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

pretty much,” George closed his
eyes briefly and sighed.
    Burt held up his third margarita. “Betty and I fortify
ourselves. It’s the only way we make it through these
daily sessions.”
    “But why subject yourself to this kind of torture?” I
asked, amazed.

    “We want to b … b … become b … b … better
writers,” George said. He covered his mouth with his
hand and added something else that I couldn’t make
out. But I thought I heard him murmur Chrissy’s name.
    “I’m surprised someone hasn’t wrung his neck before this. Or at least told him off.” I was getting my wits
about me again.
    Betty and Burt just took another swig of their margaritas. George shook his head.
    “I, for one, have had enough of Hillman’s kind of
help, thank you very much.” I grabbed my bag and my
last shreds of self-respect and left the table.
    I’d stomped halfway to my truck when I remembered
that I still had to interview Hillman for my article on the
Writers’ Institute. Groaning, I went around to the back
of the house and spied Hillman sitting in the hot tub,
drink in one hand and neon pink cell phone in the other.
When he saw me, he started slightly and ended the call.
Then, he turned his attention toward me. “What can I do
ya for, Milly? Care to join me?” His eyes fastened on
my hair. He ran his tongue across thick lips.
    “No, thanks.” I swallowed hard. He was bare-chested
again. Yuck. “I need to do a brief interview with you
about the Institute-for my article.”
    “Sure. Love to” He took a long swallow of his drink.
“You can bring in the finished version for an editing
session later this week”
    Fat chance.

    “Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll be ready for
you” The cell phone rang and he waved me off.
    Grateful to get away before another proposition, I
hopped in my truck and drove off just as Chrissy was
coming out in a skimpy bright yellow-flowered bikini.
Her shoulders were squared and her mouth drawn in a
thin line. She’d probably turned angry by now. Good. I
hope she really gives it to him, I muttered to myself as I
revved away. As I looked back, I shivered in spite of the
heat. Jack wasn’t conducting writers’ workshops-it
was more like a little shop of horrors. And I wouldn’t
be back-except to get my interview.
    I drove to the main road and made my way to Mango
Bay-the largest town on Coral Island, located on the
north tip. Although calling the smattering of buildings a
town could be construed as gross exaggeration, Mango
Bay nonetheless functioned as the hub of the island.
    It included a small clapboard general store called
Whiteside’s, which had been there since the homesteading days on the island at the beginning of the
century. Slightly bigger than a Circle K, the store included a post office in back, dry-cleaning pick-up at the
counter, and various tourist items like shell-encrusted
ashtrays and bright green rubber alligators. Aside from
Whiteside’s, the tiny island village also boasted a small
art gallery, a bait shack, and a seafood restaurantCapt’n Harry’s. Mostly retirees and fishermen lived at
Mango Bay but, since it overlooked a picturesque view of the water, some larger homes had recently sprung up
between the trailers and fishing shacks. I was temporarily staying at the Twin Palms RV Resort-the trailer
park right on the point, and the only place on the island
with a small beach.

    The main attraction for me right now was Capt’n
Harry’s-a rustic restaurant decorated on the outside
with old fishing nets and yellowed buoys. Dismal nautical decor aside, it faced the water and served the best
crab cakes I’d ever eaten. I ordered the seafood basket,
which I took outside to the long, wooden dock that
stretched out into the bay. I sat for an hour or two,
watching the pelicans and trying to figure out how I was
going to tell Anita I wouldn’t be attending the Writers’
Institute. I didn’t want to