Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue Read Free Page A

owners lived
in Florida. They could’ve flown in from anywhere,
plunked down a quarter of a million dollars at some RV
megastore, and driven off into the sunset.
    I sighed. Must be nice.
    Another gust of wind pierced my sweater, and all
thoughts of divining my neighbors’ identity flew out of
my mind. Pikes.
    I pulled on Kong’s leash to distract him from attacking
the gopher tortoise. “Let’s get down to business, buddy.
I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers.”
    He wagged his tiny tail, smug in the warmth of his
apricot fur.

    “It’s either here and now, or we make for the beach.”
I flashed him a warning glance.
    His head swiveled in my direction. I nodded and repeated the dreaded b word again. He did his thing, and
we retreated back to the Airstream before I could say,
“Surf’s up.”
    I showered and made my way out to my truck in less
than half an hour. I didn’t spend a lot of time on makeup
and fancy clothing. To be honest, I didn’t have much of
either. Occasional lipstick and powder comprised my
normal “made-up” face. As for clothes, I wore jeans and
a T-shirt in the summer, jeans and a sweater in the winter.
Simple and cheap.
    But I did devote at least fifteen minutes a day to my
hair. It was my one vanity. I fluffed the scarlet curls with
loving care until they shone like a new tomato. Unfortunately, I had the sun-sensitive, freckled skin that often
went with that color hair, but I figured my rich, luxurious
tresses were nature’s way of compensating me.
    Not that there was a man in sight to admire them, if
you didn’t count Old Man Brisbee with his bushy eyebrows and protruding stomach. And the only reason he’d
probably started flirting with me was because he felt
guilty about the ice cream incident. Or maybe he liked
the feel of my butt.
    As I drove Rusty along Cypress Drive toward the
Observer office, a tiny voice reverberated in my head:
Don’t forget Detective Billie.

    As if I could. But he certainly seemed to have forgotten about me.
    Once the murder case had been solved a few months
ago, he hadn’t so much as called me to see if I had recovered. Oh, sure, I’d seen him at the Town Hall meetings, but he always came in late and left early, without
so much as a “hi-ho” to me. I’d been tempted to drop
by the police station on some trumped-up pretext, like a
jaywalking alligator, but it seemed lame.
    To tell the truth, I didn’t know how I felt about him.
With his lean-hipped, powerful body and black-as-night
eyes, he made my heart beat like a heavy metal drum
every time I saw him. But he also ticked me off with his
arrogant, rigid, my-way-or-the-highway kind of attitude. What’s an independent kind of girl like me to do?
    I braked for the slow zone near the elementary school.
Seeing the flashing yellow of the signal light and watching the school guard help the kids cross the road made
me think of Wanda Sue’s missing grandson again.
    I made a mental note to talk to Kevin’s teacher when
I came back to do the story on the Autumn Festival. But
first I had to check in with Anita.
    As I breezed into the Observer office, I was assailed
by the smell of fresh paint. Much to my amazement, a
tall, heavyset young guy was applying a coat of seafoamcolored paint to the back wall. As I closed the door, he
grinned and waved his brush in my direction.
    “What’s going on?” I questioned Sandy, our secretary cum-receptionist-cum advertising manager-cum-everything.

    “Can you believe it? Mr. Benton-the cheapo guy
who owns the paper-called this morning and said we
could finally get the place painted.” She waved one
pudgy hand in the direction of the painter. A price tag fell
out of the sleeve of her soft yellow sweater. She tucked it
back in as though it were simply a loose thread. In the
process of losing weight on her latest diet, she was working her way down clothing sizes. Never sure how long
she’d be “plateaued” at a certain