Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (2 page)

I would to thank my Mom, the real “Delores,” for all her
help and support during my writing career. She is simply
the best mother one could ever wish for. Many thanks to
my husband and sister for always being there with editorial advice as well.

My sincere gratitude to my editor, Lia Brown, whose
suggestions improve my books on every level.

Last, but not least, are my heartfelt thanks to my agent
and friend, Roberta Brown. My writing career is largely
due to her positive support of me as a writer.

-Oscar Wilde

We need to shake things up-now!” my editor, Anita
Sanders, pronounced as she breezed into our newspaper
office. “It’s almost Halloween, and we’re still doing stories about hurricane season preparedness. Boring!”

“You mean you don’t like this article on `The ABCs of
Disaster Supply Kits’?” I pointed at my computer screen.
Okay, so it was a big yawn. Our little southwest Florida
island had officially hit the early-fall doldrums-and so
had the front-page stories on our Coral Island weekly
paper, the Observer. Not that I wanted a hurricane to
hit-far from it. But Anita had a point: we needed something fresh, new, and exciting to jazz up our headlines.
And to keep me from falling asleep at the keyboard.

“Spare me. All I need after a hurricane is a jar of
peanut butter and a bottle of bourbon.” Her mouth
twisted upward in a slight smile, deepening the lines in
her thin face. Hard-edged, fiftyish, and a former reporter for the Detroit Free Press, Anita had little patience with people who lived cautiously-or who didn’t ravage their appearance with cigarettes and booze. She’d
popped out of the womb as a three-pack-a-day smoker,
having stopped only recently. But the damage was done.

“Let’s see … how about my interview with Harry “the
Hurricane Boy” Torino, who was selling boxed emergency kits at the island center?” I offered, swiveling my
new chair in her direction. Now that Anita was dating
Mr. Benton, the old cheapskate had finally funneled a
little money into the office-stress the word little: some
paint, an indoor-outdoor carpet in pea green, and secondhand, instead of thirdhand, furniture. At least I
didn’t have to worry that the rollers might fall off my
chair every time I leaned backward. And my refurbished Dell computer was only three years old, not ten.

“Pffffft. Harry is a scam artist. All those kits have in
them is dried fruit, SPAM, and waterless shampoo.
That’s going to be a big help after a hurricane.” She sat
on the corner of my desk and pulled out a tube of lipstick
from her purse. Lipstick?! She coated her mouth with a
bright orange swipe of color. Yikes. Then I scanned her
face more closely and realized that she was also wearing
foundation and mascara. Of course, the makeup had
settled in her smoker’s wrinkles, and the mascara had
smudged under her eyes, giving her a raccoonlike look.
Double yikes.

“Anita, are you wearing … uh … cosmetics?” I said
in disbelief.

“Yup.” She pulled out a compact and swept the puff
across her cheeks in a thick line. “I went into town and had a makeover. Bought myself the basics. I gotta keep
up now that I have a boyfriend.”

I swallowed hard. Mr. Benton was close to seventy and
looked like Mr. Potato Head with a bad toupee. But, hey, if
having a man made Anita a little nicer, I’d buy them a gift
certificate for dinner at the Starfish Lodge-Coral Island’s
nicest restaurant (translated: you had to wear shoes).

“And I’m not stopping with the makeover. I’m going
to the next level: the heavy-duty stuff,” Anita continued
as she slapped a brochure onto my desk. “The island dermatologist is now offering full-service rejuvenation.”

I glanced down at the tri-fold paper brochure with the
caption: Beauty Is in the Eye of the Bee Holder! Underneath were “Before and After” pictures of a woman
who looked eighty, and then twenty, courtesy of a miracle
bee cream, some kind of injectable gook, and (in my
opinion) major heavy-handed Photoshopping.

Uh-oh.

“I’m starting with the bee cream tonight. The main
ingredient is one hundred percent pure, island-grown bee
pollen-right from the hives.” She held up a small jar and
opened the lid.

I sniffed and then gagged. It smelled like an old shoe.
Anita scooped out a lump and dabbed a small amount
on the crow’s-feet next to her eyes, careful not to smear
her makeup. Then she rubbed the rest on her neck. “It’s
supposed to smooth out all the lines in a week.”

A sandblaster might help more, but I kept that thought
to myself.

“Okay, enough about my getting gorgeous.” She replaced the lid and tossed the cream and lipstick into her
purse. “Let’s talk about spicing up our October stories
enough so I don’t have to prop my eyes open with sticks
to read them.”

I clicked on my computer calendar that listed all of the
upcoming island events. “We’ve got the Halloween facepainting contest at the elementary school.”

“Yawn”

“How about the Fall Fish Toss?”

“Asleep.”

I sighed. “I guess we’re down to the Autumn Book
Fair.”

“Comatose.”

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across
my chest, sighing. Coral Island was a twenty-mile-long
strip of land that ran north-south inside of the coastal
barrier islands, which meant only a tiny beach, few tourists, and even fewer happenings that didn’t involve kids,
fishing, and Rotary Clubs. “I’m out of events … except
this food thing coming up-“

“Jeez, how could I have forgotten?” She rapped herself
on the forehead. “It’s the first annual `Taste of the Island’
next weekend. Perfect!”

“Great.” I managed a weak smile, but even I could hear
the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. I wasn’t a big foodie, to
say the least. Mostly, I survived on coffee, Krispy Kreme
doughnuts, fast food, and the occasional chocolate energy
bars when I thought I needed something healthy.

“Listen, kiddo, this is a biggie. Every restaurant on
Coral Island will have a booth, and people can sample
their trademark food all day. Then they’ll vote on the
best restaurant. Benton filled me in, since he’s in the
island Chamber of Commerce that planned it-a real
family event.”

“And you liked the idea?” I could feel my eyes widen.
Anita hated wholesome, even more than she disliked
dull.

“Hell, no” She stood up. “But I love the idea of all the
island restaurants competing for the honor of winning
Best Sauce, Best Appetizer, or Best Dog Chow at the
event. I’m sure they’ll do anything to win: steal recipes,
spy on one another’s waitstaff, find ways to spike a competing chef’s food with ingredients that make people sick.
Oh, yes, I love it.” She rubbed her hands together with
glee.

Only Anita would be excited at the thought of people
with food poisoning. “I guess I can interview a few of
the restaurant owners this week-“

“No. No. No.” She shook her head each time she repeated the word. “You’re going to visit each restaurant
and sample the food; then you can write about it. You’ll
have a blog this week as the new food critic for the Observer, and then do updates twice a day.”

I gasped. The Coral Island restaurants weren’t exactly
Maxim’s. My least favorite, Le Sink, served (from what
I’d heard) only charred hamburgers in its open-air serving
space and had ceramic sinks littered all around the yard.

“Let’s start with Le Sink.”

Of course. “But, Anita-“

“No buts.” She held up a hand. “This is just what we
need to spice things up, literally.” Cackling at her own
pun, she strolled into her tiny office, as she smoothed
another layer of the bee cream onto her arms.

Just then Sandy, our receptionist-cum-secretary-cumanything, strolled in carrying a stack of wedding magazines. She halted and sniffed. “What’s that weird smell?”

“Bee face cream.” I tilted my head in the direction of
Anita’s office. “She’s on some kind of weird beauty kick
to keep Mr. Benton `forever panting, and forever young.”’
I couldn’t resist the Keats quotation. I’d majored in comparative literature-a degree that opened the doors of
the underemployed at every junction of my journey from
the Midwest to Florida. But at least I could always come
up with a catchy quote.

Sandy picked up the brochure and nodded sagely.
“Love will do that to you. I know I always want to look
my best for Jimmy.” A soft glow lit her sweetly featured
face. “You would think it was spring instead of fall with
all the love in the air.” She grinned, tucking a strand of
nut-brown hair behind her ear.

I couldn’t help smiling back. Sandy had gotten engaged over the last summer to Jimmy, the son of our freelance island psychic, Madame Geri, and her life had
turned golden. Sandy had found the man of her dreams,
lost twenty pounds, ditched the Coke-bottle glasses for
contacts, and started making extra money writing obit uaries for the newspaper. If I didn’t know better, I would
swear Madame Geri had put a happy spell on Sandy.

“What about you?” Sandy asked as she set the magazines on her desk that faced mine. “Isn’t it great having
your boyfriend back?”

I paused. My ex-boyfriend, Cole Whitney, had made a
summer appearance at the Twin Palms RV Resort where
I had parked my Airstream trailer and teacup poodle,
King Kong, two years ago. I’d missed Cole terribly right
after he had taken off from our place in Orlando to “find
himself” out west, but after all my adventures on Coral
Island, someone new had appeared on the horizonNick Billie, the local island cop.

“I like having Cole around again, but, well, it’s just different.” I shrugged.

“Now that Detective Billie is in the running,” she added
with a knowing grin.

“That’s not true exactly. And it’s not a race. More like
a crawl.” Sighing, I leaned my head in my hands. This
whole relationship thing between old boyfriend and
possible new boyfriend seemed like getting stuck in a
sand hole on the beach. I couldn’t see it coming, and I
didn’t know how to get out-or even if I wanted to. “I
can’t be bothered with figuring out men. Cole is like a butterfly, and Nick is like a granite bust both just as frustrating. I think I’m going to stick with Kong. It’s a lot easier.”

“So you say.” She seated herself at her desk. “Just
remember: it’s no fun snuggling up to a dog on a hot,
tropical night.”

True.

“Some women would think you’re in the catbird seat:
torn between two handsome men,” Sandy continued as
she turned on her computer. “Not me, of course. Jimmy
is all I need in my life.”

“He’s a gem.” I wasn’t lying or even stretching the
truth. Stocky, good-humored, and hardworking, Jimmy
really was a gem.

“Thanks, Mallie.” She picked up the brochure about
the bee cream and scanned it. “You know, I might try
some of this stuff. I want my skin to look perfect on my
wedding day.”

“But it’s only two weeks away. I’m not sure what kind
of results you can get that fast,” I pointed out, eyeing
those phony before-and-after pictures again. “Worst case
scenario, your skin might turn yellow.”

“Or I might grow wings.” She laughed.

“Just so you don’t fly away. Jimmy would be devastated.” I snatched the brochure back. “The only thing
Anita seems to have grown is a stinger-right in her-“

“Okay, I’ve got the picture. But she had that before she
tried the face cream.” Sandy laughed, waiting for her ancient computer to fire up. Mr. Benton hadn’t updated all of
the technology in our little newspaper office, but maybe
that was next, especially if Anita turned into some kind of
middle-aged siren for stingy bosses.

Fat chance.

“Maybe you should buy some of the cream; it might help, since you’re always complaining about your freck
les,” Sandy said, eyeing my pale, freckled skin.

“I’ve changed my opinion over the last year that I’ve
lived in Florida. I now prefer to call them beauty spots.”
I fluffed my wild profusion of scarlet curls that accompanied the typical redhead’s skin. “I read somewhere that
skin without freckles is like a sky without stars.” Hey, it
sounded good, and what was the use in fighting my skin
under the tropical sun? Besides, I’d already tried freckle
removal cream, freckle fade cream, and freckle laser
removal. (Okay, I’d only thought about the last one-I
didn’t have the money to give it a try.) None of them
worked. In fact, I now had more freckles.