Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise by Marty Ambrose Page A

made an appearance. They’d opened their
awning and put out two padded lounge chairs, but were
nowhere to be seen. I sighed. It must be nice to be so in
love. I just hoped they had a good AC unit.

    Torn between amusement and envy, I entered my
Airstream. Kong greeted me with a few happy, highpitched barks.
    “What do you think, Kong?” I looked down at his
large brown eyes. “What are the odds that our honeymooners will actually make an appearance today?”
    Kong lowered his snub nose to the floor and crossed
his paws in front. I turned my back to him and pulled
on my one piece, racerback swimsuit.
    “Maybe ten to one?” I slathered on a new sunblock
with a SPF of thirty. “Well … fifty to one. They’re in a
top-of-the-line luxury motorhome, after all”
    Kong sniffed audibly.
    “Okay, one hundred to one..
    I fastened a leash on Kong’s collar and led him out of
the Airstream. He eyed the beach warily. “At least we
have each other,” I murmured to my pooch as we strolled
toward the surf.
    That was something wasn’t it?
    After my swim, with Kong anxiously watching from
shore, I decided to follow up on Chrissy’s lead about
Hillman’s argumentative neighbor. He might not have
been angry enough to commit murder, but then again,
he might’ve seen the person who did. I threw on my jeans and a fresh T-shirt and drove over to Hillman’s
house.

    As I approached The Mounds, a lump rose in my
throat. Was it only last night that I’d driven up to find
the house empty and Hillman dead in his study? I shuddered inwardly. It seemed like weeks ago rather than
less than twenty-four hours. Then, my eyes followed
the yellow tape that the police had strung around his
house. DO NOT CROSS. Like I was about to go in that
house. Like I’d ever want to go in that house again.
    I parked Rusty on the street in front of Hillman’s
house and hiked up toward the low, flat stuccoed
dwelling next door. Before I had the chance to make it
halfway up the driveway, an elderly man with a gray
beard came charging out of the front porch waving a
cane.
    “That’s far enough,” he exclaimed. “This is private
property, missy.”
    “I’m from the Observer and I’d like to talk to you.” I
noted the man’s plaid shorts, black silk socks and wing
tips. This attire was de rigueur for retirees on the island. Sometimes they wore a Hanes white cotton undershirt or a striped golf shirt. But Hillman’s neighbor
had chosen neither-he was shirtless. What was it about
the Mounds that seemed to cause men to wander
around half naked?
    “I’ve got nothing to say,” he grumbled. “I already
talked to the police, and the only thing I could tell them
is I’m glad somebody finally did that jerk in.”

    I assumed the “jerk” he was referring to was Hillman.
    “That dadblamed troublemaker was the worst neighbor I’ve ever had-with his loud music and giggling bimbos coming in and out of here at all hours.”
He shook his head. “My poor little Mabel couldn’t take
all that noise-it upset her to no end.”
    “Your wife?”
    “My cat”
    “Oh” I moved a little closer and quietly reached into
my canvas bag for my handy-dandy official reporter’s
notepad. “What happened?”
    “Mabel’s whole system was thrown out of whack.
She coughed up hairballs something fierce every time
Hillman had a party” He clucked his tongue and pulled
on his gray beard.
    “That must’ve been very upsetting.” My fingers
fished around in the jumble, and I made a vow for the
hundredth time to clean out the black hole that passed
for my bag.
    “I was half crazy. And would that good-for-nothing
Hillman even listen? No way. He didn’t care if my Mabel’s little heart gave out while choking on those hairballs.”
    “Is she all right now?”
    “She’s holding her own” He held up a hand to shield
his wrinkled forehead from the afternoon sun as he
fastened a speculative gaze on me. “You must be a cat