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

me. I wasn’t quite
sure what it was. It could’ve been a spark of attraction.
Or maybe a flicker of sensual excitement. Or maybe
even indigestion. Who knows? But the tremor of emotion behind his words touched me in a way I couldn’t
pinpoint.
    We stood there for a few moments, not moving, our
eyes locked together.
    “Hey, Nick, how are ya doing?” Sandy finally broke
the spell as she spun around in her chair and removed
her iPod.
    “Fine-I was just leaving,” he answered. “Make sure
you drop off that transcript, Ms. Monroe.” The reserved,
by-the-book cop persona was back in place. He strode
toward the door and was gone before I could say, “Have
a nice day” Thanks a lot, Sandy.
    “Did I miss anything?” Sandy asked.
    I rolled my eyes. “Not really.”
    “Good.” Humming, she put her iPod in the top
drawer of her desk. “I was so into a deep TM state that
time. My new meditation tape is really wonderful-the
guy who did it studied at some ashram in India.”
    “Wow.” I didn’t know the least bit about ashrams, but
I figured it must have something to do with personal
growth, weight loss, and/or both.
    Sandy’s features assumed their usual serene compo- sure. “I’m going to use the computer for awhile, all
right?”

    “Sure. I have to see someone. Just save what I was
working on to the hard drive.” I’d wrap it up later. Right
now, I needed to talk to the person who I trusted more
than anyone on the planet: my great aunt Lily.
    Minutes later, I was driving toward the southeast part
of the island called Franklin’s Grove. My great aunt
and several other families had moved there during the
1920s when it was a bustling little settlement, complete
with a warehouse on the waterfront, a post office and
school. Originally, Aunt Lily and her husband, with
four other homesteader families, owned eighty acres.
They produced some of the best citrus in all of Southern Florida.
    Unfortunately, when the depression hit in the thirties, Franklin’s Grove declined.
    Most of the families moved away and their groves fell
into disrepair, but Aunt Lily stayed. She survived three
hurricanes, a world war, and the loss of her husband.
But she never gave up her land. About ten years ago, she
replaced the citrus with mango and lychee nut trees, tapping the new market for exotic fruit. It wasn’t exactly a
thriving venture, but she made a living. She got by.
    I steered Rusty down the shell and limestone road
that led to her house. It stood smack dab in the middle
of her grove-a whitewashed, one-storied dwelling with
a porch across the front and a tin roof. As soon as I saw
the familiar structure nestled among the pine trees, a warm feeling flooded through me, and I remembered
why I’d come to the island a month ago with my
Airstream and my teacup poodle. This was the only
place I’d ever felt a sense of peace as a kid.

    The memories of brief summer vacations spent
picking fruit rose up in my mind. I could still smell the
sweet scent of June bloom oranges as I twisted them off
of the branches and tossed them into large wooden baskets. Feel the sensation of heavy, tropical rain when it
would plaster my shirt against my chest. Remember
what it was like to run barefoot all day and stay up half
the night. Earthy. Elemental. Soul-stirring. I was never
constrained by rules and manners and the “right” way
of doing things like at home.
    Needless to say, my parents didn’t let me come here
all that often and, when I did, they’d spend months
“working the Florida taint” out of me.
    But now I was here-permanently living in paradise.
Sort of. I did have the slight problem of working for a
chain-smoking, hatchet-faced editor and being a suspect in a murder investigation. But this is a fallen world
afterall. Who’s expecting perfection?
    I parked Rusty and, before I could shut off the engine, Aunt Lily appeared on the porch.
    “Mallie, I’ve been trying to call you for