Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries)

by Lovely, Linda

  The agent to my right moaned with orgasmic anticipation.

  Sally thrust her hands forward to stay the applause. “I know you’re dying to hear more. But we closed the deal too late to have details ready tonight. Next week we’ll have complete info on both offerings. True synergy. Major marketing dollars. Hey, I’m betting all of y’all will join our million-dollar club next year. Hell, we may need to start a billion-dollar club.”

  Sally whipped up enthusiasm to a fare-thee-well. Clapping crescendoed, wave upon wave, but Janie’s hands never left the table. She twisted her napkin like she was wringing a neck.

  “Holy bat wings,” Janie muttered. “When the hell did they get this wild hair? And who’s the new fairy godmother? I can’t believe they convinced Gracie to fork over enough for two projects plus mucho marketing bucks.”

  As soon as Sally lowered her microphone, Janie grabbed my wrist with an iron grip and sprinted for the door. “Come on,” she said, teeth gritted.

  We emerged from the club’s interior ahead of the milling masses. Janie shook her head with metronome regularity all the way to her golf cart, muttering “damn” every other beat.

  “Last I knew, Gator was wrapping pennies to scrape together payroll,” she grumped. “The owner of Hogsback wrote six months ago asking ten million for his island. Sure Gator drooled, but he dictated a letter saying ‘we pass.’ Banks are still skittish about pricey resort real estate. Sally must be banging some bank president to pull off a loan this size.”

  I chuckled at Janie’s nonstop diatribe. “You can’t stand it that Gator didn’t confide in you before tonight’s bash.”

  “Damn straight,” she replied, absent her usual grin. “That’s a first, and it worries me—especially since Woody and Bea knew. Woody’s a horse’s patoot, and Bea’s a stupid witch. How could he tell them and not me?”

  I had no answer. If Janie was this troubled, she had reason. Maybe she worried that her head—like Bonnie’s—might be destined for the chopping block, and she’d be the last to know.

  We rode in silence the rest of the way home.

  FOUR

  At the witching hour, I started my security watch of the south end of the island. At least the skies had cleared. Patrolling in fog was as much fun as swimming in pea soup. We seldom ride in pairs, and tonight was no exception.

  Only a handful of streetlights dotted the main drag while total darkness cloaked any side street lined exclusively with undeveloped lots and vacant houses. The gloom made me appreciate the world our ancestors glimpsed by starlight. Swaying shapes, shadowy movements, the red eyes of animals glowing like fiery embers.

  At times, the island nightscape appeared serene and lovely. I searched the heavens for falling stars and conversed with Jeff, imagining him winking at me from above. However, this was not a night for communing. It had an eerie edge.

  By one a.m., I completed two slow circuits of the small residential feeder streets, some paved, some gravel, branching off Dear Drive. Since most of the island’s seniors played Taps long before midnight, the number of houses lit up like Halloween pumpkins surprised me. It seemed Stew’s death would have a definite impact on electric bills.

  His murder, just twenty-four hours old, made the undeveloped Beach West terrain seem even spookier than Dear’s side streets. Entering this black hole made me superstitious. But, at two a.m., it was past time to bump down the logger’s lane that sliced into our island’s last bastion of jungle.

  Twisting vines, thicker than a well-fed python, stitched the palmettos, oaks and pines into a forbidding tapestry. Here and there, trees felled by storms, insects or bulldozers provided visual breaks in the dense growth.

  A reddish light flickered through one of these windows. A smoldering rubbish pile? I radioed the guard working the gate to let him know I planned to leave my vehicle to investigate.

  Absent a Bobcat, there was no way to drive to the glowing beacon. So I picked my way through underbrush, wishing my feet were encased in knee-high clodhoppers instead of lace-up work shoes. Last month Gator had to be rushed to the E.R. after a water moccasin, residing in the general vicinity of my shoe treads, sank its fangs into his ankle.

  Uh-oh. The light spilled from a lantern. Scorched palm fronds weren’t to blame. Crapola, who was out here? The fine hairs at the base of my neck rose to attention. I sucked in a deep calming breath. Should I creep back to my car and call for backup? Might a delay magically improve my night vision? Would standing still give a snake time to slither up my pants leg?

  The call to action won. I’d get close enough to see who was there, then decide on the appropriate flight or fight response.

  Through the bramble, a hand appeared. It gripped a goblet that glittered in the lantern’s beam. Blood red contents. Holy moly. For courage, I brushed the gun at my hip. Did I really need to find out who inhabited the clearing by my lonesome? My brain waved a white flag.

  Get out of this freaking swamp and summon backup.

  My plan to retreat changed when my toe met a vine. Freefalling into the clearing, I yelled, “Freeze,” like a reincarnated Elliot Ness. My order prompted a girlish scream from a member of the interrupted party.

  Years of military training served me well. I hit the ground, drew my gun, and recovered my feet in one fluid motion.

  If you’re going to make an entrance, might as well go whole hog.

  I’m not sure what evil I expected, but it wasn’t the Cuthbert twins. Jared stood still, a crimson decanter raised toward the heavens. Henry paused mid-step in a shadow dance. His prop was a monster-sized serrated hunting knife.

  The spell broke. Jared fumbled the container. Its viscous contents splashed over the rim, and bloody splatters exploded across his chest. Henry’s gleaming weapon spiraled to the ground like a kamikaze glider.

  My heart sank. The Cuthbert boys weren’t alone. Chief Dixon’s twelve-year-old granddaughter Sammie and her friend Amy sprawled on a rotting log, transfixed by the twins, my gate-crashing, pot consumption, alcohol, or all of the above.

  “Stay where you are,” I yelled. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  I holstered my gun and attempted to lower my heart rate. Did I need my Taser? While I know young teens can—and do—kill, these kids seemed unlikely murder suspects.

  Dressed alike, the twins wore two-hundred-dollar sneakers and dirt-streaked iridescent mesh shirts cut off to expose nonexistent abs. The crotches of their baggy britches swayed around their knees. Wearing those getups, the boys stood no chance of gathering sufficient knee-pumping speed to outrun me in the rugged terrain.

  “Oh, man,” Jared whined. “You ruined everything, you bitch pig. We were about to powwow with old Stew’s ghost. You freaked his spirit, man.”

  “Freakin’ ’ho,” Henry chimed in. “You made me drop my holy blade.” He paused then resumed his chant. “She grabbed his head and massaged it a-quiver…I snatched a gun and ventilated his liver.”

  Though I figured Henry was spouting bad rap lyrics, he was weirding me out.

  “I’m snowboarding on blood-stained ice. I yanked out her cheating eyeballs and rolled ’em like dice.”

  “Knock it off, Henry,” I ordered.

  “Hey, man, your chrome don’t scare my bro’,” Jared interjected.

  “Shut your traps,” I barked. “The nearest ‘hood’ is at least two-hundred miles away, so ice the attitude. Sammie, cough up an answer now: What’s going on?”

  “Just a séance,” the young girl mumbled. She tugged at the peasant blouse sliding down her skinny arms. The drooping top exposed a strap on what we called a training bra in my day, though this girl had zilch to tutor. The child’s attitude was sullen, and the eyes she flicked my way were bloodshot. Bollocks.

  The aroma of burning leaves made me cough. Marijuana.

  “Jared, what’s the red stuff?” I motioned at the decanter.

  “Tomato juice.” He added a theatrical cackle as an afterthought. “It’s a hell of a mixer. Like whad’ya think it was, blo
od? What a dork.”

  “Bring it here.” I grabbed the container and took a whiff. Yes, my nose said, tomato juice. I stuck in a finger and extracted a sample. A Bloody Mary. Pot and vodka. Great.

  “Okay, party’s over. It’s way past island curfew. And we won’t even talk about the marijuana or booze. I’m taking you home and talking with your parents. If we had a jail, you idiots would call it home tonight. As it is, my decision on pressing charges will wait till morning.”

  My threat struck no fear in the pubescent quartet. Only Amy seemed abashed.

  “Hey, she’s going to talk to Mommy. This should be fun,” Jared smirked.

  “We get a ride in a berry,” Henry added.

  “Can it.” I snatched the swaying lantern from a tree branch, then slipped on thin leather driving gloves to scoop up Henry’s knife and a reefer as potential evidence.

  “You guys, pick up everything else. You’re not leaving a mess.”

  Their nonchalance infuriated me. “Didn’t it occur to you bozos that you could be the next murder victims? What were you thinking, sneaking out in the middle of the night when a killer’s on the loose?”

  “Hey, what are you thinking, coming here?” Henry mimicked. “You couldn’t find a turd floating in a fish tank.”

  Would I be found guilty if I took out my pistol and capped him? Unfortunately, jurors would only acquit if they could hear his garbage mouth.

  No signs of remorse. The foursome was simply miffed at being caught. The girls kept cutting their eyes to the twins. A case of misplaced hero worship.

  We trooped to my patrol car and I shooed everyone inside. Unwilling to leave Sammie and Amy sitting unprotected in the car while I dealt with the Cuthbert boys, I stopped by the security gate and requested another patrol car to ferry the girls home.

  “Ask whoever plays chauffeur to make sure a responsible adult answers the door,” I added. “Have him tell the parents to expect a call from me.”

  My fervent hope? That the chief wouldn’t answer the knock at the Dixon door. Sammie and her mom lived with my boss, who’d want to tear the twins limb from limb for corrupting his granddaughter.

  I wanted the Cuthbert boys locked within their mansion before Chief Dixon heard about tonight’s activities.

  ***

  On the ride home, the boys turned uncharacteristically quiet. I marched them to the front of their modern-day castle and rang the bell. I expected a long wait while Grace and/or her boyfriend Hugh gained consciousness. The door ripped open instantly.

  Though it was three in the morning, Hugh was dressed like Batman. Black leather pants, a black long-sleeved silk tee, and shiny black boots comprised his kick-ass stealth ensemble. His hair was slicked back with goop. Either he’d just doused himself with cologne or his fragrance-of-choice had more holding power than a pissed-off skunk.

  “What?” Hugh barked, eyeing my delinquent charges.

  “I found the boys in a clearing at Beach West. We have a midnight curfew for children under eighteen. But that’s not the biggie. They were drinking, smoking pot, carrying a weapon, and had twelve-year-old girls in tow. They coaxed those girls into the woods in the middle of the night while there’s a murderer at large. I want to talk with their mother. Now.”

  “Get in here,” he yelled at the boys. They moved, but behind his back they choreographed mocking gestures.

  “Would you please get Grace?” I asked again.

  “Afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “Her health is fragile. She’s on medication. No way I could wake her. Even if I could, she’d be groggy. Tell you what, I’ll catch her up when she comes to. You come back, say, five-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Believe me, Henry and Jared won’t cause more trouble,” he added. “I’ll sit on the runt bastards. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m expecting a call. Doin’ business in another time zone. Goodnight.”

  The door shut in my face before I could suck in a breath to protest. Though angry enough to bang on the door, I figured Hugh spoke the truth: Grace would be blotto. Odds were good the boys would stay put the rest of the night. Tomorrow was plenty soon for a roundtable with this dysfunctional crew. By then Chief Dixon would have cooled down sufficiently to join the party.

  The radio crackled as soon as my car cleared the Cuthberts’ drive.

  “Marley,” Chief Dixon’s voice boomed through the speaker. “What the hell are you doing? Do you still have those pissants in your car? Are you at the Cuthberts? I’m coming over.”

  It took a few minutes to calm my irate chief. Told him he’d have ample opportunity to kick butt at tomorrow’s conference.

  Before hanging up, I reminded him of my off-island plans for the morning. “But, don’t worry, I’ll be in your office by four-thirty.”

  ***

  The next hour of my night shift proved routine. Making a second swing by the Cuthbert estate, I drove to the end of Dear Drive and parked in the cul-de-sac overlooking Mad Inlet. The thready sound of a small outboard floated across the water.

  Island skippers seldom ventured out so early. Had the Cuthbert twins taken their gangsta act on the water?

  A small skiff headed toward open ocean. Beyond Dear’s sandbars, it could go anywhere—Hilton Head, Fripp Island, Wilderness Point Park. All were within easy reach when the ocean was calm, as it was tonight. A sliver of cloud-shrouded moon revealed only a blotchy silhouette on the dark water. It was impossible to tell if the boat carried more than one person.

  Waves from the wake slapped at nearby pilings. The boat must have motored down Flying Fish Creek. Just prior to bankruptcy, Dear’s first developers dredged a tidal creek to create dockable homesites. Grace had purchased a vacant lot cattycorner from her oceanfront estate to conveniently moor boats.

  Maybe a check of her dock was in order? No. Wouldn’t help. Without knowing the size of her fleet, it would be impossible to determine if a boat was missing.

  Water lapped at the top of the riprap that served as the creek’s retaining wall. The tide was near its crest. That meant the mystery boat could have launched from any of two-dozen creekside docks or even the marina. At high tide small boats could navigate the full length of the crooked fissure. The waterway ran from the mouth of Mad Inlet to the middle of the island, where it narrowed and meandered due west to the marina.

  A glance at my watch provided unwelcome news. Two hours to go. My eyes itched. I poured coffee from my thermos while I stared out to sea. In a blink, the tiny craft disappeared.

  What do you think, Jeff? Am I letting my imagination run wild?

  FIVE

  “What?”

  My head snapped back from its full-doze, chin-on-chest position. My mouth felt like the Sahara during a sandstorm.

  “We’re here,” Donna announced. Her head, with its dense crop of gray curls, swiveled toward the backseat. “Ready to pop open a can of balls and inhale the aroma of fresh rubber? Come on. Up and at ’em.”

  “I snored, didn’t I?”

  “So that’s what you call it?” Rita offered from the front passenger seat. “We thought you were imitating a leaf blower.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who deserves sympathy,” Julie put in. “I had to share the back with Sleeping Beauty.”

  “You sure you want to go through with this?” I asked. “I’ll buy lunch if you’ll let Donna and me forfeit.” I snuggled deeper into my seat.

  “No way, Jose,” Julie scolded as she reached over and unlatched my seatbelt. “You gotta suffer with the rest of us.”

  Though not a regular competitor on Dear’s senior—over fifty—tennis team, I owed Donna, the captain, big time. Three days ago, she’d extracted my promise to sub in the Hilton Head match. Had I known about my midnight to six a.m. shift, I’d have declined in a heartbeat. By the time Dixon switched my schedule, it was too late to find a replacement, and I couldn’t disappoint Donna.

  She was a gem. The first to befriend me after I moved into the house on Dear. My mother-in-law, Esther, willed the house to Jeff. Had she d
reamed her son would die so young and leave the abode to me, she’d have set matches to the timbers. Her ashes were undoubtedly still a-whirl at my occupancy.

  Esther’s contempt for me poured as freely as vinegar. My hair was too short; my running obsessive. I talked too much; my voice was too loud. My failure to procreate was an affront to womanhood.

  My first day as a bona fide island resident, Donna welcomed me with a plate of warm brownies. “I know we’ll be friends,” she chuckled. “I belonged to Esther’s bridge club. Anyone who could aggravate that woman as much as you did must be good company.”

  When the tennis match was over, it wasn’t clear I’d done Donna a favor. We lost: 6-1, 6-1. Too many of my potential overhead smashes found the net. Despite the doubles loss, our team won, which put my companions in a celebratory mood.

  “I just love it when we tromp those Sea Watch snobs,” Julie crowed. “Let’s eat at Chez Azure, talk trash, and hope someone’s listening.”

  About one, we claimed a patio table with a smashing view of Calibogue Sound. I was salivating. The trendy bistro served the best shrimp salad in the Lowcountry.

  “Don’t forget, we have to leave by two-thirty,” I said. “I promised Chief Dixon I’d be back for a conference, and I can’t show up in sweaty tennis duds.”

  My friends assumed the meeting had to do with Stew’s death, and I didn’t contradict them. The Cuthbert family reunion wouldn’t be the high point of my day.

  The spring sunshine felt deliciously warm. While my teammates nattered on about reaching the regional finals, I floated in that drowsy zone where you hear every word of a conversation, yet the syllables cascade by as a lulling waterfall of gibberish. Then, male voices poked through the wool in my head. The men spoke Polish. The baritone conversationalists occupied an adjacent table; our chairs less than a submarine sandwich apart.