Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise (2 page)

I was lucky to have the job at the Observer-courtesy of my great aunt Lily-the grand dame of Coral Island
and my favorite relative. She and I were simpatico,
which meant she didn’t call me “Mixed-up Mallie” like
the rest of my family, and she didn’t criticize me for the
lack of “direction” in my life. I preferred to think of my
lifestyle as a quest for adventure. I liked it better not
knowing what would come around the next corner, rather
than have my whole life planned out like a roadmap of
boring ruts and routines.

I climbed into my ancient Ford truck and cranked up
the engine. “Come on, Rusty, do your thing.” I pressed
the pedal down a few times in rapid succession. The
engine sputtered, then turned over. Quickly, I threw it
into gear and rolled down the window to catch a little
of the early morning breeze. Almost June, the suffocating Florida heat hadn’t blanketed the island yet, but it
was coming. I reached into my glove compartment and
pulled out a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic Sunblock with
an SPF of fifteen and an overpowering smell of sickly
sweet coconut. Slathering it on liberally, I checked my
peeling, red nose in the rearview mirror. It was still
mildly sunburned. Much as I loved my red hair, the
pale, freckled skin that went with it was less than compatible with the scorching Florida sun.

Maneuvering Rusty onto Cypress Road, which was
the main drag of Coral Island, I took in a deep cleansing
breath of sea air and tried to appreciate my surroundings. This swampy, coastal island, touted as a “lush, tropical paradise” in the marketing advertisements that appeared in the Observer was, in reality, a hot, humid,
and buggy spit of land only twenty miles long and about
a mile wide. Tucked inside a ring of barrier islands, it
boasted no fabulous stretches of sandy beaches or highrise hotels. Just good fishing. Still, it had its charm. A
small dune that passed for a beach was located on the
northern tip on Mango Bay, and bountiful vegetation was
everywhere, including tall, thin pines and clusters of
seagrape.

I eased up on the accelerator and made a left turn on
Seashell Lane. The unpaved, sandy road curved around
dense foliage and gumbo limbo trees only to end at
the tiny settlement high atop thirty-foot shell mounds.
Spectacular, they rose up from the shoreline of Coral
Island Sound in giant white formations, with a grove of
exotic trees set beyond the highest point. Two houses
were perched about halfway up the mounds-one a
long, flat stuccoed dwelling with a wraparound
screened porch, and the other, a two-storied white clapboard structure, complete with dormer windows and a
small, open-air second-floor deck.

That’s when I saw Jack. He was lounging on a white
Adirondack chair on the deck, soaking up some morning
sunlight, half-naked, with a drink in his hand. Jeez.

As if sensing my scrutiny, he glanced down and met
my stare. Unembarrassed, he simply waved and turned
his face toward the sun again.

I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear the image
out of my mind, but it perversely refused to leave. It would be a long time before I was able to forget that I’d
seen that sagging ruin of a man’s body.

Turning my truck into the driveway, I noticed several
cars already parked there-presumably the participants
of the Writers’ Institute. It was an interesting array of
makes and models. A large, old model Cadillac with
New Mexico license plates; a Ford escort, complete
with hatchback and chipped paint along the sides; and a
small, snappy Miata convertible. A silver Dodge Viper
was also parked next to the house. A shiny testament to
testosterone, it bore a license plate that read, “Author.”
Presumably, it was Hillman’s vehicle.

I liked to match people to their cars, knowing that my
battered, old Ford truck spoke volumes about my own
lifestyle: little disposable income but a lot of heart. Oh,
yeah, a mirror reflection of me.

Turning off the engine, I climbed out of my truck
and made for the winding stone path that cut through
the thick, overgrown bougainvillea bushes. A couple of
long, spindly branches stuck out and thorns brushed
against my legs. Grateful I was wearing a pair of old
jeans, I kept moving until I reached a clearing. A small
screened porch jutted out from the front of the house, a
small, brass captain’s bell-like the kind on a boatwas near the door. I gave the cord a quick pull. The bell
clanged and a young woman instantly appeared.

“Hi” She pushed open the screen door. “I’m Chrissy
Anders.”

I immediately noted her long, honey-blond hair and shapely figure highlighted by cutoffs and a tight T-shirt
with “Save the Earth” splashed across the front in gold
letters. Her face and body had that perfectly toned and
tanned look of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors hiking and kayaking and jogging and all that kind
of stuff that created a disgustingly healthy glow. At least,
I told myself that. It made accepting my own freckles,
blotchy skin, and thin form a little easier to take.

“I’m Mallie Monroe, a reporter with the Observer” I
started to shake hands with her when Hillman appeared
behind her-now wearing a pair of shorts in olive drab
and a matching short-sleeved shirt. Quite an improvement, really.

“Jack Hillman. How ya doin?” He pumped my hand
in a strong grip. “Anita told me you’d be attending the
Writer’s Institute. We’re glad to have you. Very glad”
His glance had settled on my hair.

“I’m not exactly an attendee. I work for the newspaper,
and I’m here to do a story on the Institute-“

“That’s even better. You can learn some pointers on
how to write a nonfiction article. I worked on several
newspapers before I became a fiction writer, and I can
show you how to knock off a front-page, potential
Pulitzer Prize-winning story in less than an hour.”

“But …”

“It’ll get old bullheaded Anita off your back. I
pledge, promise, and promote success” His florid face
broke into a wide smile that even I had to admit was
sort of appealing in an aging, bad-boy kind of way. And the prospect of getting Anita off my back was even
more so.

“But the story has to be about the Writers’ Institute,”
I said weakly, knowing I was caving in, if for no other
reason than Hillman’s persuasive use of alliteration.

“Sure. Sure. Everyone is already in the Florida room.
Let’s go on in so you can meet them” He led me into the
house and through a very modem, very gourmet kitchen,
complete with granite countertops, an elaborate gas stove,
and a pot rack with the latest shiny red cookware. I took
a sidelong glance at his protruding middle. It was obvious he liked to eat, but now I knew he liked to cook. Interesting.

I strolled into the expansive Florida room and was
again treated to a room decorated with affluence and
good taste. Jalousie windows surrounded the room on
three sides, and wood floors gleamed beneath my
sandals. Wicker furniture upholstered with tropical
print cushions was scattered around the room, along
with a mahogany antique or two. Hardly the kind of
room I expected from a man who prided himself on his
gritty writing prowess but, the more I saw of his house,
the more I began to see Jack had intriguing dimensions.
Not the least of which was he could lounge half-naked
on his deck with this many people in the house.

“Hello, I’m Burt Morris and this is my wife, Betty,” a
tall, middle-aged man said from the small bar area off
to the side of the room. Betty was equally as tall, with a
wide mouth and large teeth. Both of them, in fact, had a vaguely equine appearance. “We’re from Tucumcari,
New Mexico, and we’re writing a series of short stories
about the Old West” He held up a pitcher. “Care for a
margarita?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He poured the pale green liquid into
two large frosted glasses and handed one to Betty.

“And you’ve already met Chrissy,” Hillman inter- jected, his arm snaking around the blond’s waist.

“I’m writing eco-conscious poetry. You know, like
Thoreau. A lot of people don’t realize he wrote verse,
but he did, and it was great stuff. Jack said the best way
to break in is through an environmental poetry blog
with lots of my own poems.” She gave a satisfied smile.
“Isn’t that way cool?”

“Totally.” I was sort of impressed. It sounded plausible.

“I’m George B … B … Barret,” a young man
standing off by himself stammered. Thin and wiry, he
had long hair that partially obscured the upper section
of his face. The lower half was covered by his slender
hand, thus making it difficult to hear him very well. He
mumbled something else that I couldn’t quite make out.

“Georgy here is working on a nonfiction book on
overcoming shyness,” Hillman said. He strolled over
to George and thumped him on the back a couple of
times. “Yessireee. He’s going to be putting out the next
best-seller.”

Okay.

George coughed each time Hillman slapped him between the shoulders, but managed a small nod in between hacks.

“And that’s our little group,” Hillman continued.

“What about you, Mallie? What are you working
on?” Chrissy asked.

All eyes riveted on me. “I … uh … I’m not working on anything as ambitious as the rest of you. I just
started a new job as a journalist and I’m trying to learn
how to write better news stories.”

“There are no little goals,” Burt spoke up and
everyone else joined in to chant the last half: “Only little
writers.”

Hillman clapped his hands. “Good work everybody.
We’ll teach Mary how to motivate herself.”

“It’s Mallie.”

“Oh … sorry, Milly.”

Close enough.

The Institute might not be large, but what they lacked
in numbers they made up for in enthusiasm, and Jack
was like the benign, genial pater familias. Maybe this
whole thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Hillman motioned everyone over to a large oval table,
and it seemed as if the mood instantly changed like an
atmospheric shift before a sudden, violent storm. My
fellow writers settled into their seats, and I followed
suit, setting my hundred pound canvas bag on the floor.

“Now, since Milly is new to our group, let’s start with
a recent story her editor sent over” He passed out copies of last week’s Observer. “This is one of her latest articles on the bike path. It’s typical of a small-town paper, but there’s still room for improvement, don’t you
think?”

Everyone nodded.

Uh-oh.

I suddenly had this feeling of being back in third
grade when my mother grilled me over making a “B” in
English grammar. I loved literature but hated nitpicking
sentences apart. She had waved the report card around,
demanding to know why I was letting my whole future
slip away because I couldn’t seem to conjugate irregular verbs. Of course, the real culprit today was my hardnosed editor. Damn her anyway!

Hillman picked up a yellow highlighter. “Let’s go
through the article paragraph by paragraph” He sliced
the marker across the title as if wielding a knife. “Look
at the title: `Bike Path Decision in Flux’.” He laughed.
“How can a path be in flux? That’s a hackneyed phrase
if I’ve ever heard one. It’s like something you’d expect
a high school journalism student to come up with.” All
of the other writers dutifully whipped out highlighter
pens and repeated his motion on their copies of the Observer.

And that was just the beginning. He tore into every
paragraph with fiendish delight, chopping and slicing at
my every word until there was nothing left except a few
bits and pieces of sentences that somehow survived,
gasping for life.

I was in a state of shock. My mouth had turned to
cotton, and my heart thumped in my chest like a hammer hitting an anvil. Where had that genial, albeit halfnaked, host gone? He had somehow turned into a
fault-finding, vicious critic of the worst kind just like
my mother. All of a sudden, I regretted not having taken
Burt and Betty up on their offer of a margarita.

As I glanced around the table, no one looked up. Not
one pair of eyes met mine to offer even a glimpse of
sympathy. I felt like roadkill on the highway to news
writing paradise.

And then I found out why the group had turned mute
to my plight. I was the first person in the hot seat that
morning. Each took turns as the recipient of Hillman’s
verbal assault-even Chrissy. One by one, we submitted
ourselves to cruel jabs, mean taunts, and nasty ridicule.
And no one left the room-except for Betty. She took a
short hiatus, probably for a straight shot of tequila, but
returned within ten minutes still able to walk.

The critiquing went on for most of the day-with
only a brief break for lunch. I could only presume that
this was business as usual at the Institute, and everyone
thought learning by humiliation the best way to become
a successful writer.

Jack appeared to relish his role as a hard-nosed writing teacher, letting each of us have it on the chin with
both fists. I spent much of the time fantasizing about
slamming him back with my own knuckle sandwich of
literary criticism. Small comfort.

It was early afternoon before we broke up, and I could only hope my all-day, roll-on deodorant lived up to its
promise. I’d moved way beyond the cold sweat stage.

“That about does it for today” He slapped both of his heavy thighs. “Do your editing work tonight and then
bring back what you have for tomorrow’s sessionespecially you, Chrissy. That last poem on global
warming really sucked” He rose from his chair,
stretched his arms overhead, and exhaled in a long sigh
of contentment. “I’m going for a quick dip in the hot
tub. Anyone care to join me?”

George shook his head, followed by Betty and Burt.

“Maybe later,” Chrissy managed between trembling
lips. A tear slid down the side of her heart-shaped face,
but she brushed it away with a quick swipe of her hand.

“Okay. Later, dudes and dudettes” Hillman swaggered off, actually whistling a little tune under his
breath.