Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 03 - Murder in the Mangroves by Marty Ambrose Page B

center, passed the Observer office,
and stopped at the suite of offices near the four-way stop that
led off the island. Unlike the tiny, ground-level strip mall that
housed our newspaper office, this structure was up four feet on
concrete blocks, fashioned in a quad of offices, with latticework
along the bottom and a sparkling new tin roof.
    It had that “old Florida” look that was hot right now. But
with plastic siding, plastic porch rails, and plastic shutters, it
was old as in the Neo-Plastic Era.

    I located the Island Decor suite and swung open the door,
causing a tiny chime to tinkle somewhere in the back. Inhaling
the sickly sweet odor of a vanilla candle, I grimaced and took
stock of the place. Plush carpet, expensive knickknacks, and
an antique desk graced the room, along with a wall filled with
paint chips and fabric-swatch catalogues. Swanky decorators.
Not that I had ever consulted them, but my mother was a
frequent purveyor of decorating experts. She liked to call it
“having the house done.” Luckily, I never had to bother with
paint choices-Airstreams came in three basic colors: silver,
silver, and silver. Period.
    “May I help you?” a young woman asked. She looked to be
about Gina’s age but much taller. Dark hair with deep gold
highlights and hazel eyes. Quite striking.
    “Are you Gina Fernandez’s partner?”
    “Yes. I’m Isabel Morales. We co-own Island Decor.” She
shook hands with me. “We offer a full range of services that
cover all aspects of decorating, from soup to nuts” She laughed
at her little metaphor. “You name it, we can do it. Gina and I
have decorated some of the finest homes on Coral Island, and
I mean the ritzy mansions on Sea Belle Isle Point.”
    “I get the drift.” Translated: Unless kidnapped by decorating terrorists, she wouldn’t even drive into the Twin Palms RV
Resort where my Airstream currently resided. No big money
there.
    She picked up a clipboard and handed it to me. “Here is the
questionnaire that we have all our clients fill out. I need to know
what your color preferences are, what type of furniture you
prefer-modern or traditional-what your decorating budget
allows, and-“
    “I live in a trailer.”
    “Oh” She snatched the clipboard back.
    Guess that was the deal breaker “Well, I’m not here for decorating advice anyway,” I said, noting the haughty tilt her
head had assumed. “I’d like to talk about Gina.”

    “She won’t be in until tomorrow. She had some sort of
trail hike to do this morning and was going to spend the afternoon shopping with her fiance, Brett” Her lip curled as she
said his name. “If you want, I can take down your phone
number and-“
    “You mean you haven’t heard?” Was it possible I’d finally
met someone not plugged into the island gossip grapevine?
Oh, dear.
    “Heard what?”
    I paused. “You might want to sit down.”
    Her eyes widened in alarm as she sank into an overstuffed,
flowered-chintz sofa.
    “Gina … uh … died today.”
    “But … no, that can’t be” Her hands tightened around the
armrest until her knuckles turned white. “She was fine this
morning when we had coffee at Mama Maria’s. I don’t understand.”
    “The cause of death is still undetermined, but she was found
under a mangrove tree near the entrance to the Little Coral Island Trail.”
    “Madre de dios.” She crossed herself, the haughty demeanor
falling away as if it were a discarded piece of clothing. “She
didn’t even want to go on that stupid trail hike, but Brandi insisted. Said it was her first official duty as Mango Queen”
    “I know you’re probably upset, but let me try to reconstruct
what you know.” I reached into my cavernous canvas bag and
pulled out my notepad. “You had coffee this morning at Mama
Maria’s with Gina and Brandi. Then they left to hike the trail,
and you came here to work”
    “Yes. We had a big job to finish-her prospective