Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries)

by Lovely, Linda

  “Mind if we look around? Could you show us where Mrs. Caldwell usually sleeps?”

  “Bea sleeps with me.” Gator exploded in anger, as if the question were a slur on his manhood, then his mouth snapped shut. He must have realized his protestation sounded a tad strange, given that his wife was found miles from his bed, and he hadn’t noticed.

  “When I went to bed, Bea said she wasn’t sleepy,” he amended. “Probably went to the den. That’s where she piles up them home decorating magazines.”

  Braden pressed on. “Could we take a look at the den?”

  “Yeah.” Gator led us up a grand staircase that echoed the front entrance’s curved Tara theme. Sheriff Conroy, Braden and I followed single file.

  At the top of the stairs, Gator turned right and pointed at the first door. Inside, twin antique fainting couches covered in heavy silk brocade provided the only seating. Plumped pillows left so little space that even an anorexic butt would have been forced to hover. The pillows were arrayed as if House Beautiful photographers were expected. If Bea sat here tonight, her exit had been anything but hasty.

  Conroy looked around slowly and mumbled, “Doesn’t look disturbed.”

  “Mind if we walk through the rest of the house?” Braden inquired.

  “Yeah, okay.” Gator slumped down the hallway ahead of us, his shoulders hunched. Maybe he did feel something.

  The door next to the den gave way to the master bedroom suite. Gator nodded us in like a headwaiter. The room had two focal points: a king bed and French doors that opened on a private deck with a view of the Atlantic. Rumpled sheets spilled from the bed. Gator’s dirty underwear lay heaped on the floor, while his trousers and shirt draped a chair. If Bea had disrobed, she’d been neat.

  I flashed on the murder scene and her silvery pantsuit.

  “Gator, what did Bea wear to the club last night?”

  “I don’t know. Some silvery getup.”

  “Wouldn’t she change—put on a nightgown—if she wanted to read before turning in?”

  Gator swiveled my way and bared his teeth. “You accusing me of lying, Marley?”

  “No. Just trying to get a handle on your wife’s state of mind.”

  After a moment’s silence, Gator answered. “Truth is we had us a little spat. I wasn’t real happy with something Bea said at dinner. Thought she insulted a client. When we got home, I yelled. She stormed out of the bedroom. I went to sleep. End of story.”

  The scene he painted certainly had the ring of truth.

  “Where does Bea keep her purse?” I wondered.

  Gator’s irritation was evident. “How the hell should I know?”

  Sheriff Conroy cleared his throat, a signal for me to shut my trap. However, I was determined to follow my train of thought. “If Bea left voluntarily, she probably took her purse,” I explained. “I didn’t see one on her car seat or…umm, near her body.”

  Gator shrugged. “Sometimes she sets her purse on the kitchen counter.”

  I turned to the sheriff. “Mind if I look?”

  His frown indicated the prospect of ditching me had definite appeal. “Go ahead.”

  The kitchen gleamed. It should have. Mine would too if I had free daily maid service. Bet that perk never shows up on their income tax.

  The counter boasted the usual assortment of kitchen gadgets but no handbag. Of course, Bea could have tossed the purse on a couch or table. Or maybe the muddy ooze near Bea claimed it. Then again, the killer might have wanted a souvenir.

  A tug on my pants startled me.

  “Who’re you?” asked a squeaky voice.

  Looking down, I found the instigator, a small raven-haired boy in pajamas covered with friendly-looking dinosaurs.

  “You a new babysitter?”

  “You must be Teddy.” I tried a smile. The boy nodded and rubbed fists against his eyes.

  “I didn’t hear you come in. You’re pretty quiet.”

  His face scrunched up. Somehow my comment suggested he could be whining. “I’m thirsty. I want juice.”

  Should I give a four-year-old juice at three a.m. or would he wet the bed? Who knew? But, hey, I wouldn’t be here come morning. Figuring my number one mission was to keep the tyke happy, I opened the refrigerator and handed over a Juicy-Juice.

  Suddenly the boy seemed suspicious and frightened. “Why you here?”

  How to answer? I didn’t want to scare him. “Some friends and I came to see your grandpa.”

  “Why?”

  It wasn’t my place to tell the kid Bea was dead. How did you break such news to a baby? I hedged. “Your grandfather will explain. Let’s go upstairs and he can tuck you back in bed.”

  Something in my sentence—maybe the mention of bed—brought on a microburst.

  “Don’t let him tell Bea-Bea,” he wailed. “Bea-Bea said not to come downstairs—not ever—after grandpa kissed me goodnight. Bea-Bea yelled. She was on the phone.”

  Teddy pointed at a wall-mounted phone above the granite countertop.

  “I won’t tell Bea,” I assured Teddy. “Did Bea yell at you tonight?”

  If Teddy answered, his words were incomprehensible amidst his sobs. But his shaking head indicated yes.

  “Did you hear what she said?”

  The boy whimpered. “Can’t tell. Bea-Bea said she’d spank.”

  “I promise. No one’s going to spank you. What did Bea say? You play cops and robbers, don’t you? If you tell me what Bea said, you can help the cops catch bad guys. You’d be a hero.”

  For what seemed an age, Teddy sniveled and I coaxed. “Be brave. You can tell me.”

  Finally he blubbered a reply. “Bea-Bea was mad. She sayin’ ‘You believed Adam…Adam Spate.’”

  I heard a racket and looked up to see Gator storming toward us. The sheriff and Braden followed timidly in his wake.

  “What, you’re browbeating babies now?” Gator yelled, bringing his red face inches from mine. His breath smelled of garlic and whisky.

  I understood his anger and tried not to take it personally. “No, sir.”

  Gator snatched up Teddy, turned on his heel and headed down the hall.

  “We’re through,” he yelled back at us. “I have to break the news to Bea’s parents and tell my daughter to come get Teddy. Let yourselves out. Now.”

  “Goodnight, sir,” Sheriff Conroy said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight,” Braden and I echoed.

  ***

  An amused grin played on Braden’s face. “Hey, were you grilling Teddy as a suspect? I usually can’t get hostiles to crack in a single interrogation. Want to share your techniques?”

  “It comes naturally. I have a gift with pre-school perps. Seriously though, Teddy provided a clue. The boy made an unauthorized visit to the kitchen after he was tucked in for the night. When he surprised Bea on the phone, she yelled at him. Teddy claims she was already mad as a hatter. The boy’s playback of the conversation seemed muddled but he recalled a name, Alex, no, Adam Spate. I don’t know a soul by that name on Dear Island.”

  Braden massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked as tired as I felt. “I’ll run the name, see what we come up with. We’ll check phone records, too.”

  The sheriff sighed. “I’ll bet the killer used a pay phone or an untraceable prepaid cell. This guy doesn’t appear careless—just freakin’ sadistic and weird.”

  “Did you find Gator’s reactions a bit odd?” I asked. “It almost sounded as if he knew which ‘son-of-a-bitch’ killed Bea.”

  Braden flicked me an approving look. “I felt something off, too. But Gator could simply have been railing at the anonymous bastard who tortured his wife.”

  The sheriff phoned my chief, who suggested we convene in his office.

  True to predictions, the parking lot resembled a saltwater lake. As the spring tide began its retreat, patches of asphalt rose like tiny volcanic islands.

  I turned to Braden. “Drive to the front door so you two don’t get your feet
soaked. Then I can scoot over and drive.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” Braden asked.

  “I want to check the marina first. If the killer isn’t an islander, he might have arrived by boat. I’ll make some notes to check with our harbormaster come morning. Save some hot coffee for me.”

  The deputy’s eyebrows bunched as he frowned. “Okay. But don’t take any chances. If you see something suspicious, call. This guy enjoys killing.”

  Ironically Braden’s warning cheered me. His tone spoke of genuine worry.

  He likes me.

  Jeez, I sound like a teenager.

  EIGHT

  It was dark, though the approaching dawn brightened the sky with a promise of morning. I parked at the marina and sat in my car for ten minutes, gazing at the pale moon and listening to the breeze rustle the palm fronds. My chromed cocoon felt snug, and I needed to decompress. Could Gator have killed her? Images of Bea and Gator at various public venues chased around in my head. Lovey dovey kisses. Murderous glares. Did either mean anything? Who knew what their marriage was like? Only Bea and Gator.

  My own marriage shocked plenty of folks. We met while stationed in Bad Kreusnach at one of the lovely German town’s communal hot springs. I could still hear my CO’s rant.

  “Marley, are you freaking nuts? Marry Jeff and you kiss your career goodbye.”

  “Sayonara,” I replied with a wry smile. “I’m thirty-four and in love for the first time.”

  “How did this happen, Marley? He’s a noncom for God’s sake.”

  “Too bad Army regs don’t require insignia on bathing suits. I didn’t plan it, you know.”

  Our wedding didn’t end my career, just applied the brakes to promotions. We were happy because neither of us tried to change the other. We were old enough to know better. We admired the other’s strengths; shrugged off the irritating foibles. We laughed one hell of a lot.

  Hey, Jeff. Hope you’re still laughing. I miss you, kiddo.

  It was time to sally forth. Get this over with, drink hot coffee—and look at Braden. Look, don’t touch.

  After exiting the car, I strode down the boardwalk connected to the floating docks and took a sharp left onto a section reserved for temporary anchorage. All slips were full. If a boat had left, someone else had snatched the vacancy.

  With no idea which, if any, of the twenty-odd boats might have been captained by Underling, I began taking notes on each moored vessel. Arched lampposts spaced every fifteen feet pooled enough ocher light to decipher boat registration numbers without a flashlight.

  As I bent forward for a closer look at the third boat’s bobbing registration number, a board creaked. I started to turn. Pain seared my body as outraged muscles spasmed in series, a head-to-toe cataclysm. I screamed—but no sound came out. My mind fuzzed. Thoughts skittered about like dry leaves. Total blackness descended.

  My cheek was planted firmly against slimy decking. Slivers from the rough board pricked my skin.

  Maybe sixty seconds elapsed. It felt like an hour.

  Before my mind could clear, my tormenter zapped me again. My brain cells registered a single fact—prongs were embedded in my back. I prayed for the torture to end.

  As the second electrical assault subsided, my body’s movements were beyond my control. My skin felt raw and tingly; I couldn’t lift my head.

  I’m as good as dead. How will he kill me? No ant hill nearby. An image of Stew’s floating corpse invaded my consciousness. Is that how they’ll find me?

  I wanted to see my attacker’s face. My neck muscles ignored my mental screams. I couldn’t raise an eyebrow, let alone my chin. Positioning restricted my view to the dock and the water and flotsam below. I watched a chunk of white Styrofoam dance on the black water’s ebb and flow.

  My attacker jerked my arms behind my back. Something sharp cut into my wrists as he cinched them together.

  I heard a psst noise. It stopped, then repeated. A rhythm developed. On, off, rattle. On, off, rattle. An aerosol can?

  The assailant grunted, the first human sound he’d made. Next came a sloshing gurgle, and a pungent, unpleasant odor assaulted my nose. Gasoline. An icy liquid soaked my pant legs.

  Oh, God. He’s going to set me on fire.

  My heart hammered so hard I expected to implode before he lit a match. Maybe a heart attack was better.

  Don’t panic. Think. I’d been stunned before as part of my own less-than-lethal weapons certification. Though he’d zapped me twice, I’d be able to move in a minute—provided he didn’t hit me with another jolt. And I felt pretty confident he wouldn’t pull the trigger now. Gas fumes could ignite and we’d both go up in a ball of fire. He wouldn’t risk it while he stood nearby.

  God, please don’t let me become a human torch. I’d rather drown.

  Could I marshal enough strength for a small roll? My fingertips brushed the edge of the dock. A quarter body turn and momentum would carry me. A sudden plunge into the dark water. Surely more of my muscles would rally before I drowned.

  Mustering every ounce of grit I possessed, I held my breath, and heaved. A slight twitching sensation came as a reward. My toes wiggled inside my shoes. The rest of my body parts remained stationary, as leaden and unfeeling as a fallen statue. I was exhausted, frightened, dispirited. Focus. Don’t let him win.

  I channeled all my will, all my hope. Come on, muscle memory. One small turn.

  The splash sounded deafening in the still night. I gasped as the ocean bay pulled me downward in its frigid embrace. Not a good thing when there’s three feet of water overhead. I gagged on the saltwater, but my legs responded. I kicked upward. When my face broke the surface, I sucked cool air in hungry gulps and floated on my back.

  “Damn.” The expletive came from above. The dock swayed beneath pounding footsteps. Thank God, they were moving away. A motor cranked and an outboard roared to life. The boat’s wake flung me toward a piling. I struggled to keep my head above water and wrapped my legs around the piling as if it were my lover. He’s leaving. I’m alive.

  My glee proved fleeting. Before I could think about extricating myself from the drink, the dock shook again. Thundering footsteps headed my way.

  Once again an expletive rang out above. “Crap.”

  For a moment, I wondered at my crazed déjà vu—could electric shock have put my brain in reverse? Would I find myself back on the dock in another minute, only imagining I’d escaped?

  “Marley. Where are you? Can you hear me?”

  I recognized the voice. Braden. “Here,” I yelled. Well, tried to yell. A whimper escaped my throat. I’m not sure how Braden hoisted me onto the dock. My waterlogged uniform, bound hands, and uncoordinated muscles amplified my dead weight.

  “Dammit, what happened? I had a bad feeling about you coming here alone.”

  “He shot me…in the back…with a stunner. Twice.” My thoughts erupted like hiccups, a mental stutter. My teeth chattered so violently I thought the enamel might crack.

  Braden took a knife from his pocket and cut the plastic zip-tie around my wrists. Then he wrapped his arms around me. “A boat rocketed out of here just as I pulled in. The killer must have seen my headlights. Did you get a good look at the guy?”

  I shuddered. “Not his face, and he only said one word, ‘Damn.’ He planned to kill me. I know it.”

  “I believe you.” Braden shucked his jacket, and cocooned my quaking body inside. He held me tightly, letting his body’s warmth seep into my bones. I had an insane desire to smother my rescuer with kisses.

  “There’s gas all over the dock,” Braden said. “And the sick bastard spray-painted a message.”

  I didn’t think it could get worse until I read my intended epitaph. The wet orange paint glowed. The message: “KENTUCKY FRIED COLONEL.”

  “He knows me? He knows who I am. He never touched me, didn’t look at my ID. It wasn’t some stranger. I don’t go around introducing myself as Colonel Clark.”

  The deputy glanced toward
the one empty boat slip. “His boat was in slip number 23. Dear’s harbormaster should have a copy of the boat’s registration. Maybe we can use it to trace him.”

  He stroked my cheek. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you. We’ll catch the SOB. At least we know he’s off island.”

  But he’ll be back, I thought, and shuddered again. I’m unfinished business. Somehow I knew this failure would infuriate my would-be executioner. I’d screwed up his plan.

  “Take me home. Please.”

  Braden’s concerned eyes studied my face. “Maybe we should stop by the fire station, let the paramedics check you out,” he hedged.

  “No, I’m okay. Or will be. Please, I just want my own house…my own bed.”

  Braden used the patrol car’s radio to call my chief and the sheriff, who were still holed up in Dixon’s office. The chief swore at his news.

  “Is Marley in shock?” I heard Dixon ask. “Does she need a doc?”

  Braden looked at me for an answer. I fiercely shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I just need to get warm.”

  As the deputy relayed my reply, the chief’s loud voice floated back. “She’s one tough bird.”

  They talked a few more minutes as Braden drove, but my ability to concentrate was shorter than their conversation. I was too busy reliving my attack. To divert my mind, I fastened on how strong and warm Braden’s arms felt when he wrapped them around me. I liked the feeling and wished he’d pull me to him again with more than comfort in mind.

  “Since you’ve already told me everything you remember, the sheriff agreed it’s pointless to put you through more tonight,” Braden said, as we reached my drive. “Said you could give a formal statement tomorrow—actually, I guess it’s later today.”

  He helped me out of the car, draped my left arm around his shoulders, and circled my waist. He pulled me tightly to his side. “Hold on,” he whispered. “Take it slow and easy. We’ll get you warm in no time.”

  I felt woozy and weak. At the door, I fumbled in my pocket and withdrew my keys. Thank God, I didn’t lose them in the water.

  Inside, Braden shepherded me down the corridor toward the master bathroom. Though I normally use the guest bath, I didn’t argue. My squishy shoes squeaked on the hardwood floors. Leaning against him, I realized my wet clothes were soaking his shirt. “You’re wet. I’m sorry.”