Read Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool for Free Online Page B

just milled aroundnot sure whether they should leave.

    After a few minutes, Jimmy motioned the customers
toward the front door, “We’d better close the restaurant,
everyone-and please don’t worry about paying your
bill. Our apologies.”
    All of the diners filed out of the restaurant with a somber silence, leaving Madame Geri, Jimmy, and me. The
kitchen staff hovered near the back door, and Jimmy nodded in their direction. They left too.
    “Well … that was unbelievable-and sad,” I commented to no one in particular. “Poor Marco.”
    Jimmy shook his head. “Terrible.”
    “I probably shouldn’t be asking this question, but
what about Carlos’ death?” I continued.
    “Who can say for sure?” Madame Geri interjected in
a soft voice. “I wish I could say or do more, but that’s life
and death-as I learned when Jimmy’s father died. Believe me, if I could have stopped that, I would have, but
the events were bigger than my powers-it’s destiny.”
    My eyes widened. I’d never heard Madame Geri talk
like that. “I … I didn’t know.”
    “Now you do” Her chin tilted higher, and a flutter of
sorrow winged across her face, tugging at my already
jumbled emotions. All of a sudden, we both started to
weep.
    “All right, time to go,” Jimmy said, ushering us out of there while we blubbered, and he locked the restaurant
behind us.

    An hour later, I parked Rusty in front of my Airstream
and sat there, savoring the comforting sight of my
4,220-pound RV with its gleaming silver exterior and
blue-and-white striped awning.
    Ah. Nirvana.
    It never failed to restore me-even in the wake of
trauma.
    I pushed the day’s events out of my mind as I beheld
my little spot at the Twin Palms RV Resort, which
edged on Coral Island’s only beach, or what passes for a
beach around here: a tiny strip of sand that almost disappears when the tide comes in. But I loved it-the
salty air, sea breeze, and rolling waves. Unfortunately,
the island stretches north-south and is enclosed by the
more popular, touristy barrier islands with their wide
beaches, so this bit of sandy shore was about it.
    I looked over to the van positioned on the left of my
Airstream-that’s where Cole was housed. He’d driven
the vehicle all over the West “trying to find himself,”
and the van looked like it had seen some hard road.
My degree in Automotive Psychology from Car and
Driver magazine told me his van-home reflected his
lifestyle: free and simple. I liked that-kind of.
    Then I checked out the site to my right. For a moment, I thought I saw the outlines of another Airstream. Smaller, shabbier, but with the same silver, hutlike
appearance. Then I blinked, and it was gone. The site
was empty.

    Must’ve been glare from the sun.
    “Cole?”
    No answer. He was probably on a shoot-his freelance photography job provided enough money for his
site at the RV resort, food, and an endless supply of
boogie boards to skim the surf.
    I sighed. At one time, I would have found that combination fun and attractive. But, now, after all my experiences on the island-including murder and mayhem-I
might have become (gasp) more serious about life. Possibly. But every time I was with Cole, I thought about
Nick, and every time I was with Nick, I thought about
Cole. I had officially become indecisive and two-faced.
    A tiny scratching sound caught my attention. Kong. I
made for my Airstream door and swung it open to behold my teacup poodle standing there, his tail flipping
back and forth in excitement to see me.
    “Hi, sweet pea.” He licked my ankle.
    Now, what man could compete with that?
    I grabbed his leash, hooked it onto his collar, and we
made for the surf. He trotted alongside me, sniffing the
briny air and perking up his ears at the sound of the seabirds diving for fish. As we reached the shoreline, though,
he put the brakes on. Kong hated water-especially salt
water. He loved the beach, but he didn’t like getting