Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Read Free

Florida room.
Let’s go on in so you can meet them” He led me into the
house and through a very modem, very gourmet kitchen,
complete with granite countertops, an elaborate gas stove,
and a pot rack with the latest shiny red cookware. I took
a sidelong glance at his protruding middle. It was obvious he liked to eat, but now I knew he liked to cook. Interesting.
    I strolled into the expansive Florida room and was
again treated to a room decorated with affluence and
good taste. Jalousie windows surrounded the room on
three sides, and wood floors gleamed beneath my
sandals. Wicker furniture upholstered with tropical
print cushions was scattered around the room, along
with a mahogany antique or two. Hardly the kind of
room I expected from a man who prided himself on his
gritty writing prowess but, the more I saw of his house,
the more I began to see Jack had intriguing dimensions.
Not the least of which was he could lounge half-naked
on his deck with this many people in the house.
    “Hello, I’m Burt Morris and this is my wife, Betty,” a
tall, middle-aged man said from the small bar area off
to the side of the room. Betty was equally as tall, with a
wide mouth and large teeth. Both of them, in fact, had a vaguely equine appearance. “We’re from Tucumcari,
New Mexico, and we’re writing a series of short stories
about the Old West” He held up a pitcher. “Care for a
margarita?”

    “No, thanks.”
    “Suit yourself.” He poured the pale green liquid into
two large frosted glasses and handed one to Betty.
    “And you’ve already met Chrissy,” Hillman inter- jected, his arm snaking around the blond’s waist.
    “I’m writing eco-conscious poetry. You know, like
Thoreau. A lot of people don’t realize he wrote verse,
but he did, and it was great stuff. Jack said the best way
to break in is through an environmental poetry blog
with lots of my own poems.” She gave a satisfied smile.
“Isn’t that way cool?”
    “Totally.” I was sort of impressed. It sounded plausible.
    “I’m George B … B … Barret,” a young man
standing off by himself stammered. Thin and wiry, he
had long hair that partially obscured the upper section
of his face. The lower half was covered by his slender
hand, thus making it difficult to hear him very well. He
mumbled something else that I couldn’t quite make out.
    “Georgy here is working on a nonfiction book on
overcoming shyness,” Hillman said. He strolled over
to George and thumped him on the back a couple of
times. “Yessireee. He’s going to be putting out the next
best-seller.”
    Okay.

    George coughed each time Hillman slapped him between the shoulders, but managed a small nod in between hacks.
    “And that’s our little group,” Hillman continued.
    “What about you, Mallie? What are you working
on?” Chrissy asked.
    All eyes riveted on me. “I … uh … I’m not working on anything as ambitious as the rest of you. I just
started a new job as a journalist and I’m trying to learn
how to write better news stories.”
    “There are no little goals,” Burt spoke up and
everyone else joined in to chant the last half: “Only little
writers.”
    Hillman clapped his hands. “Good work everybody.
We’ll teach Mary how to motivate herself.”
    “It’s Mallie.”
    “Oh … sorry, Milly.”
    Close enough.
    The Institute might not be large, but what they lacked
in numbers they made up for in enthusiasm, and Jack
was like the benign, genial pater familias. Maybe this
whole thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    Hillman motioned everyone over to a large oval table,
and it seemed as if the mood instantly changed like an
atmospheric shift before a sudden, violent storm. My
fellow writers settled into their seats, and I followed
suit, setting my hundred pound canvas bag on the floor.
    “Now, since Milly is new to our group, let’s start with
a recent story her editor sent over” He passed out copies of last