Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 02 - Island Intrigue (18 page)

“No … uh, sort of.” A small paintbrush slipped out of
his pile of rags and fell to the floor. Quickly he snatched
it up.

“Were you painting?” I asked.

“Yeah” He stuffed the rags into a plastic bag, but not
before I saw the paint color streaked across them. Dark
blue. The same color as his truck.

“Did you have an accident with your truck, or something?” I asked.

“Not really.” He wiped the beaded sweat from his
forehead. “I was doing a little touch-up. Someone ran a shopping cart against my passenger door when I was at
the grocery store”

Or maybe you damaged the vehicle when you rammed
my truck last night. I gave him a hard stare.

Frank went back outside, closing and locking the
garage door before I could check out his truck. Then he
resumed his position behind the counter. “Now, what
about that fishing fly?”

I was tempted to demand a look at his truck, but I’d
tip my hand if I did. Instead, I smiled and reached into
my bag for the fly. Two could play the cat-and-mouse
game. And for once, I felt like the cat and not the mouse.

I pulled out the fishing fly, protected by layers of tissue. As I unwrapped it, Frank drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s incredible.” A touch of awe entered his voice,
leading me to believe it was the first time he’d ever seen
the fly. Or he was an incredibly good actor.

“Madame Geri told me it’s a deceiver.” How fitting, I
wanted to add, looking at a man who might be a “deceiver” himself.

He nodded in her direction. “You know your flies, all
right.”

She plopped herself onto a stool. “Of course I do. I still
stay in contact with my father, who was a fisherman”

“Is he on the island?”

“Nope” Madame Geri arranged the folds of her skirt. “Dad crossed over after he died, but we chitchat
every so often”

Frank’s eyes widened, and he looked around the room
as if to assure himself that Madame Geri’s father wasn’t
hovering around the store. Apparently satisfied, he turned
his attention back to the fishing fly. “You don’t see flies
made with this kind of care too often today. It’s handmade with real feathers. Only master fly builders know
how to do this.”

“Is there anyone on the island who could make a fly
like this?” I kept my tone friendly. “You, for instance?”

He shook his head. “I’m good but not that good”
Apparently lost in admiration, he sounded sincere.

“What about Tom Crawford?”

“Tom?” He gave a short bark of laughter. “No way.
The most he could do was a standard buzzer.”

“A what?”

“Standard buzzer” He reached behind him and
grabbed a small plastic packet from the assortment of
flies on the wall. “This is one of the easiest flies to make.
You just take the hook, twist some seal fur around it, and
bind it with your line. Simple. You can make one in fifteen minutes.” He pointed at the hook, which appeared
to be coated with black fuzz.

“How many types of flies are there?” I studied the
buzzer for a few minutes, then transferred my gaze to
the multitude of fishing flies on the wall behind Frank.

“There are maybe two dozen patterns-deceivers, buzzers, nobblers, beetles, nymphs-but each person
who makes them can vary the design. So you could have
hundreds or even thousands of variations on the basic
designs.”

“Oh, great,” I said without much enthusiasm. My only
clue was turning out to be a bust. “So it would be unlikely
that I could find out who made this fly? I might be doing
a story for the Observer” So I stretched the truth a littleokay, maybe a lot.

“Not necessarily.” He studied the deceiver in my
palm again. “A lot of the unique handmade flies are
registered. This pattern-the deceiver-was created by
Lefty Kreh. Some people even call them Lefty’s Deceivers. But whoever made this fly tweaked the pattern” He touched the fly with reverence. “Notice the real
feathers and how the tubing along the shank is hand
painted? Beautiful.”

My interest was kindled. “You think this one might
be registered?”

“I’ll check it out”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it-and my readers will too.”
I took in a deep breath and asked him point-blank,
“Mind if I look at your truck?”

Instantly he stiffened. “Why?”

“I’ve got to get mine painted, and I was curious about
matching colors.” Oh, yeah, as if Rusty had a discernible
color anymore. “How did you find the right paint for the
touch-up?”

“The dealer.” His mouth pulled tightly in at the cor ners. “Find the VIN number, and they can get the right
shade of paint.”

VIN? Hah. If Rusty had one, it was long gone. “So,
may we see your truck?”

Madame Geri slid off the stool.

“I’d prefer you didn’t-not till the paint is dry.” Two
patches of red appeared on his cheeks. “Could get
smudged”

“Suit yourself.” I began to rewrap the fly.

All of a sudden Frank snatched it from me.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I grabbed for it. “Give
it back.”

He stepped back and cradled the deceiver in his
hands. “I’ll need to keep it so I can sketch the design,
research it, maybe even put it out on the Internet.”

“I … I wanted to do the research myself.” The deceiver was my only clue. And I needed to hand it over
to Detective Billie. I hadn’t exactly decided on when I
was going to hand the fishing fly over, but I was going
to do it.

Frank paled but kept his protective hold on the fly.
“Just give me a couple of hours to make some inquiries.
Please. It’s too beautiful to just let go without trying to
find out who made it.”

I hesitated. Frank was a suspect. He could destroy
the evidence. But short of trying a few Tae Kwon Do
maneuvers, I didn’t know how I could wrestle it away
from him. Damn. “Okay. We’ll pick it up after the fishing tournament this afternoon. No later. No excuses. You understand? I’ve got a witness.” I pointed at
Madame Geri. “If it `disappears,’ and I see it on eBay,
you’re going to be in big trouble, mister.” I shook my
finger at him.

“It’ll be here when you return. I promise.”

“It had better be,” I warned. “By the way, what’s
your e-mail address?”

“Huh?” He looked blank for a moment.
“[email protected]”

“Oh” Not that I expected him to say Salty Surfer.
Still, I’d thought I might trip him up. But his answer
was quick, the information easy to check-not that he
couldn’t have used Salty Surfer as a temporary address.
I hesitated, trying to figure out if I could wrestle him
for the fishing fly. Not likely. Still peeved, I finally exited Frank’s Fish and Bait Shoppe with Madame Geri
and Marley in tow. Once we were back in Rusty, I
thumped my head against the steering wheel. “I can’t
believe I let him take the fly from me like that. Stupid.
Stupid. Stupid.”

She was silent.

“Nick Billie is going to pitch a fit when he finds out”
I turned to her. “Whaddya think? Did the spirits tell you
if Frank was guilty or not?”

“He was hiding something-that’s for sure.” She
stroked Marley with an absentminded caress.

“His reaction to the fly seemed genuine,” I pointed
out with a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t destroy it.

“Maybe”

“But what about the paint on the truck? He sure tried
to hide where he did the touch-up”

“True.”

I gave a snort of impatience. “Could you be a little
more definite? I mean, what’s the point of having a psychic with me if you’re not getting any vibes?”

She sighed. “Psychic impressions aren’t like a water
faucet I can turn on and off. When the spirit world thinks
the time is right, I’ll get `vibes,’ as you call them. And not
a moment sooner.”

“Fine” I started up Rusty’s engine and cranked on
the heat. Deceivers and psychic visions aside, I still had
another story to cover. The local fishing tournament
might not be Detroit Free Press front-page headlines,
but coverage of it was scheduled for next week’s edition. Anita would pitch a nicotine-withdrawal fit if I just
blew it off because I was investigating Tom’s murder.

Madame Geri and I drove toward the south end of
Coral Island, where Sea Belle Isle Point was located.
Unlike the north part of the island, where I lived, which
boasted a small beach and trailer park, the south tip was
much more ritzy.

Canals had been dredged almost a hundred years ago
and a large community planned, called Sea Belle Isle
Point on the Gulf. Needless to say, the community never
expanded beyond a few hundred people-maybe because
no one wanted to live in a place with a name that long.
Or maybe because the area could only be accessed by
ferry at that time. Whatever the reason, Sea Belle Isle Point had languished until about ten years ago, when a
small causeway was built and wealthy tourists “discovered” the appeal of direct Gulf-access canals.

Fancy-schmancy “old Florida” houses went up, along
with a clubhouse and marina. The Sea Belle Isle Point inhabitants kept themselves separate from the rest of the islanders, except for occasional charity events where they
could bestow their magnanimous wealth on the community. The fishing tournament was one of those occasions.
Money raised from the event went to the Coral Island
Elementary School-not that any of the Sea Belle Isle
Point kids attended it. Their mothers drove them into
town to exclusive private schools, thank you very much.

As I parked Rusty in the country club parking lot, I
noted the Lexus to my right and the Mercedes to my
left. I patted Rusty’s faded plastic dashboard, murmuring, “Don’t let them intimidate you, buddy. Could they
pull an almost five-thousand-pound Airstream?”

I gave my truck another pat and turned off the engine. It backfired with a loud burst of sooty exhaust.
Madame Geri said nothing, but the significant arching
of her eyebrows spoke volumes.

“Rusty’s just clearing his throat” I jerked on the
door handle, which promptly fell off. Screwing it back
in, I managed to open the door and get out before anything else could happen. Rusty needed body work, especially now that the bumper was messed up again.
When I got a few paychecks ahead next year, I intended to take him for a spring “spruce up” at the body shop in
town. If he could hold out until then …

As we headed toward the clubhouse, I zipped up my
windbreaker and hunched my shoulders. The sun had finally peeped through the blanket of gray clouds, but the
temperature hadn’t warmed up much. A teeth-chattering
wind still roared in off the Gulf, bringing a wind-chill
factor that seemed to penetrate my best attempts to layer
against the cold.

“A bit nippy, huh?” Madame Geri said, clutching her
cape around her like a protective tent. Even Marley had
his wings drawn in tightly against the cold. I guess the
bird wasn’t that dumb after all.

I muttered something unintelligible and kept moving
toward the prospective heat of the clubhouse. Once inside, I realized it wasn’t much warmer there. The French
doors at the far end were wide open, so people could
move back and forth between the building and the fishing
pier directly behind. A huge banner hung from the ceiling, saying Welcome, Coral Island Hookers. Catchy. I
reached for my Official Reporter’s Notepad. “I’ve got to
do some interviews and snap a few photos. Catch you
later.”

She nodded and moved off in the direction of the refreshments table. I headed out toward the pier.

Lots of islanders milled around the docks, many with
fishing poles in hand. One of the guys who played guitar on Friday nights at the Seafood Shanty twanged away under a palm tree, and the smell of sizzling seafood
wafted out of the covered tent.

“Hi, Mallie,” Sandy said as she approached with
Jimmy at her side, both of them wearing olive drab fishing vests. I spied a price tag peeping out of the armhole
of hers. I smiled.

“Jimmy, your mom is around here somewhere.” I
scanned the room but didn’t see her.

“She’s probably going to set up somewhere to do readings.” His arm slid around Sandy’s shoulders. “She can’t
be in a place for five minutes without people wanting to
have their fortunes told. It’s an occupational hazard”

“Must be like doctors always being badgered for free
medical advice.” I tried to keep the amusement out of
my voice. “You guys fishing for prizes?”

“You bet.” Jimmy held up his pole proudly. “I won
second place in the saltwater fly-fishing division last
year. I intend-“

My interest immediately perked up. “You mean people will be fly-fishing today? In saltwater?”

“Sure. You can catch saltwater fish on flies just as
easily as freshwater. Maybe even better. I like using a
thirty-yard line, a black Lab deceiver-“

“A deceiver? You use one of those?” My voice grew
excited.

“Everyone does. They work so well here. Most of the
islanders make special flies for the tournament” He held
up a fly with black and gray feathers. Even to my un trained eye, it didn’t appear to be nearly as complicated
as the one I’d found on Tom’s boat.