Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (18 page)

The Observer Food Critic’s Corner blog looked pretty
good, if I had to say so myself. And I did.

Happily, I reread the reviews of Le Sink and Little
Tuscany-oops, I spotted a typo in the Little Tuscany
blog where I referenced Marco’s secret sauce. It said
Marco’s secret pauce. Yikes. The only miracle was that
Anita hadn’t noticed it. As I made the correction, I noticed Beatrice had responded to the blog by pointing out
that her Uncle Carlos had developed the sauce.

I blinked. Odd that no one had mentioned that to me.
Odder still that Marco could actually make the sauce in his restaurant, unless Carlos had shared the recipe with
him. And if Francesca had stolen the recipe for her
sauce, how could she have taken it from Marco?

I jotted down those questions, puzzling over how the
whole sauce thing might connect to Marco’s death.

Tapping my pen on the desk, I pondered that one-to
no avail. I left a message for Beatrice and pondered
some more.

The office phone rang, startling me out of my reverie.

“Jimmy?” Sandy picked up, and I held my breath as
she said “uh-huh” a few times. Then she hung up, her
face glowing. “Madame Geri said it’s going to be all
right!”

I exhaled in relief. “Three cheers for the lawyer.”

“No, it was the spirit world that finally told her things
would be okay,” she explained. “The lawyer said we had
to provide the evidence for Nick-pronto. I’m going to
meet them at the police station.” She retrieved the plastic bag. “Are you coming with me?”

I checked my watch, stalling. Was I ready to see
Nick? “It’s almost noon. I need to walk Kong first.”

Sandy stood up. “We’ll wait for you.”

“Great” Could I hook up my Airstream and head to
South America in the next half hour?

Unlikely.

I closed out my computer, grabbed my hobo bag, and
headed for the door, trying to hearten myself that at
least I had finished a well-written, perfectly edited restaurant review for the blog.

“I found a typo in the Taste of Venice blog.” Anita’s
words sang out from her office in glee.

I gritted my teeth.

Damn.

Half an hour later, still irritated that Anita had foiled
me yet again, I drove up to my Airstream faster than I
should have and jammed on the brakes.

My head jerked forward with Rusty’s sudden halt.

Get a grip.

I slid out of my truck, hoping that Sam had dropped
by to nurse my ailing heater back to health again. I saw
a note on my Airstream, and a jolt of hope stirred inside
my heart.

I snatched it off the door and read, I need to see you.
Cole.

Oh.

“Hi,” he said from behind me.

Turning slowly, I tried to prepare myself for that hurt
look I had seen on his face last night. I wasn’t wrong.
His normally sunny, surfer-dude good looks appeared
pinched and sad.

Guilt flooded through me. “I’d ask you in, but I don’t
think my heater is working.”

“Sam was here about an hour ago, and I think he
fixed it,” he said, his voice flat.

“Well, let’s get inside and warm up” I unlocked the
door and scooped up Kong as we entered the Airstream. Before I climbed the steps, I checked for that mystifying
twin Airstream; it was parked there again! And I thought
I spied a middle-aged woman inside, wearing an apron
and holding up a retro-style Coke bottle. Huh?

“When did she check in?” I turned to Cole.

“Who?”

I pointed to the site next to me. Empty. What the hell
was going on?

Hurrying inside, I motioned Cole to follow, and he shut
the door behind us. Pushing all thoughts of the phantom
Airstream out of my mind, I savored the warmth-and
Kong’s happy barks-for a brief few moments.

Once inside, I took a seat at the small kitchen table,
and Cole sat across from me, still and silent.

I lifted Kong onto my lap. “I heard that you were going to do mug shots for Nick.” I said. “That sounds really
good, because you’re such a wonderful photographer,
and there’s no one on the island who can do that. I’m
sure it’ll work out so you can make some extra cash
and … uh… ” My motormouth sputtered. The words
sounded sort of phony, even to me.

“I haven’t committed to the job yet. That was just his
excuse for the dinner meeting, but he really wanted to
know how things stood between us “

“Nick didn’t tell me that.”

“I let him know that we had unfinished business, but
we weren’t exactly committed-probably why he took
the opportunity to steal a kiss at the restaurant.”

I didn’t answer, but I could feel the heat returning to
my cheeks.

He took in a deep breath. “I’ve had a little time to sort
out what’s going on between us, and I want to ask you a
question: Do you want me to stay?”

My mouth turned to cotton. I couldn’t seem to form
the words to respond.

“Look, I know I was the one who took off when we
lived in Orlando, leaving you at Disney when you’d
been demoted to a garbage sweeper-“

“I wasn’t picking up garbage-only litter,” I protested
hotly.

“Whatever.” He stretched his hands out to me. “We’ve
always kept things light between us, but it doesn’t mean
what I feel for you is superficial. I love you, Mallie.”

The words echoed around the Airstream like a ray of
light bouncing from wall to wall.

Before I could stop myself, the corners of my lips
turned up into a smile. Hey, it isn’t every day that a girl
is told she’s loved. In fact, I’d heard it only once in my
life, and that was when I was in college in St. Louis and
one of the guys on the basketball team wanted to copy
my American literature class notes.

Whoa. Now my internal motormouth had kicked in.
That only happened during times of extreme emotion.
Did that mean I really loved Cole, despite my attraction
to Nick?

“Well?” he said, palms still open.

I placed my hands on top of his.

He toyed with my fingers. “Is that a yes? You want
me to stay?”

“I … I don’t know.” My thoughts spun around as if
in a tropical storm, swirling and confusing. Nothing
seemed clear, least of all my feelings about Nick or
Cole.

He squeezed my hands. “At least it’s not a no, then?”

“Uh … uh …” My cell phone rang. It was Beatrice.
“I need to get this call. Sorry.”

“No problemo.” He squared his shoulders, doing his
best Terminator imitation.

I flipped open my phone. “Hi, Beatrice?”

“I got your message while Guido and I were at the
funeral home. We’re driving back to the house now.”
Her voice caught on a little sob, but she caught herself.
“What’s going on?”

Kong jumped off my lap, trotted over to Cole, and
launched himself onto his lap. A sign? Shaking my head,
I rose and walked into the kitchen area. “I was working
on my blog for the Taste of Venice, and I noticed that
you had added a comment to the Little Tuscany review.”

“I … I had to tell the truth, even though I know Dad
wouldn’t have liked it.” Her words came out haltingly.
“I noticed that you said my father developed the secret
sauce recipe. It was Uncle Carlos who came up with the
ingredients.”

“For real?” My hands tightened around the cell phone in excitement. “Did he share the recipe with Francesca?”

“I don’t think so, but she did win all that money for
her sauce, which seemed similar… .” Beatrice hesitated. “Maybe she stole the recipe from Uncle Carlos,
but he never said anything.”

“What about your dad? Did he have the actual ingredient list?”

“No. I’d have to swing by Uncle Carlos’ house on the
day before we needed the sauce. He made it from scratch
at his house, and then I’d take it to the restaurant, put it
in the fridge, the flavors would settle overnight, and Dad
would add a few herbs of his own the next day, taste it,
and then serve it.” She gave a small laugh. “Just so it had
his stamp.”

“So the day your uncle died of the heart attack, you
picked up the sauce at his house?” My breathing spiked
into a tumult. “Was there anything odd that you noticed
that morning?”

She didn’t respond. “Not really. He said he’d had some
visitors that morning.”

“Who?” I almost shouted.

“He didn’t say. Guido was with me; let me ask him.”
She must have covered the phone, because I could hear
Guido’s muffled words in the background. “He didn’t
tell Guido anything either.”

“Do you think it could’ve been Francesca? She might
have been there, trying to cover up that she stole the
recipe-and then doctored the sauce to knock off Marco, so he couldn’t rat her out,” I said in a rush of words.
“That’s why she got so incensed with Madame Geri last
night.”

“M-maybe.”

“Could you give me your uncle’s address and meet
me there?”

“Sure. It’s at Gumbo Limbo Preserve, one of those
senior neighborhoods not far from the Twin Palms.”
Oh, yeah, I’d passed it many times: a “manufactured”home-translated: trailer-community for those fiftyfive and older. Lots of bingo, shuffleboard, and water
aerobics. And an ambulance stationed at the gatehouse.

Beatrice gave me the street and house number. “Guido
and I can get there in about thirty minutes; we’ll let the
security guy know you’re coming.”

“Great.” I hung up, grinning wildly at Cole. “It was
Francesca all along! She killed Marco after Carlos
died, so she’d be the only one with the secret sauce
recipe.”

Cole cast a doubtful glance at me. “You think she
would have killed someone over a sauce?”

“It was worth fifty thousand dollars, maybe more.
Enough for her to try to frame Jimmy and attempt to
kill me,” I added, filling him in on the shrimp shells and
the coconut incident, while I reached for my purse and
truck keys. “I’m heading over to Carlos’.”

He stood up and placed Kong on the floor. “I’m going
with you. This could be dangerous.”

“We’ll call Nick on the way,” I said, causing an immediate wince by Cole, as if I’d sucker punched
him. “For police protection only.”

Cole’s mouth fastened into a thin line. “Sure.”

I couldn’t focus on him right now. I had a murderer to
catch.

And time was running out.

Cole and I hopped into Rusty and drove toward Carlos’ house, not saying a word. I did notice that he traced
the cracked windshield with his forefinger but didn’t
comment. The cracks had deepened, but I still had
enough room to see the road.

About halfway there, I flipped open my cell phone
and called Nick to let him know we were heading to
Marco’s house. He didn’t answer, so I left him a voice
mail.

We arrived at the entrance, waving at the skinny,
white-haired security guy wearing a name tag that read
RoRY. We gave him our names, and he lifted the gate.

“You know, this windshield looks like it’s taken some
damage.” Rory slipped on a pair of reading glasses to
get a better look and tapped on the windshield. “Yep,
it’s damaged, all right.” The cracks expanded.

“Thanks. I noticed.” Accelerating slowly, I pulled
away.

“You have to wonder what he sees without the glasses,”
Cole commented.

I laughed, finding the street easily. But the house was
another matter. Each “manufactured” home was spaced
about six inches apart, identical in appearance, with all
the mailboxes on one side of the road. So it was nearly
impossible to tell which box went with what house. Almost pounding the wheel in frustration, I reached for
the cell phone to call Beatrice again, when an aging
couple passed me on a tandem bike, wearing identical
powder-blue warm-up suits.

I stopped and rolled down the window. “Hi, could
you tell me where Carlos Santini lived?”

“Last house on the left,” the woman answered as she
extended a pointed finger in the direction of a black
Buick Regal. “That woman just asked us the same
question.”

My glance darted up the street, just in time to see Francesca disappear through the front door of Carlos’ house.

Busted!

“Cole, call Nick again.” I handed my cell phone to
him. “I think we’ve caught Francesca red-handed.”

“Okay, but let’s wait until he gets here to do anything,” Cole urged as he hit the REDIAL button. “We
don’t know what’s going on.”

Ignoring his warning, I coasted toward Carlos’ house.
Using the gas pedal would be a dead giveaway with
Rusty’s aging, chugging engine.

I stopped about two houses down from where Franc esca had parked her car, which meant about fifty feet
separated our vehicles. Turning off the engine, I peered
through the hazy, semi-shattered windshield to monitor
Francesca’s whereabouts.

“Damn, I can’t make out much of anything.” I poked
my head out the window. It still didn’t help.

“Just sit tight,” Cole said. “I left Nick a message, telling him to get here right away.”

Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I felt
the minutes tick by. No Beatrice. No Guido. No Nick. If I
waited much longer, Francesca might be able to cover her
tracks and whatever she had done to steal Carlos’ secret
sauce.