Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (6 page)

“Can’t say I blame her,” I chimed in. “Nick Billie told
me that Beatrice found his body in a recliner-“

“We need to talk to Marco-now,” Madame Geri interrupted. “The vibes are getting worse.”

Oh, jeez.

Jimmy gulped. “I’ll go get him-“

All of a sudden, Marco’s shouting could be heard
from the kitchen. “I told you not to chop the carrots like
that, you idiot!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marco,” a younger man’s pleading
voice wafted out. “I won’t do it again.”

“You’re damn right you won’t-you’re fired!”

“I’ll have to go back to Italy if I lose my job,” the
other man said, his voice rising in volume. “You can’t
do that to me and Beatrice.”

“Yes, I can! You don’t have Carlos here anymore to
coddle you.”

“Put the knife down, Papa,” a female voice pleaded.

Knife?

My eyes met Madame Geri’s in alarm.

The kitchen door burst open, and a slim, dark haired,
young Italian stallion dashed out, Marco in his wake;
the latter held up a large butcher knife in his hand.

The diners ceased conversation for a third time to
watch the show.

“Stay away from my Beatrice!” Marco pointed the knife at him, his breath coming in short gasps. “You’re
not good enough for her-I’ve told you that again and
again. Now, get out, and don’t come back.”

The young man held his ground, but I could see his
hands trembling as he faced down the knife. I’d be running for my life, though I hadn’t exactly done that when
a murderer threatened me with a paint knife (but that’s
another story).

“I’d better separate them,” Jimmy said, starting in
that direction, but Madame Geri grabbed his arm.

“No! Call the police.” She pulled out her cell phone
and handed it to him.

Before he could punch in the number, Marco continued with his tirade: “Get out, you loser! I’m not saying it
again.” He advanced toward the younger man, raising
the knife over his head.

“Stop it, right now!” I screamed, as I pushed back my
chair and stood up. Where did that come from?

Both men turned and looked at me.

“You’re … uh, ruining everyone’s lunch.” That was
lame, but it was the best I could come up with. My
knees shook as if I had palsy.

“Leave Guido alone!” another diner yelled. “He’s a
good kid.”

A chorus of agreement echoed around the dining
room.

Marco lowered the knife and put a hand to his head,
swaying back and forth. “I … I don’t feel well.”

The knife dropped to the floor with a thud; then he began to wheeze and cough but managed to stay on his
feet. “I can’t b-breathe.”

With his face turning red and blotchy, he clawed at
his throat.

“Call 911!” I yelled, sprinting across the room just
in time to see Marco topple over and Guido catch him.
They both sank to the floor.

Marco gulped for air, his whole body shuddering.

By the time I got to his side, he wasn’t moving.

“Quick, try CPR!” I exclaimed.

Guido quickly complied. After several minutes of
breathing into Marco’s mouth and pumping his chest, the
young man leaned back, tears in his eyes. “I don’t think it
will help.”

No, it wouldn’t.

Marco was dead.

Silence descended on the diners like a heavy blanket
of darkness at the sudden appearance of death’s shadow.
No one moved; no one spoke.

I cleared my throat, and as if on cue, everyone began
shouting and yelling on cell phones in unison.

In the midst of the total chaos, I sank to my knees next
to Guido, not sure what to do. “Where are those damn
paramedics?” I grabbed Marco’s hand, frantically trying
to get a pulse.

It felt cold, without a detectable heartbeat. Then I felt
the side of his neck. Nothing. A mute cry of sadness
rose up in my throat.

Tears slid down Guido’s face. “I tried, I tried,” he kept
repeating as he rocked back and forth on the floor next
to me.

“What’s going on?” A young woman appeared in the
kitchen doorway, her delicate, cameolike face knit with
concern and confusion.

“Beatrice!” someone exclaimed. “Stay in the kitchen.”

But when she spied Guido and me on the floor, she
raced over and then halted, her mouth dropping open in
shock. “Papa!”

She threw herself on top of Marco, shaking him by
the shoulders. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he
moving?”

After a few moments, she burst into sobs and buried
her face in her father’s chest-her long brown hair spilling over both of them like a shield.

Just then, I heard sirens-and the paramedics appeared
seconds later.

“Stand back, please,” one man said in a deep, firm
voice, as he gently eased Beatrice away from her father.
I quickly moved out of the way.

They tried everything to bring life back into MarcoCPR, injections, heart paddles-but nothing worked. He
just lay there, totally unresponsive.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing we can do,”
the paramedic said to Beatrice, who then crumpled into
Guido’s arms. “He probably had anaphylaxis-an extreme allergic reaction to something.”

“Papa!” she exclaimed, clinging to Guido. They cried
together, and I found my own eyes welling up. How
could Marco have expired in front of us so quickly from
an allergy? Was it possible?

I sensed Madame Geri at my elbow, and I sort of sagged
into her briefly. For some reason, right now I found her
familiar patchouli perfume presence comforting.

The paramedics wheeled Marco out, and Beatrice fol lowed with Guido practically carrying her, tears still
streaming down her cheeks. After they left, everyone
turned deadly quiet yet again. People just milled aroundnot sure whether they should leave.

After a few minutes, Jimmy motioned the customers
toward the front door, “We’d better close the restaurant,
everyone-and please don’t worry about paying your
bill. Our apologies.”

All of the diners filed out of the restaurant with a somber silence, leaving Madame Geri, Jimmy, and me. The
kitchen staff hovered near the back door, and Jimmy nodded in their direction. They left too.

“Well … that was unbelievable-and sad,” I commented to no one in particular. “Poor Marco.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Terrible.”

“I probably shouldn’t be asking this question, but
what about Carlos’ death?” I continued.

“Who can say for sure?” Madame Geri interjected in
a soft voice. “I wish I could say or do more, but that’s life
and death-as I learned when Jimmy’s father died. Believe me, if I could have stopped that, I would have, but
the events were bigger than my powers-it’s destiny.”

My eyes widened. I’d never heard Madame Geri talk
like that. “I … I didn’t know.”

“Now you do” Her chin tilted higher, and a flutter of
sorrow winged across her face, tugging at my already
jumbled emotions. All of a sudden, we both started to
weep.

“All right, time to go,” Jimmy said, ushering us out of there while we blubbered, and he locked the restaurant
behind us.

An hour later, I parked Rusty in front of my Airstream
and sat there, savoring the comforting sight of my
4,220-pound RV with its gleaming silver exterior and
blue-and-white striped awning.

Ah. Nirvana.

It never failed to restore me-even in the wake of
trauma.

I pushed the day’s events out of my mind as I beheld
my little spot at the Twin Palms RV Resort, which
edged on Coral Island’s only beach, or what passes for a
beach around here: a tiny strip of sand that almost disappears when the tide comes in. But I loved it-the
salty air, sea breeze, and rolling waves. Unfortunately,
the island stretches north-south and is enclosed by the
more popular, touristy barrier islands with their wide
beaches, so this bit of sandy shore was about it.

I looked over to the van positioned on the left of my
Airstream-that’s where Cole was housed. He’d driven
the vehicle all over the West “trying to find himself,”
and the van looked like it had seen some hard road.
My degree in Automotive Psychology from Car and
Driver magazine told me his van-home reflected his
lifestyle: free and simple. I liked that-kind of.

Then I checked out the site to my right. For a moment, I thought I saw the outlines of another Airstream. Smaller, shabbier, but with the same silver, hutlike
appearance. Then I blinked, and it was gone. The site
was empty.

Must’ve been glare from the sun.

“Cole?”

No answer. He was probably on a shoot-his freelance photography job provided enough money for his
site at the RV resort, food, and an endless supply of
boogie boards to skim the surf.

I sighed. At one time, I would have found that combination fun and attractive. But, now, after all my experiences on the island-including murder and mayhem-I
might have become (gasp) more serious about life. Possibly. But every time I was with Cole, I thought about
Nick, and every time I was with Nick, I thought about
Cole. I had officially become indecisive and two-faced.

A tiny scratching sound caught my attention. Kong. I
made for my Airstream door and swung it open to behold my teacup poodle standing there, his tail flipping
back and forth in excitement to see me.

“Hi, sweet pea.” He licked my ankle.

Now, what man could compete with that?

I grabbed his leash, hooked it onto his collar, and we
made for the surf. He trotted alongside me, sniffing the
briny air and perking up his ears at the sound of the seabirds diving for fish. As we reached the shoreline, though,
he put the brakes on. Kong hated water-especially salt
water. He loved the beach, but he didn’t like getting wet.

“Come on, Kong, cut me some slack.” I yanked at his
leash. “I’ve had a really rotten day, I’ve got two dinner
dates tonight, and I’ll probably need to stay up until all
hours writing the restaurant reviews when I get home.”

He barked in response but didn’t move. I gave the
leash another tug, but for a minuscule little pup, he could
be amazingly strong. Ever since I had taken him to a
doggy psychologist to help him get over his inferiority
complex regarding his diminutive size and named him
King Kong-Kong for short (no pun intended)-he took
great pride in asserting himself at the most inopportune
moments.

Karma. You fix one thing, and it causes something
else.

“All right. Get it in gear.” I yanked on the leash and
strode over to a clump of palmetto palms. After staring
at me for a few moments in defiance, he finally started
to lift his leg-

“Mallie!” a female voice yelled out.

Distracted, Kong immediately dropped his leg, and I
groaned in frustration.

“Did I interrupt him?” Wanda Sue, my landlady, asked
as she strolled toward me.

“No, of course not” I summoned a halfhearted smile,
but it widened into a real grin as I took in Wanda Sue’s
outfit. Middle-aged and fighting every minute of it, she
wore neon blue spandex shorts, a low-cut cotton top
with the neckline decorated in feathers, and cheap gold
dangling earrings-also with feathers on the ends.

The only thing missing was a headdress perched on
her bouffant hairdo. Of course, I wasn’t sure that a
headdress would exactly fit on hair teased that high, but
if anyone could do it, it was Wanda Sue.

She owned the Twin Palms RV Resort and had been
my dear friend since I arrived on Coral Island. Warm,
caring, and a fashionista dropout, she had taken me under
her fleshy wing from the first day. She was also plugged
into the Coral Island gossip network and knew if a car so
much as backfired within a ten-mile radius. Needless to
say, the latter talent helped me enormously when I was
working on a particularly difficult news story.

“So, honey, what in tarnation happened at Little Tuscany?” she asked. Wanda Sue also had a southern drawl
as deep and thick as the Everglades.

“You’ve already heard?” Okay, it was a rhetorical
question, but I had to ask.

“Oh, Mallie.” She waved a hand bejeweled with rings.
“I heard from Pop Pop, who heard it from the Jordan
twins, who got it from their mother at the Island Hardware store, who got it from her neighbor who was having lunch at Little Tuscany when it happened.”

Whew. Talk about a grapevine; that one could choke
an elephant.

“Did Marco die of an allergic reaction?” she continued, leaning down to pat Kong on the head. He growled
and then stomped on her foot with his little paw.

“Sweet little pooch.”

Undaunted, Kong raised his ears and barked again.

“Sorry. He’s a little cranky from being inside all day,”
I explained as I pulled him back.

Wanda Sue straightened. “That little poodle is just
cuter than a June bug on a hot night.”

I kept a tight hold on Kong’s leash as he tried to nip at
Wanda Sue’s ankle. He didn’t like being compared to
insects, and I swear he could understand English-even
with Wanda Sue’s heavy southern accent and occasional
mangling of the language. While I kept a wary eye on
my poodle, I filled her in on the events that had transpired at the restaurant.