight kept fluctuating. Anita
feared the newspaper might lose potential clothing store
advertisers.

Of course, Anita would’ve fired me for jaywalking in
the office.

“Whose obit are you working on?” I asked, not able
to look any longer at the grimy scene that awaited me at
Le Sink.

“Carlos Santini. His brother owns one of the better restaurants on the island, Little Tuscany. It’s a nice placeunlike Le Sink. Great food, nice atmosphere, and no fried
food…”

“Oops, you had me until the last one. I never said I
didn’t like grease.” Okay, so I wasn’t exactly top shelf
when it came to dining out. But Nick Billie hadn’t done
much more than buy me a grouper sandwich at the Seafood Shanty, and Cole rarely had enough cash to do
more than grill out at the RV park.

Maybe I needed a better-quality guy in my life. I had
two of them, but neither one treated me to haute cuisine
or “haughty cruising,” as Wanda Sue, my landlady at the
Twin Palms RV Resort, pronounced it.

“What happened to Carlos Santini?” I asked.

“Don’t know. He had angina, so they think he probably
had a heart attack, but he was only in his midfifties. I
guess the police wanted an autopsy because he died at
home.”

I took a peek at the photo on Sandy’s screen. Dark
hair brushed back from a heavy-featured face, olive skin,
and a body the size of a tank. “Maybe the three hundred
pounds didn’t exactly lend itself to coronary health.”

“Watch it.” Sandy ceased her typing. “I know what it
feels like to have a butt the size of the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Hardly.”

“Well … maybe only Lake Okeechobee, but it used
to take twenty minutes every morning to squeeze myself
into size fourteen pants.” She shuddered. “I still can’t
believe I’m a size ten now.”

“Okay, back to Mr. Santini. Anything on the autopsy
yet?”

“Nope.”

“Who found the body?”

“His niece, Beatrice.”

“Jeez … that must’ve been a shock.” I shuddered myself as I remembered what it felt like to find a dead body.
I’d had a couple of incidents like that since coming to
Coral Island, none of them pleasant. “Forget about the
official story-what’s the island grapevine got to say
about the death?”

Sandy paused and leaned back in her chair. “Everyone
is sort of cut up about it. Mr. Santini was a great guy. He
ran the ice cream shop at the island center, did a lot of
volunteer work at the soup kitchen, and never had a harsh
word to say about anyone-“

“Oh, I remember him now.” I snapped my fingers. “I
used to stop in his store sometimes after work for a
double scoop of rum walnut ice cream-if I wanted to
skip dinner. And he always gave me extra toppings at no
charge. Great guy. I’m so sorry to hear about his death.”
I sighed. “He really wasn’t that out of shape to have a
massive heart attack just stocky.”

She leveled a long, silent glance at me.

I stared back. “What are you saying?”

“Carlos Santini’s brother, Marco, hated him-always
had, but it really got worse the last six months.”

“Why?”

“Marco’s daughter, Beatrice. She began dating an exchange student from Italy who works in the restaurant.
A nice kid. But Marco has done everything to break
them up. If you ask me, he’s just plain mean.” She shook her head. “I guess the two brothers had a big argument
at the restaurant the day before Santini was found dead.”

“You think there was … foul play?”

Sandy shrugged.

“Right. Let me call Nick.” I picked up my cell phone
and speed dialed him, my heart beating a little faster.

“Nick Billie here,” his deep voice answered on the first
ring.

“Hi, this is Mallie. I’ve got a couple of questions about
Carlos Santini’s death-“

“The autopsy isn’t back yet,” he cut in with a clipped
tone.

“When did Beatrice find the body?” I cradled my cell
between my ear and shoulder as I pulled out my reporter’s notepad. My radar was up; something seemed off
about this whole thing.

“Yesterday morning. She had stopped by Santini’s
house and found him in his recliner-he was sitting in
front of the TV with a glass of wine at his side.”

“Alone?” I scribbled down a few notes that I probably
wouldn’t be able to decipher later.

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think-“

“There’s nothing unusual about his death.” I could hear
his deep sigh. “I’ve got someone with me right now. I’ll
call you later.” He clicked off.

I stuck my tongue out at the cell phone and then snapped
it shut.

“What did Nick say?” Sandy queried.

“Not much.” My tone must have said it all, because she
didn’t probe any further. “What’s Marco Santini like?”

“The opposite of Carlos in every way. Tall, thin-and
kind of snippy. Jimmy told me that Marco runs a tight
ship at the restaurant, which is probably why Beatrice
spent so much time with her uncle. She has to work for
her father all day at Little Tuscany.”

Jimmy had moved from painter to waitstaff after he
got engaged-a good move. During tourist season, he
made almost a hundred bucks a night in tips.

“Sounds more like Little Terrorsville,” I murmured,
still irritated over Nick’s abrupt dismissal. I might have
been known as “Mixed-up Mallie” for the first twenty
years of my life, but I now had a job (semi-permanent), a
home (the Airstream in an RV park), and two boyfriends
(maybe only one now), and I deserved better than the “official island cop” blow-off. “Back to Carlos-anything
else I need to know?”

“Well, he stayed single, so Beatrice was more like the
daughter that he never had,” Sandy continued in a soft
voice. “That’s about it. I guess that I’ll make sure to get
a quote from her for the obit.”

“Fitting” I grabbed my hobo bag-a new addition to
my wardrobe since my ten-year-old veteran bag split at
the seams from all the junk I carried around. This one
had double reinforced seams and a peace sign embroidered on the front. I tossed in a few pens and a small
spiral-bound notebook. Then I tossed in two chocolate
bars. “Much as I want to find out more about Carlos’ death, I can’t put off Le Sink any longer.” I printed out
the directions and stuffed that inside the hobo bag too.

“Good luck!”

“I think I’ll need it-“

The front door of the newspaper office suddenly
whipped open, and Madame Geri stood at the entrance,
an alarmed expression on her face. “The wedding is off!”

Sandy looked up, her eyes widening in shock. “What?”

“All plans are canceled because a killer is loose.”

My hobo bag slid to the floor with a thump, and Sandy
let out a small shriek.

Oh my god. Was Carlos Santini murdered?

I … don’t understand,” Sandy stammered, panic in
her voice.

Madame Geri held up her arms, chanted a few words
in a low tone, then fastened her glance on Sandy. “It’s
confirmed by the spirit world: a killer is on the island,
and your wedding plans will be canceled whether you
like it or not.”

Sandy opened her mouth and tried to formulate a few
words, but nothing came out. Then her eyes filled with
tears, and her shoulders began to shake.

“All right, let’s stop all of this alarmist talk,” I interjected as I moved around my desk to stand behind Sandy.
Patting her on the shoulder, I glared at Madame Geri,
like a tigress protecting her cub-even though Sandy was
technically around my age. “I don’t think pseudocommunication from some kind of phony spirit world qualifies as a reason for Sandy to call off her wedding. For
goodness’ sake, she’s marrying your son.”