Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries)

by Lovely, Linda

  Opportunities to use the language skills gained courtesy of Uncle Sam are rare—not many Poles immigrate to Dear Island—so I deliberately eavesdropped. I picked up random phrases and profanities—curses memorized in the field from sheer repetition. While the gentleman seated at a forty-five degree angle talked, his companion grunted replies. It was clearly a boss-underling relationship. Boss Man barked murder her—well maybe he said she’s murdering me, then something, something swindle, and later his money goes up his nose. In the next breath, he said cops are so stupid.

  Was the man hashing over some made-for-TV movie plot?

  Then Boss Man mentioned Hogsback Island. Unable to check the impulse, I swiveled my head in the speaker’s direction. Our eyes locked. His stare penetrated. It was anything but friendly.

  I smiled briefly, plunged my fork into my salad, and focused full attention on my greens. Something told me my best move would be to play dumb. I shivered.

  Did this guy sell Gator and Sally the island they planned to market as Emerald Cay? Before last night’s real estate banquet, I’d never heard the Hogsback moniker. I didn’t even know Dear’s tiny island neighbor had a name.

  I continued to listen, albeit more discreetly. A sentence or two later, the Pole declared that’s Hugh’s problem. Chairs scraped on the patio’s stone pavers. Though dying of curiosity, I ordered myself to keep my head down.

  A hand rested lightly on my shoulder. I jumped as if shocked by a live wire.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Boss Man said in Polish. The broad smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Yes?” I replied in English, trying to sound pleasant but confused by a foreign language.

  He switched to English. “Sorry. I had the impression you understood Polish. I simply wanted to introduce myself.”

  Blue eyes searched my face. They were simultaneously cold and hot, like frostbite. Blond streaks, expertly applied, shot through his thick brown hair. A Roman nose and chiseled chin defined his strong face, making his small rosebud mouth look misplaced.

  “Oh Marley, here’s a chance to practice your Polish,” Donna piped up before I had a chance to avow ignorance. “She once worked as a Polish linguist.”

  Crap.

  I spoke in purposely halting Polish. “I apologize for my half-forgotten Polish—it’s been twenty years. My skills are quite rusty. You speak much faster than I can process.”

  Boss Man’s laser eyes skewered me. He was perhaps forty. Big, well over six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, muscular. He wore an expensive silk shirt and carried the sort of leather satchel European men favor. He held the silence a moment, tempting me to blather.

  “I’m sure you shortchange your skills.” He switched back to perfect English. “Where did you say you learned Polish?”

  “Oh, in school,” I answered, not about to tell him the school was the Army’s Defense Language Institute.

  My fake smile faltered when my gaze flitted to Underling. A prizefighter? He looked like someone had used Silly Putty to push his features into temporary lumps, then tired of the face-making game and quit. His complexion had a grayish cast as if the dough hadn’t been fired. The man was about my height, five-nine, though he must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds. Not someone I’d care to bump into on Dear’s dark roads at night.

  “Are you vacationing on Hilton Head?” Boss Man asked. “Perhaps you might join me for dinner?”

  “You’re very kind, but I’m only here for the afternoon.” I didn’t offer my name. Exchanging Christmas cards with the man wasn’t on my agenda.

  “How unfortunate. Who knows, maybe we’ll meet again? It’s nice to encounter an American who’s made an effort to learn another language. I hope you and your friends enjoy lunch. Good day.”

  Boss Man and Underling retreated with double-time dispatch.

  I sank back in my chair with relief.

  “I can’t believe you turned down a date,” Rita said. “He’s very handsome, quite suave.”

  “Not my type.”

  “Boy are you picky,” Donna complained. “It’s time you started dating, you know?”

  Rita interrupted. “You speak Polish? Wow. Was it your college major? How’d you get from Northwestern to the Army?”

  How to answer? What had possessed me to join the Army? Life insurance, that’s what.

  On that fateful day, I reached my quota of slammed doors. I got to ten and quit. I knew eleven insulting rebuffs would send me over the edge. Especially in my hometown, Keokuk, Iowa, where selling meant pestering my mom’s hairdresser and my old homeroom teacher. Turndowns from strangers were easier to handle.

  I headed to the Chuckwagon to sip a Coke and feel sorry for myself in air-conditioned comfort. En route, I peered at the posters in the window of an Army recruiting station, a storefront that hadn’t been there the week before. A soldier dressed in crisp khakis walked outside and stood beside me.

  Half an hour later, the papers were signed. He’d promised me a year at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey. What can I say? My defenses were lowered. I’d never seen the Pacific Ocean.

  Now I sat beside another ocean. I grinned at my audience, parsed the story, and skimmed over my transition from linguist to MI—military intelligence.

  “When I finally figured out that working in intelligence might be reducing my I.Q., I retired,” I quipped. “Actually I’m joking. I enjoyed my work, if not the bureaucracy.”

  “Your work on Dear is undoubtedly duller, but you look dead on your feet,” Donna commented. “We’d better get you home so you can go to bed. I hope you have the night off.”

  As the ladies calculated tips, I excused myself, letting my friends assume the restroom was my destination. Instead I hustled to the bistro’s entry foyer.

  “Excuse me.” I touched the maître d’s sleeve. “The two gentlemen who sat next to us—do you know their names?”

  The maître d’ laughed. “I should collect matchmaker fees. Mr. Dzandrek, the tall, distinguished looking fellow, asked if I knew your name. Even asked which car you came in. Want to leave a card? I can pass it along. He eats here two, three times a week.”

  “No, thanks.” I mustered a coy smile to mask my discomfort. “What’s his full name? Do you know how to spell it? Maybe we have mutual friends who could introduce us.”

  I tried to be discreet as I slipped the man a twenty.

  He palmed the bill with aplomb. “I’ve seen the spelling on his charge slip. The first name’s Kain—spelled with a K not a C—and Dzandrek starts with a D. Fooled me, I was sure it started with a Z. He just bought that baby blue mansion, the first one on the water after you enter our gate.”

  The matchmaker paused and winked. “He’s loaded, lady. Sure you don’t want to leave a card?”

  Dead certain. I shuddered.

  The ladies joined me at the entrance, and we walked to Donna’s car. As we approached, sun sparkled on the windshield, spotlighting the distinctive Dear Island decal.

  Had Kain Dzandrek seen it?

  ***

  While Dear and Hilton Head are maybe fifteen minutes apart in a fast boat, the land route is eighty miles plus and can take two hours. Long fingers of water curling inland dictate the serpentine route. In the Lowcountry, it’s nigh impossible to get from point A to point B without taking two steps back to cross bridge C.

  Awake for our return ride, I enjoyed my car mates’ easy banter though my contributions to the conversation seemed sparse. I wasn’t married and didn’t golf in a couples’ league. Never had a facial or a pedicure. My skill at Texas Hold ’Em didn’t translate to bridge. I wouldn’t know a two-club bid if it clubbed me. I was a decade younger. Never had a child.

  While living in the D.C. area was no picnic, I missed the buddies left behind. Women who’d been officers like me. Civilian contractors for the military. Wives of the men who’d served with Jeff and me. Our chatter would have been alien to my new friends. Talk of Army posts, PX sales, VA hospitals, military strategies—a diffe
rent frame of reference.

  Was moving to Dear a mistake? My sister had invited me to settle in her new hometown. But I knew no one there. Maryanne had her own life, thirty years of homesteading. I’d be a squatter.

  When we were five miles from home, the radio announcer broke in with a news bulletin. “The Dear Island Bridge is closed to both vehicle and pedestrian traffic. At approximately three o’clock, people near the bridge heard a thunderous roar. Occupants in the sole car traveling the bridge at the time felt their rear tires drop as a hundred-foot span of the suspended roadbed sank six inches below the adjoining concrete segments. Authorities say the bridge will remain closed until engineers can inspect the damage.”

  “That’s just great,” Rita huffed. “What in blazes are we supposed to do? Book a room at some high-priced B-and-B like visiting movie stars? I have chicken breasts thawing and a husband laid up from hip surgery. I have to do everything but hold his peewee for him.”

  “You think there’s a chance the bridge’ll collapse?” Donna wondered. “I bet it’ll take months to repair the blasted thing.”

  “Who has a cell phone?” I asked. “I’ll call security. Maybe I can get some answers.”

  Julie handed over her cellular toy and I punched in the main security number. I got a steady busy signal. No surprise. I tapped in the chief’s unpublished mobile number.

  When Dixon heard my voice and location, he tossed off a string of curses and gave me my marching orders. He hung up before I could get a word in edgewise. I hoped the man didn’t pop an artery, what with Stew’s murder, his granddaughter’s hijinks, and an honest-to-God island crisis. Good thing Dear has a helipad for medical emergencies.

  “Well, ladies, here’s the deal. The powerboat squadron is organizing a ferry service. We’re to leave our car near the bridge, roll up our knickers and wade to the end of the boat ramp. The first pleasure boat that comes our way will give us a ride.”

  Julie’s stricken face telegraphed her horror. “Heavens to Murgatroyd. Not me. I can’t swim, and just look at the water.”

  Our vantage point from the bridge connecting the mainland to Wilderness Point Park offered a scary view of the roiling bay. The park’s flag lanyard snapped rhythmically against its pole. Though the sky was crystal clear, winds had to be gusting at thirty to forty miles per hour. Our ferry ride would be raucous.

  “Look,” I said, “we must be on the edge of a front. The weather could get worse. It’s a short hop. I want to get to the island while the getting’s good. Soon the water’ll be too choppy for any boat. If you want to turn around, fine, but will you drop me first?

  “The chief needs extra hands. He’s trying to reach off-duty officers, but some won’t make it over in time. Rita, I’ll look in on your husband if you stay in Beaufort.”

  “No, I’m coming.” Rita sighed. “I’ll never hear the end of it if you go across and I don’t.”

  ***

  At the boat ramp, nearly a dozen islanders awaited portage. The owner of E. T. Grits, Dear’s convenience store, was among the marooned. She’d been on a Beaufort supply run and her Expedition SUV was loaded with provisions. Hollis County snuggled up against Beaufort County, and the town of Beaufort offered the nearest shopping.

  “You’ll make a mint,” Donna muttered. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.”

  “Hey, I don’t gouge,” the owner objected.

  “I’ll help you load groceries when our rescuer arrives,” I offered.

  “Me too,” said a familiar voice at my back. I turned to see Deputy Braden Mann. The duffle bag slung over his shoulder gave him a rakish, vagabond air.

  “Glad to see you, Marley. I tried to call you earlier,” he said. “How was the dinner?”

  “No one confessed.” I grinned. “But I can fill you in on Dear real estate if that helps. You headed to the island?”

  “Yep. The sheriff wants at least one deputy stationed on Dear until the bridge reopens. I was the logical choice. I live alone and have island leads to follow.”

  Rita stood beside me, openly eavesdropping. “Where will you sleep?” she demanded. “I’d put you up, but we just painted our guestroom and the fumes are awful. Marley lives alone and has two spare bedrooms in her rambler. Isn’t that right, Marley?”

  “Sure,” I fumbled, thinking about Dear’s wagging tongues. Oh, hell, why not give the neighbors some juicy gossip? My Tae Bo routine had lost its novelty.

  “Braden, you’re welcome to bunk at my house till things get sorted out.”

  “That’s a generous offer. But the sheriff’s made other arrangements.” He smiled impishly and leaned closer for a stage whisper. “Knowing the county’s per diem, he probably arranged for a cot in the DOA lobby. Maybe you can help me plan a jail break.”

  Did his joke have a subtext?

  Captain Hook’s “Ahoy” saved me from the need to frame a clever response. “Hey, we’re in luck,” I said. “If anyone can deliver us safe and sound, it’s Captain Hook and Tinkerbell.”

  Braden arched an eyebrow.

  I laughed and explained the charter boat captain was Tom Hooker a.k.a. Captain Hook. The retired naval officer had named his sleek vessel Tinkerbell. Every Halloween, he delighted kids by donning a pirate’s costume. A camouflage rigging let him hide his sound right leg and clump about on a peg, trickery he’d mastered years ago when Forrest Gump filmed on location in the Lowcountry. Hook had provided aquatic support to the movie crew.

  When the jolly captain got within fifty feet, he dropped twin anchors to hold Tinkerbell’s position so her bottom wouldn’t scrape.

  He lowered a rubber dinghy and rowed to the ramp. “I can only carry three at a time. And I’m afraid you’ll get your feet wet. Might want to shuck any shoes and socks and roll up your pants.”

  As Hook finished his spiel, Bea Caldwell marched briskly to the head of the makeshift line. “Surely you can get closer than this. You don’t expect me to wade, do you?”

  Hook was not amused. “Lady, I’m a volunteer, not your servant. Count yourself lucky I’m offering a ride. You can wade or swim to the dinghy. I don’t care. Make up your mind while these good folks ahead of you get on the boat.”

  Not accustomed to back talk from hired help, Bea got her dander up. “I don’t think you understand. My husband expects me. I can’t go to the back of the line. You might run out of room. Gator told me to take this boat. You do understand? These are Mr. Caldwell’s orders.”

  “Well, ma’am, maybe ol’ Gator can tell you to piss up a rope, but he can’t order me.”

  “How dare you speak to me that way?” she huffed.

  “I dare just fine. But don’t get your panties in a twist. There’s room. You can board right after we load all these folks and the groceries. Now that’s what I call important cargo.”

  The young woman’s face flushed beet red as everyone in line snickered.

  “Way to go, Hook,” Rita whispered, as he handed her into the dinghy. “Wish I had the nerve to give the witch her comeuppance.”

  “Not much Queen Bea can do to me,” our ferryman replied. “I spend all my time aboard Tinkerbell and don’t give a flip about club membership. But I’ll wager I’ve booked the last company fishing charter.”

  It took about fifteen minutes to load all the passengers. The boat ride proved wet and wild. At one point Braden’s gaze wandered below my chin. He must have sensed my perusal. His eyes met mine and he blushed. Then he stripped off his windbreaker and held it out.

  “You’re getting soaked,” he mumbled.

  I looked down and realized my tennis warm-ups were pasted to my body. I was shivering like a newly shorn sheep in a downpour. Braden tucked the windbreaker around me.

  “Thanks. You’ll have to start carrying two coats if you keep giving one away.”

  We reached the dock and tramped up the sloped loading ramp. Chief Dixon tossed me a towel and shook Braden’s hand.

  “Glad you made it,” he sa
id to Braden. “Marley, I’ll drop you home for dry clothes. The seas are too heavy for more ferries. That means everyone on the island stays here till morning, and no one else can join us. I couldn’t reach any of our fellas on the mainland in time to get them on Hook’s boat.”

  Glancing at the white-capped frenzy, I spotted a hulk of a man on the docks. He coiled a rope in hands the size of platters. Something about him tickled my memory. He bulled his way down the rental docks, his hunched back as broad as a billboard. Then he swiveled in my direction, offering a glimpse of his grayish face. It looked like Underling’s ugly puss.

  Why would Kain Dzandrek’s flunky be docking at Dear Island?

  ***

  It was four-thirty and chaos reigned. Stranded construction, service and delivery vehicles jammed the marina parking lot. The bar will do a banner business tonight.

  Dixon exited against the traffic tide. A line of golf carts clogged the road. The drivers were all sixty-ish with gray hair, glasses and pastel windbreakers. The carts snaking along Flying Fish Drive conjured up a fleeting vision of zombie clones capturing the island. Some drivers were undoubtedly coming to retrieve passengers, others to volunteer for ferry duties. All wanted to check the marina hubbub firsthand. For Dear, this was major excitement.

  “We still meeting Grace Cuthbert?” I asked the chief.

  “No,” he snapped. “Got a call from some hot-shot lawyer. He said the Cuthbert boys’ latest prank had traumatized their mother, and she’d gone away to…how’d he put it? ‘regain her mental clarity.’ Hell, she’s at some fancy spa. Incommunicado for three days.”

  Grace’s departure surprised me. “She left the boys alone on Dear?”

  “The boyfriend’s playing nursemaid. The lawyer claimed he’d keep ’em on a tight leash, bed checks included. Fat chance. If those little bastards come near my Sammie again, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands. Screw Grace’s money.”

  The sheriff sucked in a breath, held it a beat, and exhaled. Anger management? “We don’t need to worry about those pissants tonight,” he added. “Hugh drove the boys off island before the bridge buckled, and they didn’t make Captain Hook’s last run.”