Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (5 page)

“I tried to warn you.” Madame Geri grasped the passenger door to steady herself. “I could feel the red energy
blitzing my brain-that always means danger ahead.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I was too upset to argue with her.

The old guy just waved in a friendly gesture as he
pedaled with turtlelike speed to the other side of the
road. I started to curse at him; then he flashed a smile in
my direction, revealing two missing teeth and a mean
overbite. I waved back.

“Oh no.” Madame Geri had her glance fastened on
the passenger-side mirror. I looked over my shoulder and
saw flashing blue lights. Oh no, indeed. It was the island
police. I prayed that it wasn’t Nick Billie; the last thing I
needed was for him to see me almost hit an aging,
toothless man on a tricycle.

I pulled over and came to a halt, though I didn’t dare
turn off the engine in case Rusty wouldn’t restart. Then
I spied the tall, trim form of Nick Billie. Double oh no.

“Hi, Nick.” I propped my arm on the open window
and looked up at him with a bright smile, forgetting my
earlier irritation over his official-island-cop attitude. To
be honest, his hunky presence always caused my mind
to blank out and my heart to beat faster than a race car in
overdrive-or than Rusty’s engine when the gears were slipping. Hottie didn’t even begin to describe his handsome, hard-planed face, deep brown eyes, and jet black
hair. More like sizzling.

I hoped that he would attribute my flushed face to the
heat.

“Hello.” He inclined his head in Madame Geri’s direction. She responded with the same gesture.

“You know, I didn’t mean to almost hit the biking geriatric,” I started in with a preemptive explanation. “He
turned in front of me with no warning, no hand signal,
nothing. So, I did what I could to avoid hitting him, as
you could see. But I don’t want to be ticketed for reckless
driving, since I was barely doing fifty in a sixty-mile-perhour zone.” Needless to say, the motormouth had kicked
in once again.

“I saw the whole thing,” he cut in, swiping his sweaty
forehead with the back of his hand. “Before you get up too
much of a head of steam, that isn’t why I pulled you over.”

Had he “blue-lighted” me because he was regretting
his clipped tone in our phone conversation earlier? Or
was it because we hadn’t seen each other in over a week,
and he missed me so much that he pretended I had a
traffic violation?

“I noticed when you stopped that your left brake light
is out.”

Oh.

“You need to get that fixed ASAP,” he continued. “I
have a friend at Palm Auto who can replace the bulb for
you.”

“Thanks.” I struggled to summon a degree of enthusiasm over the brake bulb. I guess it was thoughtful, but not
exactly the kind of gesture that made a girl want to swoon.

He cleared his throat. “I also wanted to know if you’d
like to have dinner with me tonight … to discuss adding some new `Police Beat’ items for the Observer this
week-“

“Mr. Santini’s death?” My breath caught in my throat.

He dropped his head and groaned.

“Hey, there’s nothing like a little death conversation
to liven up dinner,” I offered.

Nick gave a short bark of laughter and then raised his
head. “All right. I’m working a double shift today, so
can I meet you around eight?”

“Pelican’s Grill?” Heh. I could knock out the restaurant
review at the same time-if I could focus on the food.

“It’s a date.”

Okay, so the dinner was work related; it felt like a date.

He flipped one of my curls and grinned. “You’d better
believe it.” Tipping a jaunty little salute at Madame Geri,
he strode back to his F-150 truck and slipped the light off
the roof. Then he hung a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. Wow. Sleek and powerful, the midnightcolored truck reflected its owner-dark and sexy. I might
not like to self-analyze before (or after) lunch, but my
vehicular psychoanalysis of others gave me great insights
to human nature. My theory was that people generally
drove the kind of auto that reflected their personality:
Rusty the Truck spoke volumes about me, including my lack of substantial amounts of cash to afford a new mode
of transport or even perform basic maintenance.

Humming under my breath, I steered Rusty back onto
Cypress Drive. A date with Nick Billie. Fabu.

“I think you forgot something,” Madame Geri interjected.

I blinked. “What?”

“You just called Cole to have dinner with you at Le
Sink.” She leveled an amused glance in my direction. “I
don’t need to contact the spirit world to know that you’ve
double-booked yourself.”

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at Little Tuscany. I’d
spent most of the remaining drive hatching schemes with
Madame Geri on how I could manage to make both of
my commitments tonight. After several possible scenarios, I proposed that I would meet Cole at Le Sink around
six p.m. Then I’d say that I had to go back to work to
write the restaurant review on the Observer blog. After I
managed to escape early by telling that tiny, tiny white
lie, I’d hightail it to Pelican’s Grill for my dinner date
with Nick and pump him for info about Mr. Santini. It
could work … I just knew it.

“Not telling the truth is bad karma,” Madame Geri
stated flatly. “No good will come of it.”

“Says you.” I parked Rusty and hopped out before she
could say anything else. I didn’t want to hear it. After
almost a two-year man drought, I finally had two guys
in tow on the same night. What could be better?

Madame Geri appeared at my side, her mouth set in a
thin line. I ignored that too.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Let’s get some
lunch and see if we can question Marco Santini.” I
marched toward the entrance of Little Tuscany, a smallish one-story stucco building painted a deep shade of
pink with yellow shutters. Someone had outlined a map
of Italy to the left of the front door, but whoever sketched
it wasn’t exactly Picasso, because instead of resembling
a boot, the country looked like a skinny leg with a flipflop.

A bad omen? Or just bad art?

We entered, and after taking in a lovely breath of cool
air, I noticed the faux Italy atmosphere throughout, from
the mural of ancient Rome on the back wall-complete
with a portrait of some muscular guy in a toga-to the
olive oil bottles, the smell of garlic, and, finally, some unidentified warbler’s version of “Volare.” Maybe this wasn’t
such a step up from Le Sink. More like Le Fake.

Still, the crowded, noisy dining room meant the food
was probably good.

“Mom!” Jimmy sprinted toward us from the bar area. “Sandy just called me to say our wedding might be canceled because of a killer!”

Instantly, everyone stopped speaking, and all eyes
focused on us.

“It’s a joke.” I waved my hands in dissent to everyone
and then pointed at Jimmy and offered the group an
apologetic smile. “He’s a nervous groom, having some last-minute jitters. Everything is fine. Just fine. No
murder.”

Jimmy’s beefy face crinkled in puzzlement. “But I
thought-“

“Why don’t you show us to a table?” I suggested, pinching Madame Geri’s arm so she wouldn’t contradict me.
The last thing we needed was the island on red alert
before we had any concrete evidence of murder.

Eventually, the conversation started up again, but I
could tell from some of the furtive glances in our direction that not everyone bought my reassurances.

“Uh, I’m not allowed to seat the guests. Mr. Marco is
the maitre d’.” His voice dropped almost a whisper.
“He’ll kick my butt if I try to do his job.”

“Nonsense.” Madame Geri spoke up. “I see a great
spot over by the ruins of the Forum.” She sauntered in
the direction of a table by the mural.

“Stop right there!” a man shouted.

Madame Geri kept going, but the diners ceased speaking again-this time in curious anticipation.

“Don’t you dare take that table!” he yelled out like a
sonic boom.

I watched as a string-bean-thin middle-aged guy sporting an apron and bad comb-over charged across the room
like a train heading for the station. Then Madame Geri
made herself known by slowly turning around. He stopped
in his tracks.

“Dio mio.” He clutched the menus to his chest
and crossed himself as if he’d committed a major sin. “Madame Geri, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.
I don’t think we’ve ever met formally, but I’m Marco
Santini-owner of Little Tuscany. Please, choose the
table that suits you. I’m so sorry. So sorry. Take any
table. If someone is already seated there, I’ll move
them.”

The patrons murmured among themselves, some even
taking out their wallets or purses to pay, no doubt readying themselves to move for the island’s freelance psychic.

Unbelievable.

I eyed Marco. He didn’t appear to be a killer-more
like an aging car salesman.

“No need.” She motioned Jimmy over. “My son said
this one was the best seat in the house.”

“Jimmy is your son?” A shadow of anxiety passed
across his face. He obviously was trying to remember if
he’d done anything to Jimmy that would incur Madame
Geri’s wrath.

Madame Geri nodded, a proud mother’s smile spreading across her face.

“I’m at your service. Whatever you need, please let me
know.” He gave a little bow, but his breathing seemed to
be coming in short gasps, belying his smooth assurances.
“Jimmy will be your waiter-unless you’d prefer to have
him join you for lunch. In that case, I’d be happy to assign
one of my other waitstaff to your table.”

“I’d prefer Jimmy as our waiter.” She gave Marco a
flick of an eyebrow, which he interpreted as dismissal. After setting the menus on the table, he backed away
from her and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

“He’s probably hanging garlic around his neck in
case you’re putting a curse on him,” I commented as I
seated myself.

“Like that would help,” Madame Geri scoffed, sliding into a chair opposite mine. “We’ll talk to Mr. Marco
after we eat lunch; that way, I’ll get the right vibe to see
if he killed his brother-“

“Carlos?” Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t
think that Mr. Marco-“

“We don’t know anything for sure,” I cut in swiftly, keeping my tone calm. “But we’re here to dig around.”

Madame Geri nodded. “So you can still get married,
Jimmy-“

“Thanks, Mom.” Jimmy leaned down and gave her a
quick hug. “I love Sandy so much, and I really want to
marry her.”

“Now, my dear, the wedding may not take place the
way you’ve planned it,” she said gently. “But I’ll try and
find a way for it still to happen.”

“Uh … well …” He hesitated until his mother patted him on the arm. “Okay, I’ll call Sandy and give her
some encouragement before she eats every Hershey’s
bar on the island.” He started to leave, then glanced back
at us. “What would you like to drink?”

“We’ll have unsweetened iced teas,” Madame Geri
said as I started to mouth “a beer.”

Jimmy strode away from the table before I could correct her. “I may need something stronger if this day
keeps going the way it started,” I hissed at my lunch
companion.

“You need to keep your wits about you if you’re going to do the restaurant review.” She handed me a menu.
“And find out what caused Carlos’ death.”

I weighed Madame Geri with a critical squint, knowing she was right; I had to know if there truly was a killer
loose on Coral Island-especially if Jimmy’s matrimonial future might be hanging in the balance. Sighing at
the responsibility looming ahead of me, I flipped open
the menu and scanned through the massive number of
appetizers and entrees. Spaghetti, ravioli, ziti-this was
pasta haven.

“If pasta is the word that the spirit world gave you,
we’re in the right place to find out what they meant. I’ve
never seen so many different pasta dishes.” But no fried
anything, I added to myself. Shoot.

Madame Geri looked around, taking in the tacky
Tuscany atmosphere. “We’re in the right place; I can
feel it. I don’t like the vibes. Something is off.” She
shivered.

Now it was my turn to be nervous. I’d never seen
Madame Geri’s feathers even slightly ruffled by
anything-even talking to dead people. Of course, her
son hadn’t been involved, so that might be putting a new
spin on the spirit world’s wacky predictions.

Jimmy returned with our iced teas, and we each or dered a pasta dish-hers primavera, mine spaghetti and
meatballs. Marco had also reappeared, but he lingered
at the bar, pretending not to watch us as he fidgeted with
the strings of his apron. Why was he so agitated?

Did he have something to hide?

“Sandy seemed a little better after I talked to her,”
Jimmy commented, as he placed a small bowl of sliced
limes and lemons on our table. “I wasn’t sure which one
you liked for your tea, so I brought both.”

“I’m a lime girl.” I squeezed a hearty amount of its
liquid into my tea, but it squirted out in several directionsboth Madame Geri and her son winced and then rubbed
their eyes.

“Sorry-guess the lime juice has a mind of its own.”
I cupped my hand around the second slice to restrict its
acidic stream. “So, Jimmy, has there been anything
unusual going on here lately?” I stole a few more glimpses
in Marco’s direction.

He paused. “Not really just business as usual.”

“Is your boss treating you right?” Madame Geri
asked. “He seemed a little … belligerent.” She enunciated every syllable of the last word and glanced over in
Marco’s direction. He responded with a shaky smile
and disappeared again into the kitchen.

“Mom, he’s not that bad,” Jimmy commented, still trying to clear his vision from the lime juice spritz. “Mr.
Santini might be kind of a nitpicker in the kitchen, but I
can’t believe he’d harm his own brother. Granted, he
hasn’t taken it too hard, but he and Carlos didn’t get along too well.” He blinked a couple more times. “Poor Beatrice, though-she’s pretty cut up over her uncle’s death.
She’s been sobbing all day.”