Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (12 page)

I wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing.

After parking Rusty, I made for the front door. But I
didn’t even have a chance to knock before Beatrice appeared and let me in. As I entered, I noted that the large
living room had a very similar decor to the restaurant:
murals with Italian scenes, dark leather furniture, and several wine racks. The same aroma of bread and olive
oil even wafted in from the kitchen off to the left.

My mouth watered. It was way past lunchtime.

Beatrice quietly shut the door behind me and offered
to take my coat. As I gave it to her, I noted her face appeared blotchy from crying.

“How are you doing?” I asked, instantly feeling guilty
that food was uppermost on my mind from the moment
I stepped inside the house.

“I’m okay, I guess.” Her eyes welled up, and she
brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. “My
older brother is driving down from Jacksonville, so he’s
going to help with the funeral arrangements. I still can’t
believe what happened at the restaurant yesterday. Dad
was standing there cooking one moment and then choking to death the next-” She broke off, a fresh wave of
tears gushing down her cheeks. “It’s just a nightmare,
especially after losing Uncle C-Carlos two days ago.”

“I’m so sorry.” I gave her a brief hug. Her thin shoulders felt so delicate, as if they could snap under the weight
of her grief.

“The paramedics did everything they could, didn’t
they?”

“Yes, they did,” I assured her.

“It … must’ve been fate.” She glanced at a giltframed religious picture on the wall and crossed herself,
murmuring something under her breath. “Uncle Carlos
always said, `Que sera, sera’ What will be, will be. And I guess he was right.” She sniffed and shoved her hair
back with a resolute hand.

“Guess so.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” At my eager nod,
she motioned me to follow her into the kitchen, which
turned out to be a chef’s delight: granite countertops,
stainless steel double ovens, and a massive glass-fronted
refrigerator.

“Amazing.” A far cry from my Airstream’s minuscule
cooking area. “This is an incredible space.”

“Dad designed it. He wanted the kitchen to look like
the one in the house where he grew up in Tuscany.” Her
voice sounded wistful. “When I was a little girl, I would
stand on a chair while I learned to make homemade pasta
with Mom, Dad, and Uncle Carlos. They were all good
friends then.”

“What happened?”

She paused, coffee scoop in hand. “I don’t know. When
I was about ten, I came home early from school one day
and heard Dad yelling in Italian to Uncle Carlos. I couldn’t
understand what he was saying. But after that, my uncle
didn’t hang out with us anymore. My mother never told
me what they’d argued about, but I sensed that she knew.”

“Your mother was Delores Santini?”

“Uh-huh.” Beatrice clicked on the BREW button and
then faced me, her delicate features shadowed by even
more sadness. “She kept her married name, even though
she and my dad divorced years ago.”

“And she moved to town after the divorce?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you hear
that?”

“My landlady at the Twin Palms is Wanda Sue.”

“‘Nuff said.” A ghost of a smile raised the corners of
Beatrice’s mouth. “She was BFFs with my mother; they’d
meet at Uncle Carlos’ ice cream store for a banana split
every Sunday-even after Mom moved to town.”

“Interesting.” Odd that Wanda Sue had omitted that
part when she told me about Delores.

“So your dad didn’t get along with your Uncle Carlos
for a long time?”

“At least ten years.” She pulled two blue-and-white
ceramic mugs out of a cabinet. “To tell you the truth,
my dad always had an … Italian temper. You heard it
that day in the restaurant.” Her tears seemed to dry up.
“I guess everybody just gave in to him, so he wouldn’t
make a fuss. That’s probably what finally drove both
Uncle Carlos and my mother to break away from him,
even though my uncle stayed on the island.”

“So did your uncle ever say what they had argued
about?” I restrained myself from grabbing my notebook.
It didn’t seem respectful.

“No. And I saw him every day before I went into work.”
Her face softened again. “He was such a cool unclecaring and patient. He even paid for me to go to culinary
school, so I could eventually run the restaurant myself.”

“I used to see him at the ice cream store,” I replied.
“He was always in a good mood, and he gave me extra candy sprinkles on my cone when I’d had a bad day,
which occurred almost every twenty-four hours when I
first started working at the Observer. My editor, Anita,
didn’t like anything I wrote, and then I had to work for
her evil twin sister, Bernice, for a while. She drove me
even crazier-” I caught myself, reining in the motormouth. Again, it wasn’t the time or place.

“Uncle Carlos had a big heart-and maybe that’s why
his own was giving out: he cared so much about everyone. I … I knew he didn’t have long to live, ‘cause he told
me that his heart was failing, and he wouldn’t get treatment.” Her eyes welled up once more. “I loved him to
pieces; he was like a second father to me, and he was so
good to Guido.”

“So your uncle knew he was dying?”

She gave a little nod.

“And he approved of your relationship with Guido,
but your father didn’t?” I took in a deep whiff of the
brewing coffee. Heavenly.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, all of a sudden more nervous than upset. Her hand began to twirl a strand of
curly hair, and she inched back from me.

Was Beatrice’s display of grief genuine? Certainly,
she had loved her uncle, but what about her father? Was
she secretly glad he was gone, so he couldn’t come between her and Guido? Or maybe she’d had a hand in
getting her father out of the picture permanently, since
she knew her uncle wouldn’t be around long to protect
her.

“Urn … did your father have any food allergies?”

“Y-yes, to shellfish.” Beatrice started as if stung by a
wasp, but she recovered quickly. “He couldn’t even work
with shrimp at the restaurant; it would cause a rash to
break out on his hands.” She poured the coffee, shielding her face with the long fall of her hair. “Why do you
ask? Do you think it had anything to do with his death?”

“I don’t know for sure, but if your father died of an
allergic reaction to something he ate, it’s likely that it
would be to some kind of shellfish.” I took the coffee
mug from her. “You know, the fight last night at Le Sink
occurred because Guido accused Kyle of harming your
father. Do you think he could have managed to put
shellfish in something your father ate yesterday?”

“Maybe.” She exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh, as if
she’d been holding her breath. “Kyle was at Little Tuscany yesterday morning with his mother. They wanted
to go over their menus for `Taste of the Island.’”

“And?”

Beatrice filled her own cup to the brim and offered
me some biscotti. “They never got the chance. As soon
as Francesca and Kyle came into the kitchen, my dad
started yelling at them about stealing his prized secret
sauce recipe. He said he was going to expose Francesca
as a food thief.”

I raised my hands, palms up. “So?”

She drew back, as though stung for a second time.
“She won fifty thousand dollars for that recipe in a national recipe contest; it was enough for her and her son to start up their own Italian restaurant on the island:
Taste of Venice. They took a lot of our regular clients.”

My mouth dropped open at the amount of money.
Maybe I could start whipping up some recipes of my
own: Hamburger Helper with mango sauce? Leftover
pizza a la mode? They’d be worth about two dollars.

“Anyway, Francesca started yelling back at my dad
that his slander was ruining her business and that she
would `take care’ of him.” Beatrice paused. “Do you
think they could’ve … done something to my dad?”

“Were they ever in the kitchen alone?” I took a deep
swig of the coffee. Delish. My knees grew weak at the
scrumptious flavor. “This is really … like, incredible
coffee, and I drink enough of it to know.”

“I ground the beans this morning.”

I gulped down the entire cup and then helped myself to a refill. “Okay, back to Francesca and Kyle-so
maybe Guido was right about them. They could be
suspects.”

“But Guido isn’t going to get into trouble for saying
it, is he?” Her voice turned anxious, and a little frown
line appeared between her dark eyebrows.

“Not for the accusation, but maybe the fight. He
shouldn’t have attacked Kyle, and there were witnesses,
including me. To be honest, I had to relate the event to
Nick Billie a little while ago.” I dipped my own biscotti
in the coffee and then took a taste. My knees grew even
weaker, causing me to drop into a chair while I gobbled
down two more biscotti.

“Detective Billie knows?”

“Yeah … sorry.”

She slid into a chair across from me. “I don’t think
Guido even knew what he was doing. We were at the
hospital for hours. Then we came back to the island, and
Guido took off, saying something in Italian about Kyle. I
should have stopped him. Now he’s made things worse
for himself.”

“You mean with his visa?”

She bowed her head and sighed. “He came here as an
exchange student but applied for one of those green card
lotteries right before he graduated-and won. But until
he becomes a full citizen, he has to keep his job and
stay out of trouble.”

“I think Nick understands that yesterday took its toll
on everyone, so I wouldn’t worry about Guido, unless
there’s something else you’re not telling me.” I ended on
a questioning note.

Beatrice’s head jerked upward. “No-there’s nothing,” she said quickly. A shade too quickly.

We sat there for a few moments in silence, and I took
a few furtive glances at Beatrice, but she kept her cameolike features shuttered and closed. Still, a faint pink flush
stained her cheeks-a sign that she was hiding something
about Guido?

“When is your brother going to come in?” I finally
asked.

She checked her filigreed-silver watch. “In about an
hour.”

“I can stay until then.” My cell phone rang, and I
checked the caller ID: Sandy. “I need to get this.”

As soon as I flipped the cell open, Sandy’s voice came
through, shrill and anxious, “Mallie, you’ve got to come
back to the office right away. I think they’re going to arrest Jimmy!”

Uh-oh.

What?” I clutched my cell phone tighter and rammed
it against my ear, trying to make out what Sandy was saying. Her words all jumbled together in a panicked tone,
but I thought I made out “locker” and “shellfish” and
“Jimmy.”

“Sandy, calm down. I can’t understand you. Sandy!”
The signal cut out. Damn. I snapped the cell phone shut.
“I’m sorry, Beatrice, but something has come up. I’ve
got to get back to the newspaper office immediately.”

“Sure.”

I gave her one of my cards. “Call me if you remember
anything else about yesterday’s … uh, events.”

She nodded mutely, tears in her eyes again.

I left the house (after grabbing another biscotti) and
headed to the Observer as fast as Rusty’s aging engine
would take me. Barely five minutes later, I rushed in the
front door of the office and found Sandy standing near
Anita’s office door, her head on Jimmy’s shoulder while
he patted her on the back.

Jimmy’s brow was knit with worry, Sandy’s eyes
were red-rimmed from crying, and Anita’s mouth was
drawn tight into a single line of boredom.

“What happened? Did someone else die?” I queried
anxiously.

“We couldn’t get that lucky,” Anita quipped as she
leaned against the door frame of her office.

“It’s Jimmy,” Sandy moaned, raising her head. “He
might be arrested because of the shellfish articles found
in his locker.”

“Whoa.” I held up one hand. “Back up and start overslowly, please.” I gestured a “roll ‘em’ motion with the
other hand.

“Let me tell it, sweetheart,” Jimmy said, as he dropped
a gentle kiss on her head. “One of Nick Billie’s deputies
came by Little Tuscany today while I was cleaning up the
kitchen from yesterday’s lunch. After getting my statement, he poked around the whole place, including our
staff lockers. Well, inside of mine, he found a couple of
online articles about shellfish.”

My eyes widened.

“The whole thing was surreal,” Jimmy continued. “The deputy took the articles and told me to drop by the
police station tomorrow morning to talk with Detective
Billie. I don’t understand why.”

“I already called Madame Geri,” Sandy cut in, clinging to Jimmy’s arms.

“It doesn’t take a psychic to figure that one out,” I
commented with some asperity. “Nick told me that Marco Santini died from an allergic reaction-probably
to shellfish.”

Sandy whimpered and dropped her head back down
onto Jimmy’s shoulder.