Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries)

by Lovely, Linda

  Braden’s face reflected his puzzlement. “What did the Cuthbert boys do?”

  I filled him in on the twins’ nocturnal escapade.

  “I’d sure like to know what those boys were up to the night of the murder,” the deputy said. “If they regularly prowl at midnight, maybe they saw something. I need to chat with Hugh Wells, too. Stew’s calendar had ‘H.W.’ penciled in for lunch Saturday.”

  “Well, you can’t grill them tonight,” the chief allowed, “so how’s about a little patrol help? The three fellas who worked day shift are stuck here, can’t get home. But I can’t rightly ask ’em to work twenty-four hours straight.”

  “Sure. I’ll help. That’s one reason the sheriff wanted me on island. No way to get deputies to Dear in an emergency.”

  “Right.” The chief nodded. “Nobody’s gonna swim over if I sound an alarm.”

  “Can you provide a car?” Braden asked as he tossed a smile in my direction. “Marley introduced me to your wildlife. I’m not eager to walk a beat in a place where alligators have their own crosswalks.”

  “Cars we got. How about the midnight shift? It’s close to five now. Reckon you worked all day. Maybe you can get a little shuteye before then. Same goes for you, Marley. I’m counting on you to pull graveyard duty.”

  I stifled my groan. Another night without sleep. I was dead on my feet. “Okay. But remember how agreeable I’ve been when I ask for a month off to visit Iowa.”

  Dixon pulled into my driveway and Braden cleared his throat. “You mentioned shuteye, Chief. The sheriff said you’d find a place for me to bunk.”

  “I forgot. Been a little busy,” Dixon grumped as his dilemma dawned on him. “There’s usually a free bunk at the fire station, but the EMS guys are stranded. And it’s a zoo over at guest reception. Lots of folks who were supposed to leave today went exactly nowhere. And I’m not just talking angry tourists. We’ve got construction workers, drivers of delivery trucks, maids.”

  I opened my mouth, willfully ignoring the reasons I shouldn’t extend my hospitality.

  “Tell you what, Braden, it’ll be midnight before the chief gets you settled. You’re welcome to crash here a few hours, as long as you don’t expect a dutiful hostess. Shut your eyes to the dust bunnies, and my B and B has some fringe benefits—like leftover lasagna in the fridge.” And a woman ready for a remedial course in French Kissing 101.

  “Sold,” he said cheerfully. Unfortunately he didn’t respond to my mental telepathy.

  Braden climbed out of the back seat, and the chief peeled away before my front door unlocked. Inside, I gave my guest a nickel tour, making sure to note all major points of male interest—TV, refrigerator, microwave, and, finally, bedroom and bath.

  The deputy was clearly surprised when I led him to the master bedroom. “All yours.” I pointed at the king bed with its bright multicolored quilt and oversized pillows. His eyes searched my face. He appeared confused and hesitant.

  “Umm, isn’t this your bed?” he asked.

  “No, don’t worry. I converted the sun porch for myself. It’s sunny and cheerful. I prefer it. The master suite is great for guests, and it offers privacy. No skulking down hallways in the dead of night searching for a toilet.”

  He didn’t need to know the real reason for my relocation. The room made me lonely. The bed was too big. The space too silent. I hadn’t slept in this room since Jeff died. I cleared my throat and headed for the final tour stop. “Ta da,” I said. “Your bath.”

  “I really appreciate this.” Braden put down his duffle.

  “No problem. See you in a few hours. I plan to get up at eleven, grab a bite, brew some coffee. Want me to knock on your door?”

  The deputy’s yawn telegraphed his weariness. “Great.”

  As I crossed the threshold to the sun porch, my bedside phone rang.

  “Can you talk?” Janie asked. “Who’s the hunk, and why is he carrying a duffle bag into your house?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sometimes I miss city life and having a smidgeon of privacy. Why are you peeking out your window? I figured you’d still be at work with all the excitement.”

  “I am at work,” my friend answered cheerfully. “A real estate agent was driving some prospects past your house when you and Handsome Harry got out of Dixon’s car. She asked me what was up. Were you shacking up? As your best friend, I was embarrassed to say I didn’t know.”

  “Nothing’s up. The deputy’s helping with patrols. We’re taking catnaps. Our shifts start at midnight. So don’t ring the doorbell or, worse, use your latchkey. For all I know, the deputy would draw a gun if you surprised him in the shower.”

  “Oooh, now there’s an idea. From what I hear, deputies come equipped with big guns,” she said with Mae West emphasis. “But, hey, you can give me a full report. I hope you’re encouraging things. You’re not wearing your ratty moose nightshirt, are you?”

  “Stuff it. You up for breakfast tomorrow? I’ll be starving after the night shift.”

  “Sure. Golf café at seven? Bring the hunk. It pays to feed ’em. Stamina, you know.”

  Janie hung up before I could verbally thrash her. With a grin, I pulled on my moose nightie.

  A rattle, rattle noise echoed in the kitchen, followed by a crash and a muffled curse. My houseguest’s foiled attempt at a stealth raid on the fridge made me smile. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep, but the same mental rat kept scurrying through my maze.

  Kain Dzandrek. What the hell was he up to? And why was he curious about me?

  Forget him. Think pleasant thoughts, I told myself. However, my pleasant thoughts weren’t conducive to sleep either. I tossed and turned, wondering whether Braden wore pajamas or slept in the buff.

  SIX

  I cut generous slabs of lasagna to nuke in the microwave. As Braden walked into the kitchen, the stove’s digital clock flipped to 11:15.

  “I’m heating enough for both of us. You hungry? I was about to knock on your door when clanking pipes told me you were in the shower. Figured you were up and at ’em.”

  “Well, up anyway.” He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “Thanks for giving me a place to crash. The lasagna’s great. In case you didn’t notice, I helped myself to a big square before my siesta. But I’d love more.”

  “Sure.” I put wedges on both our plates without bothering to offer veggies.

  “Is it kosher to ask how the investigation’s going? Did the autopsy tell you anything new?”

  Braden unfolded his paper napkin. “We’re getting nowhere fast. The forensic pathologist from Charleston couldn’t pinpoint time of death since the hot tub maintained the vic’s body temperature. His best guess—Stew died after midnight. No surprise as to cause. He drowned. No defensive wounds. It looks as if Stew got zapped before he realized he was in trouble. The bruising on his hands and feet indicate the killer probably trussed him up with zip ties while he drowned him. Not sure why he cut them off after Stew died.”

  Braden raised a forkful of lasagna, chewed and swallowed before continuing. “The crime scene guys couldn’t offer much help. It’s a public area, so they have tons of fingerprints and baggies filled with stray hairs. But without a suspect, that’s worthless litter. They picked up nearby palm fronds, figuring the killer might have used one to scratch out that ‘stewed’ message. None had fingerprints.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a lead from Stew’s papers,” I offered.

  On yesterday’s tour, Braden mentioned the sheriff had retrieved reams of paper and a computer from Stew’s apartment.

  “Nothing popped. ’Course by the time I’d scanned five appraisals my eyes glazed over. Not exactly riveting reading. Sales reports on comp properties. Digital snapshots. Excel worksheets. We’re checking to see if any of Stew’s recent appraisals came in so far below the purchase price, they torpedoed sales. But it’s hard to imagine someone working up a murderous rage over a decimal point in the wrong place.”

  “I might be ab
le to tell you something about the buyers or sellers for Dear properties.”

  Braden frowned. “Actually, I didn’t see any appraisals for Dear. They were all on neighboring islands.”

  “That’s odd. I had the impression Stew worked mostly on Dear Island. The agents at last night’s dinner told plenty of stories about their dealings with him. All complimentary. Maybe his island work came in spurts.”

  A glance at the clock reminded me we didn’t have time to sit and gab. It was quarter till twelve. “We’d better go. Bet you’re excited about pulling patrol duty when you’ve got a murder to solve.”

  “I don’t mind. It’ll give me a feel for what happens on Dear after midnight.”

  I laughed. “You thought Stew’s paperwork was a snooze? Sometimes I count raccoons to keep my brain functioning.”

  “So why do you do it? Got to admit I’m curious. If you retired as a lieutenant colonel, you’re pulling down enough pension to live comfortably without some Mickey Mouse job.”

  I lifted an eyebrow, and Braden started backpedaling. “Sorry. I have a gift for sticking my foot in my mouth, shoes and all. It just seems, well, a bit of a demotion.”

  “Hey, I’m not easily offended. Security guard wasn’t exactly a career goal. I was at loose ends. Restless. I watched Law & Order reruns so often I memorized the dialogue. Bridge lessons and golf leagues bore me. Someone mentioned my background to the chief and we talked. Maybe the job is Mickey—or Minnie—Mouse, but it keeps me involved.”

  Was there more to it? I grew up in an all-female household, raised by a strong-willed woman who’d divorced in an age when it was a scandal. I liked women, trusted them, enjoyed their company. Yet Jeff’s death, combined with a move to Dear that stripped away male friends, left a void. I wasn’t longing for sex, just conversation, jokes, getting a different take on the world. My security job let me mingle with men while avoiding dating’s messy complications.

  Braden fixed me with a funny look. I knew I’d missed something.

  “Sorry, I was gathering wool. What did you say?”

  “I was in the service,” he repeated between bites. “Unfortunately, there were no women in my Coast Guard unit.”

  “When did you serve?” I asked.

  “Joined in ’89. Needed money for college, and the G.I. bill looked good. I’d pinned my hopes on a football scholarship, but blew my knee out senior year. Back then I was a poor excuse for a student so no academic scholarship. And my folks didn’t have the dough.”

  “You enlisted?”

  “Yeah, I had visions of running down drug smugglers in my cigarette boat and hitting the beaches in my off hours. Instead I spent most of my tour guarding the Mississippi River. What a thrill. It’s colder than a witches’ tit there in January.”

  I laughed. “Well I’m sure my hometown appreciated your protection. I grew up in Keokuk. It’s a river town.”

  “Hey, I know it. Just south of Burlington near the Missouri border.”

  The microwave timer’s beep interrupted. I’d set it as a last-ditch reminder that it was time to walk out the door. “We need to leave. We’ll have to save our Prairie Home Companion reminiscing for later.”

  Braden grinned. “I was a bit of a cad back then. You might discover I jilted your sister.”

  “Not unless she was cheating on her husband. She had a ten-year-old son by the time you were patrolling the Mississippi.”

  “Obviously you’re the baby of the family. I do remember Iowa girls were very pretty and friendly. No surprise you come from Midwest stock.”

  Was he interested? It had been so long I wasn’t sure. Perhaps his banter was another strange Southern custom. Dang but he’s cute.

  ***

  Chief Dixon said he’d man the security gate and handle resident calls. He assigned Braden to cruise the island’s north end and gave me the south. Since no cars were entering or exiting Dear, Dixon appeared to have captured the plum assignment. But within half an hour, he complained the phones were driving him batty.

  Stew’s murder and the damaged bridge spooked residents. Every rustle in the bushes suggested a prowler. Every tapping tree branch signaled a sicko Peeping Tom. Naturally, they wanted security to investigate.

  We played den mother, too. To hold down expenses, stranded workers pooled their resources to rent villas and buy cases of beer. Whenever the partying pissed off sleepy neighbors, Dixon dispatched us to knock on doors and ask the marooned intruders to lower the noise a notch. While E. T. Grits might still have milk and bread, the store’s beer rations had to be dangerously depleted.

  By three in the morning, things quieted, and I could no longer blame my procrastination to patrol Beach West on cranky residents. Time to reenter the jungle. Nothing scary—just an overgrown tangle of vines. Who’s afraid of inky blackness or slithering snakes?

  While my internal pep talk failed to psych me, it shamed me into launching my patrol car down Beach West’s rutted logging lane. After bouncing along for a few hundred yards, my headlights caught the open door of a red Mercedes wedged into a small clearing in the swampy bramble. The bumper sticker read: “My Other Car is a Broom.”

  Bea Caldwell’s car. My mental antenna put me on full heebie-jeebie alert. She’d pitched a hissy fit about the sticker last night, screaming at Chief Dixon about some vandal’s vile sacrilege of her vehicle.

  When the chief asked if Bea could think of possible suspects, he’d almost choked on his inhaled laughter. The pitiful truth: Bea had nothing but enemies on Dear. I figured high-spirited college interns working at the Dolphin as the probable bumper-sticker culprits. But a sinking feeling told me Bea’s abandoned luxury ride was no prank.

  I pulled up behind the vehicle. No occupants were visible in my headlights. I called in. “Hey, Chief, it’s Marley. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, send the cavalry, will you? I just drove into Beach West and Bea’s Mercedes is ditched in the swamp. It looks abandoned; the driver’s door is wide open.”

  “Want to wait for backup to check things out?” Dixon asked.

  “Nah,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Just stand by while I take a peek.”

  I took a deep breath and checked my Taser and Glock. My heartbeat quickened as I grabbed a flashlight and opened my door. My shoes sunk a couple of inches in the mushy ground as I tiptoed toward the Mercedes. Cold water seeped through the seams in my shoes. I shivered.

  My flashlight beam swept the car’s interior. Nothing. Then I painted the surrounding landscape with my beacon. Fifteen feet away, my light ricocheted back.

  “Oh no.” My flashlight lit up Bea’s silver-spangled pantsuit like a beacon.

  “Mrs. Caldwell?” I called. “Bea? Are you all right?”

  No answer. I inched closer to the sprawled body. “Sweet Jesus.”

  Bea was anything but all right. Her face was grossly swollen and covered with angry red welts capped by white pustules. Tiny red ants crawled in and out of her staring eyes. I watched mesmerized as they exited a mouth that must have opened in a final scream.

  Check for a pulse. I leaned forward and picked up a limp wrist.

  No pulse. My fingers grasped her wrist for an extra beat to be sure.

  She’s dead, I told myself. Mouth to mouth will do no good. Get the flock out of here.

  Still, I lingered, trying to decide if there was something, anything else to be done. Bea lay on a huge fire ant mound, and her tongue protruded slightly. Something rested on it. The object, small and round like a quarter but darker, appeared to be ant nirvana, the center of a swarm.

  A burning pain seared my hand. My proximity had tempted a few of the tiny enemy to forage for fresh meat. Dammit to hell. The ants marched across my hand and wrist, piercing my flesh at will. I beat my hand against my pant legs to squash the suckers.

  As I backed away, I viewed Bea’s neck from a different angle. Telltale stun-gun burns decorated her skin. Based on the pattern, it appeared the killer opted to incapacitate his victim with a han
d-held stun gun this time.

  Bea’s wrist—the one encircled by an allergy alert bracelet—was flung at a bizarre angle. It looked as if her arm had been posed to point at an open patch of mud.

  I drew my gun and crept toward the mini-clearing. Capital letters were scratched in the damp earth: “TO BEA OR NOT TO BE.”

  Nausea hit me. Get back to the car. NOW.

  Frantically, I splashed my flashlight high and low, a 360-degree sweep. Nothing.

  I ran to the car and slammed the door shut.

  “Marley, you there?” the chief’s voice boomed out of the squawk box.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Send the cavalry. Bea’s dead. The killer’s probably long gone but I’m not about to search the woods alone.”

  “Stay in the car,” Dixon yelled. “I’m on my way.”

  My allegro pulse didn’t calm, but my mind started to function. Opening the car door, I thrust my legs outside. I rummaged through my wallet, extracted a credit card and used the stiff plastic to rigorously brush off the ants clinging to my trousers and shoes. After jettisoning as many of the suckers as possible, I closed and locked the door.

  My metal cocoon felt claustrophobic. Nervous sweat soaked the shirt beneath my jacket and my skin grew clammy. At any hint of a rustle, my flashlight beam probed the canopy of greenery.

  Is the killer out there?

  My thoughts returned to Bea and Monday night’s real estate gala. Everyone at our table knew about her allergies. Yet it was doubtful my dinner companions belonged to an exclusive club. Bea probably vented frequently about insects. That meant lots of folks would realize how simple it would be to sentence Bea to death. Find an ant hill, immobilize the woman, and dump her.

  Who wanted to see Bea dead?

  The list of candidates would fill an entire notebook. Even Gator’s junior partner, Sally, had vocalized her fervent wish that the second Mrs. Caldwell would “make like a frog and croak.” Amazingly, Sally never bothered to hide her loathing from Gator. She expressed her sentiments about Bea with the woman’s husband sitting at her elbow.