Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ms. Monroe. My gut’s been wrong a time or two”
    Peachy. Just peachy. I’ve got a cop on the case with a
malfunctioning gut.
    “Come to the police station tomorrow morning at the
island center and we’ll take your statement”
    “I’m still technically a suspect?” That uneasy feeling
amped up a notch.
    He rose to his feet. “Don’t leave the island.”
    “Not even to the mainland?”
    He frowned at me from his considerable height. “I
meant don’t leave the area. We might need you for
further questioning.”
    “My job is here-I have no intention of leaving,” I
reminded him. Nevertheless, images of hooking my
Airstream trailer to Rusty flashed through my mind.
Freedom. No ties just open road. And no murder
hanging over my head. So tempting …
    As if divining my thoughts, Detective Billie repeated, “Stay put for awhile.”
    The open road fantasy faded. “Okay.”
    He strode out of the room and I sat there for a few
minutes taking stock of my situation. It didn’t look good.
    The frenzied activity in the house had settled down, with only a few people left talking quietly in another
part of the house. The firetruck had left. The sirens and
cell phones had ceased.

    But my brain whirled with doubt and uncertainty. I had started the day out as a struggling journalist and, in
the space of twenty-four hours, I had added murder suspect to my resume.
    Welcome to paradise.
    It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I pulled into
the Twin Palms RV Resort at Mango Bay. My home. A
small, tucked-away RV park, it contained only sixty sites
with full hook-ups, a tiny strip of sand that passed for a
beach, two shuffleboard courts, and an activities center
for the retiree “full-timers” who stayed here for long
stretches.
    The social scene consisted of various geriatric activities including bingo night and potluck Sunday dinner
where the resident seventysomething ventriloquist
would entertain us by singing with his stuffed monkey,
Tito. Unfortunately, neither one could carry a tune.
    After nine o’clock, the “quiet hour” reigned and,
since it was off-season and after nine, the place seemed
practically comatose. That was fine with me tonight.
    Utterly spent, I parked in the designated spot next to
my gleaming silver antique Airstream. Just looking at it
lightened my mood. Thirty feet long and built in the
seventies, its all-metal, all-aluminum construction, allriveted body, and all-steel undercarriage reigned supreme
among the modern trailers and motorhomes on the road
today.
    I had bought it seven years ago, spent three years renovating, and lived the life of a gypsy ever since. I
could go anywhere in my Airstream with my trusty
teacup poodle by my side. I loved the freedom.

    Dragging myself out of Rusty, I made for the door of
my mobile haven when I heard a rustling sound. I
halted. Slowly, I swiveled my head in the direction of
the sound, a shadow of alarm passing through me. It
was dark at the campsite, but I could make out a large
areca palm, its long fronds brushing against the roof of
my Airstream. I exhaled in relief.
    For safety’s sake, though, I scanned the rest of the
site. Everything looked normal. My blue and white
striped awning flapped in the light evening breeze. My
wooden picnic table sat in the same position under the
awning. The folding chairs still faced east where I
had sat this morning to watch the sun rise as I drank
my three cups of heavily-caffeinated, highly-sugared
coffee.
    The spanking-new, quarter-of-a-million-dollar, class
A mega-motorhome was still parked next to me, but no
sign of the inhabitants. I hadn’t seen them since they’d
arrived at the Twin Palms two days ago. The back of
the motorhome had JUST MARRIED splashed across the
rear window and, true to newlyweds, they seemed to
have more than enough cozy pastimes to occupy themselves inside their motorhome.
    Most of the other sites around me were empty as
they had been this