Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (10 page)

I peeped out my window and saw Pop Pop rev off in
his golf cart. My glance slid over to Cole’s van-still no
sign of him.

Regretful, I turned away from the window, heater in hand. At least Pop Pop had left before anyone had seen
him at my door with flowers.

I headed for the shower.

An hour later, I strolled into the Observer office. Sandy
greeted me from her desk, ensconced in a brown and yellow knit poncho. Anita stood next to her, sporting a pea
green velour warm-up suit. Needless to say, my own outfit of jeans and moth-eaten sweater wasn’t exactly an
ensemble out of Vogue. But it so rarely turned this frigid
in Florida, people tended not to invest in cold-weather
gear-including me.

“That temperature drop last night caught me off guard,”
I commented, sitting at my desk and flipping on the computer. “Brr.”

I rubbed my hands together for emphasis.

Sandy giggled.

“What’s up?” I swiveled my chair around. “I thought
you’d be a basket case after Madame Geri’s prediction
and the events at Little Tuscany yesterday.”

“That’s before we heard you were dating Pop Pop,”
Anita responded with a wry nod. “You’re hitting the bottom of the barrel, kiddo.”

My mouth thinned. “I am not dating Pop Pop!”

“But we heard that you had dinner with him last
night at Le Sink,” Sandy said in an amused voice. “That
must’ve been fun-“

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t like a date-the man has to be a hundred and fifty if he’s a day,” I protested. “The only reason I went with him is I got busted
trying to go out with Cole and Nick Billie on the same
night-“

“What?” Sandy’s brown eyes widened into saucers.
“Nick and Cole together? Yow. Did they have a fistfight?
I’ll bet Nick Billie could kick butt.”

“No, they didn’t get physical. When they saw each
other, they both just left-with me holding flowers and
chocolates but no guy.”

“Chocolates?” Sandy’s tone turned wistful. “Godiva?”

I nodded.

“My favorite.” She smacked her lips. “The dark kind?
Or the-“

“Okay, enough of this crap,” Anita cut in, sitting on the
corner of Sandy’s desk. “And for the record, if you want
to date a guy who hasn’t chewed his own food since the
disco era, I could care less. But I do care that you did
your restaurant review.”

I produced my flash drive with a flourish. “Finished it
this morning.” Placing it in her outstretched palm, I
continued, “Also for the record, Pop Pop has a nice set
of dentures.”

Her fingers closed around the small drive. “Spoken
like a woman in love.”

I leveled a mean glare in her direction and headed for
the Mr. Coffee.

She cackled. “Did you include anything about Marco’s
death? That would make a tasty little dessert-“

“Wait a minute.” I stopped mid-pour. “I reviewed Le
Sink-and skipped Little Tuscany because Marco died.
I was going to drop by Pelican’s Grill today-“

“Jeez Louise. Do I have to explain everything?” She
tossed the drive onto my desk, as I strolled back with my
steaming cup of java. “Post the Le Sink review, skip
the stop at Pelican’s Grill, and add a blog update of Little
Tuscany, complete with the owner’s death right in the
middle of your meal. That’s what sells papers-not
some sappy garbage about crisp salads and creamy
sauces. Spare me.”

“But I didn’t have time to take more than two bites
of my pasta at Little Tuscany before Marco staggered
out of the kitchen-“

“That’s plenty of sampling for the review. The food is
only the entree to the main course: Marco expiring in
his own dining room.”

Sandy and I turned silent.

“Get it? The entree?”

“Uh-huh.” I took a deep swig of coffee.

Anita gave an exclamation of disgust, mumbling how
no one in the office “got” her wit. “Write up the review,
kiddo, and have it on my desk by the end of the day.”

“All right.” I flipped on my desktop PC; it made audible beeps as it slowly fired up. “Urn … is Nick investigating Marco’s death?”

“Trying to get back in Billie’s good graces?” Anita
lifted one eyebrow.

“No.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “I wanted to tell him about what went down at Le Sink last night. Guido
got into a wrestling match with Kyle the Grill Guy-“

“Over the bad food?” Sandy inquired.

“Not exactly. Guido called Kyle a murderer and then
just attacked him. They tumbled and thumped each other
on the ground till I separated them with an old broom”

Sandy’s face kindled with interest-and a touch of
puzzlement. “So Marco’s death might be suspicious?”

“Possibly.” I recalled the restaurateur’s final moments, red-faced, choking, and clawing at the air. I shivered.
“Now, whether or not Kyle was responsible for his death
is another thing. I don’t see the connection-“

“Kyle’s mother, Francesca, owns Taste of VeniceMarco’s biggest competition.” Anita yawned. “Personally, I hate all Italian food, but I guess their rivalry was
legendary. Rumor has it, Francesca stole one of Marco’s
prized recipes and won some national recipe contest,
and he was going to sue her. That might be motive.”

“And Marco hated her ever since?”

“Bingo.”

I sat back in my chair, mulling over this revelation as
I drained my cup. “What about Kyle? Is he close to his
mother?”

Anita crossed her index and middle finger. “Like two
peas in a pod.”

“So he might’ve done in Marco for … his mother?”
Something about that scenario just didn’t ring true. I
couldn’t see Mr. Grill Guy actually taking the initiative
to buy a gallon of milk, much less plan a murder.

“Stranger things have happened,” Anita commented.

“I guess.” I inserted my flash drive into the computer. The screen flickered and then went blank. I tapped the
keys a few times, and it came to life again, except now a
black line stretched across the screen. “Anita, I think
this refurbished Dell is going down again.”

“Maybe Santa will come early and bring you a new
one-along with a lifetime supply of Poligrip for your
new love.”

Sandy giggled again.

“Not funny!” I turned on Sandy. “And you should
know better. If someone killed Marco, your fiance,
Jimmy, might be a suspect.”

Sandy’s face crumpled, and tears sprang into her eyes.

Instantly, I regretted my words.

“My poor Jimmy,” she said, her head drooping. “Madame Geri was right-murder is afoot on the island, and
my wedding will never take place. We’re doomed.”

“I’m sorry, Sandy.” I reached across my desk and patted her hand. “That was stupid of me to say-your wedding will occur just the way you’ve planned it.” I added
a smile to reinforce my encouraging words.

“I’ve got to call Madame Geri,” she said, picking up
the phone and punching in some numbers.

Igroaned.

“See what you did?” Anita gestured an imaginary
gun in my direction. “Instead of riling up Sandy, you
should be working on your review. If we don’t sell papers, you don’t have a job.”

Didn’t I know that? I’d had a string of low-level, lowincome jobs as I had worked my way south from the
Midwest, and the last thing I wanted was to lose my employment at the paper. Not that the island weekly comprised more than a few local stories, real estate ads, and
Chamber of Commerce stuff, but I had a regular paycheck.

What could you do with a degree in comparative literature but hope and pray you didn’t have to become a
janitor to pay the rent?

Truth be told, I’d done even that: during my undistinguished tenure at Disney World, one of my jobs had been
to walk around with one of those “trash grabbers” and
clean up after the hordes of tourists who dropped everything from half-eaten turkey legs to used diapers-at
seven bucks an hour.

“I’ll have that review done in a jiffy,” I said to Anita,
poising my fingers above the keyboard.

“That’s the attitude I want to hear.” She hopped off
Sandy’s desk and tossed something at me. I caught it and
looked down.

A jar of bee cream.

“You might slather some on Pop Pop and see if it
helps with his those crevasselike wrinkles on his
face.” She cackled again. “See what it’s done for me
already?”

She patted her cheeks, which had taken on a bright
red tint.

“It looks like an allergic reaction,” I pointed out.

“Bull.” She produced another jar, scooped out a large
amount, and dabbed it around her eyes. “I’m getting the
glow of beautiful skin.”

I shrugged and turned back to my review of Little Tuscany. Glow, my eye. Let her face ignite into flames-as
long as she didn’t fire me.

I laughed inwardly at my own pun.

Anita strolled toward her tiny office. “When you’re
done, check with Nick about Marco’s cause of death.
We can always hope …”

“That he died of natural causes?” I finished for her.

“That someone killed him,” she corrected me as she
disappeared into her office.

Hag.

While Sandy chatted with Madame Geri on the phone,
I grabbed another cup of coffee and knocked out the draft
of my restaurant review for Little Tuscany. I covered the
faux Italian decor, the mouthwatering pasta dishes, the
homemade bread, and the owner’s death throes-all
within the 750-word count. It was my first foray into being
an Official Food Critic, and I felt pleased with myselfeven though I knew the small paragraph on Marco’s tragic
demise wouldn’t be enough to please Anita.

After I saved the review on my flash drive, I printed
out a hard copy and left it on Anita’s desk while she was
at lunch.

“I’m heading over to the island police station to check
with Nick to see if he has any info about Marco’s death,”
I told Sandy, as I picked up my hobo bag.

She placed her hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece.
“Madame Geri says Carlos’ and Marco’s deaths are related; the spirit world is sending her messages even as
we speak-“

“Tell Madame Geri to send my regards to the spirit
world,” I said on my way out, not wanting to spoil my
writer’s high with New Age mumbo jumbo.

I jumped into my truck, eyeing myself in the side
mirror for a few brief moments, just to make sure my red
curls still looked bouncy and my light makeup still appeared intact before I saw Nick Billie. Of course, nothing completely covered my freckles, but I’d learned to
live with them. Sort of. I gave my mouth a quick swipe
of pink lip gloss for some added glamour. Kind of.

My hands shook with a nervous tremor as I started up
Rusty’s engine and cranked on the heater. I was supposed to be asking Nick about Marco’s cause of death,
but I really wanted to know if he was still speaking to
me after the little fiasco last night.

What had gotten into me? Why couldn’t I just decide
to take up with Cole again or move on to Nick?

Because making a decision has always been my weak spot, a little voice echoed softly inside me. And I didn’t
really trust that either man was right for me; both of them
had commitment problems. Okay, I’d said it, at least to
myself.

Maybe I’d be better off dating Pop Pop after all. At
least I could trust that he’d always be there for me-as
long as he was still partially mobile.

Taking in a deep breath, I resolved that this time I
would be different. I would take control of the situation
and confront Nick about his feelings for me, ask that he
forgive me-and demand to know what (or who) killed
Marco Santini.

I shoved my truck into gear, and the engine promptly
cut off. After pumping the pedal lightly, I tried to start it
again-nothing. Just an odd clicking noise.

My take-charge, no-hostages-allowed approach to
the men in my life would have to wait. I had to jumpstart my battery first.

Typical.

I called the Island Garage on my cell phone, and without asking, the head mechanic, Stan, arrived twenty
minutes later with jumper cables. After the engine had
begun to hum, he warned me that if I turned it off
again, the battery might not start.

“Bring the truck by my garage today, and I’ll put in a
new battery for you-at a discount. But it’s only a matter
of time before this old heap of a truck gives out. If you
want to keep it running, you ought to get yourself a man
who knows his way around a car engine,” Stan advised
as he hitched up his pants around his middle-age paunch.
The pants promptly settled back under his belt and stayed
there, despite a couple more hitching attempts. Muttering
an expletive, he threw the cables into the backseat of
his aging Buick-the kind with wide seats and a finlike
design in the back. Nice match.

Still, he had a point about my getting a regular guy in
my life who could keep Rusty in working order. I gave Stan all the money I had with me, five dollars, and drove
off with renewed vigor. Using my car psychology, I reasoned that I should try and patch things up with Nickhis Ford F-150 always seemed to be in smooth working
order, so that alone made him good boyfriend material.
His hard-planed, darkly handsome face didn’t hurt
either.