Always the politician, the sheriff sugar-coated the PR nightmare. “I’ll stress the killer left Dear and a watch on the marina will ensure he doesn’t return. We want our perp to think this island’s the last place we’ll look for him. My spin should make everyone happy.”
Yeah, except for the next poor slob who gets killed. Possibly me.
As the trio exited, the sheriff sketched a salute and promised deputies would mosey by my house on the half-hour, walk its perimeter on the hour. He ordered me to stay inside until Braden returned.
The precautions seemed overkill on a sunny afternoon. Our murderer exhibited a predilection for gloom and had to be as tired as I was—too pooped to sail over for an après-lunch murder spree.
My keyed up state made napping impossible. I paced beside my picture window, watching golfers parade from fairway to green. Though temperatures hovered near sixty, the seniors were girded in Gortex and sported scarlet ear muffs and blue watch caps. Up north, folks wore shorts when the mercury crept this high. But who was I to ridicule? I was more than happy to cower by the fire while the ocean winds sliced and diced.
I picked up a mystery novel but couldn’t concentrate. I glanced at a picture of Jeff and me hoisting beer mugs in Munich.
Braden’s nothing like Jeff. More serious. Less irreverent. Braden had dark hair and hazel eyes. Jeff’s hair was blond, his eyes, milk chocolate.
Oh, stop it. Jeff’s dead. And you weren’t exactly a virgin bride. You’ve had relationships with other men.
I looked over at Janie, who flipped through back issues of Southern Living.
“Janie, I think I’ll shower before Braden comes back. Okay?”
“Sure, it’s not like you’re Chatty Cathy this afternoon.”
I lingered in the shower, hoping the pelting water would clear my mind. It didn’t. After toweling off, I rummaged through my vanity searching for perfume. I dabbed on Obsession and immediately felt guilty. Jeff had given me the perfume. But guilt didn’t stop me from forsaking my usual Chapstick for creamy, cherry-red lipstick. Opening my underwear drawer, I pawed past maybe twenty cotton briefs to locate a pair of black lace panties.
Oh, crimey. Stop this nonsense. Still, it was the silky lace I slid up my legs.
When I rejoined Janie, she seemed even more fidgety. Was my jumpiness infectious?
“Why don’t you go to work?” I suggested. “Braden will be back in no time—thanks to your manipulation. Don’t think I’m not onto you.”
“Hey, no reason your bodyguard shouldn’t be male, handsome, and single. Besides you must be blind if you don’t know he’s attracted to you. Thought I’d choke on the pheromones.”
“Yeah, right.” Nonetheless, curiosity and a smidgeon of hope prompted me to ask, “Like what?”
“For starters that hungry look every time he glances your way. He wasn’t craving waffles this morning.” Janie’s smile faded. “But I need to tell you something before he returns.”
She paused, apparently debating how to start. “Remember how upset I was when Sally dropped that bombshell about Hogsback Island, now known as Emerald Cay? Something’s really wrong. I’m scared my tits are gonna be in a wringer if I don’t find out what’s what.”
“Are you worried about your greedy bosses being overextended? Even if the Dear Company goes belly up, some other Lowcountry developer will snap you up. You know the real estate biz. You have contacts up the wazoo and a treasure map to all of Hollis County’s buried bodies.”
Janie chewed on her lip. “I won’t be such a hot commodity if I’m wearing a prison jumpsuit. I have this sinking feeling some members of our glorious ‘sales team’ are engaged in fraud. Yesterday I caught Woody Nickel sneaking my notary stamp back into my desk drawer. I’m not exactly Miss Goody Two Shoes. If he felt compelled to go behind my back, it’s bad. The document in his hand had something to do with Emerald Cay.”
“Did you confront him?”
“Damn straight. Afterward, I stormed into Gator’s office, demanded he fire the SOB and destroy whatever paperwork the guy dummied with my stamp. I threatened cops. That made Gator sputter. The boss sweet-talked me. Said it was a misunderstanding, promised Woody wouldn’t touch my notary stamp again. Said he’d protect me ‘no matter what happened.’ That ‘no-matter-what’ line scared the crapola out of me. What are they hiding? Will you help? You can pretend to be a buyer, ask questions I can’t.”
I laughed. “No way. Your officemates would never believe I’ve developed a sudden hankering for investment property. Plus my own plate is rather full—you know, acting as bait for a psycho killer.”
Janie sprang from her chair. “Don’t play hard to get, Marley. I know how your fevered brain works. You’re wondering if there’s a connection—crooked real estate deals, dead appraiser.”
She stopped her pacing, pleaded with her eyes. “Come on. I can’t trust anyone else.”
I sighed. “Guess I could say I’m helping my aunt…that she wants to build near me. Aunt May would play along. She sells real estate in Iowa.”
“Thanks.” Janie grinned. “I’ll fill you in so you don’t waste time turning over old rocks. But you’ve got to promise—not a word to Braden or any other law-type person.”
“You trying to make me an accessory to your crimes?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Oh, don’t be such a Girl Scout. Everything I know—well, up until Woody forged my signature—is quasi-legal. Ethical? That’s another kettle of fish.”
For the next half hour, Janie provided an advanced course in developer shenanigans. Her lecture explained a lot—like why homesites in new corporate developments always sold for more than larger, equally scenic “resale” lots.
To extract the greatest profit per inch of oceanfront, Dear’s newest developer had sliced parcels into skinny, zero-lot-line plots with house plans tailored to fit the corseted space. The shotgun homes featured trendy tabby exteriors and Romeo-and-Juliet balconies.
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Janie said. “Comparable value plays a big role in the property appraisals banks insist on these days to approve a mortgage. So appraisers check to see if other buyers have plunked down similar wads of cash for neighboring properties.
“Sally and Gator make sure the comps look good. Just before a grand opening, they whisper to select employees, urging them to buy at inflated prices. Corporate money’s loaned interest-free so the shills can manage down payments. Sally and Gator promise to unload the properties once suitable patsies are found—before the bogus buyers have to make the first loan payments.”
My mouth hung open. “You’re kidding. I thought bankers wised up after the last bubble burst.”
“Some did, but institutional memories are short—especially when early sales are brisk. The shills start a bidding frenzy. Real buyers decide to snatch up lots before prices shoot higher. Once appraiser comps show several homesites in the new development have already sold at the high prices, the market’s set. Bankers rubber-stamp the loans.”
I shook my head. “This is legal?”
Janie rolled her eyes. “Sure. Well, sort of… If all goes according to Hoyle, who’s gonna complain? Insiders pocket a bonus, and the ultimate buyers think they’re Donald Trumps since Sally and Gator ratchet prices higher on each new development. Folks who bought in the last round think they got a steal.”
I stood and walked to the window. “What happens if real buyers never materialize? What if the shills have to pony up and pay their mortgages?”
Janie’s face, reflected in the window, frowned. “Things get nasty. Foreclosures for sure.”
Outside, a golfer jumped, arms raised as his long putt found a home.
“I can’t believe buyers are this stupid. Any research would tell them they’re paying ridiculous sums for dirt that costs half as much on an older wedge of the island.”
Janie smiled. “Real estate agents get a bonus, on top of regular commissions, for selling corporate dirt. Don’t forget, agents work
for sellers not buyers. Why should they wise folks up about cheaper deals? It would cost them.
“Fortunately for the Dear Company—and me—buyers who’ve spent sixty winters in Ohio and are sick of snow don’t crunch numbers. They tool down I-95, stopping here and there. Compared to many islands, even our high-priced lots look reasonable.”
“If this fleecing’s legal and works so well, why the hell isn’t the Dear Company rolling in dough?”
“Kaboom.” Janie imitated the sound of an explosion. “Simple collision of ego and greed. Sally and Gator wanted to be Dixie land barons. Six months ago, they formed another company, a real estate investment trust—R.E.I.T.—and bought a bunch of foreclosed properties for pennies on the dollar…”
The doorbell rang. Janie jumped, breaking off her discourse mid-sentence. She mimed a zipper sealing her lips. “Remember, no tales out of school. Make an appointment with Woody to talk about buying in Emerald Cay. I can play sleuth, too. I’ll call April tonight and see if my sister’s heard of your Polish émigré. It’s amazing what the owner of a gentlemen’s club picks up through the grapevine.”
Janie flung my front door open. “Hi and bye,” she said cheerily as she brushed past Braden. “You’d better not let anything happen to Marley.”
“Come in,” I said. “Ignore the reception committee.”
I heard the quake in my voice. Seeing Braden arrive with suitcase and groceries worked like a defibrillator, kick-starting my heart.
His vintage Samsonite suitcase featured a skin of stamped vinyl veneer and those hinged snaps that let you wedge in forgotten items at the price of pinched skin. He precariously balanced three bags of groceries. Six-packs bulged in bas-relief through one of the thin plastic sacks. I relieved Braden of one bag of provisions. He set the others on the kitchen island.
“Why don’t you put your suitcase in the bedroom while I put away the groceries? Your room awaits, unchanged. Hasn’t gotten any cleaner since you left.”
A crash prompted me to run to the bedroom. Braden was on his knees, picking up big chunks of Jeff’s Oktoberfest mug. The engraved silver lid with its thumbed lift clung tenaciously to the mug’s broken handle.
Braden looked up. “I’m so sorry. I knocked the nightstand with my suitcase.”
A fist of sorrow cut off my breath. I couldn’t force words to exit my mouth though I made a noise. So few mementos remained. We didn’t take pictures. Didn’t collect trinkets. I’d bought Jeff that mug in Munich the month we met. Now one more tie was gone.
Braden put the pottery pieces on the nightstand and walked toward me. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
Stop it. Don’t lose it, not over a freaking two-bit mug. You could buy a thousand identical mugs on Ebay.
“What have I done?” Braden asked. “That wasn’t just a beer mug.”
I managed to choke out three words, “It…was…Jeff’s.”
The dam broke. I turned to leave, to take my grief private. Braden pulled me against his chest. He defeated my attempt to wriggle away. Holding me tight, he stroked my hair as I cried. Again and again, he repeated, “I’m sorry.”
Once I managed to turn off the waterworks, embarrassment tied my tongue. Anger figured into the equation, too. Not at Braden—at myself. My breakdown had to make him feel like a jerk, as if he’d committed high treason.
I straightened and pulled back. “I’m the one who’s sorry…and ashamed. Please, accept my apologies. It was an accident. The mug was a silly souvenir. I don’t know what possessed me. Just…give me a few minutes.”
I walked down the hall to the powder room, closed the door. I soaked a washcloth and pressed the cold compress against my eyes. Sitting on the commode, I sucked in a series of deep breaths. I felt drained. But drained was an improvement. For over a year, thoughts of Jeff left me either numb or angry. Unable to feel anything else. Now, to my surprise, I felt a niggling of hope, a wedge of curiosity about what might come next.
I smiled when I realized my mind had already turned to food. Back in the kitchen, I put away the rest of the groceries. When Braden joined me, I spoke before he could rehash what I’d already dubbed my mad mug lunacy.
“You didn’t need to bring groceries.” Would a smile telegraph my desire to move on? Let him know I was fine, that I wasn’t winding up for a new crying jag?
Braden picked up on my manic clue. “It’s the least I could do. Plus I figured E.T. Grits might be out of beer by now.”
I grinned. “From the sounds of the partying last night, you’re probably right.” I found space for the last of three Old Milwaukee six-packs. What had I expected? Neither of us were the wine spritzer type.
“I’ll cook tonight,” he added. “But I have a limited repertoire.”
“What are the chef’s specialties?”
“Steak, hamburgers, and scrambled eggs. I bought all of ’em. Steaks for tonight. There’s also a salad mix, pre-sliced garlic bread and frozen key-lime pie.”
“Sounds great. But if I’m going to eat pie, I need to run first. Listen, make yourself at home. It’s only four-thirty. I’ll be back in an hour—before dark.”
I needed a run to regain my equilibrium.
Braden frowned. “I’d try to discourage you, but I have a hunch how that conversation would end. Give me a minute to change, and I’ll come along. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Are you a runner?” My question wasn’t exactly innocent. I don’t do badly for an over-fifty broad, and the thought of forcing Braden to pant a little held a certain perverse appeal.
“Running’s not my favorite activity, but I’ll try to keep up.”
He certainly looked fit, but I didn’t picture him as a runner. Maybe bending a Bowflex to his will or hefting dumbbells as sweat popped on his forehead. His hard, defined muscles didn’t have a runner’s sleek contours.
“I started packing on pounds after I turned thirty-five,” he confessed. “Figured I either had to run occasionally or give up beer. No contest.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “A strong motive. Me? I love running. I really miss it when I lay off a few days.”
“Do you have a DVR?” Braden asked.
“Sure,” I answered, momentarily puzzled by the quick topic shift.
“Let’s record the news. See how the sheriff handles his press conference.”
“Right. Can’t believe I forgot about it.” I had a vested interest in the sheriff’s fictionalized account of my encounter with Dear’s killer.
Five minutes later we were out the door. We appeared to favor similar exercise attire—torn Tshirts, threadbare shorts, dingy running shoes. No flashy, form-fitting spandex or designer headbands. My concession to sweat was a man’s handkerchief tucked in my waistband.
Braden glanced at the contraption on my wrist. “That’s one honking big watch.”
“A new GPS toy. We have to stand still a minute so it can acquire satellite signals, then I’ll be ready to roll.”
“What, you’re afraid you’ll get lost on Dear Island?”
I laughed. “No. It’s got a trip computer. Tells me exactly how far I’ve gone, average miles per hour, even my maximum speed. I wear it whenever I run so I can set ‘waypoints’ for the fellow who runs Camp Dear. He’s planning geocaching games for his little munchkins this summer. I’m marking points of interest for his treasure hunts. You know, osprey nests, rare plants, alligator hangouts, that sort of thing.”
“Give me a heads-up on those alligator hangouts,” Braden said as we set off down the leisure path.
The sun hovered low on the horizon, probing the landscape with slanted golden beams. Motes danced in the light, and the slender shadows cast by palm trees and pampas grass looked mystical—cloaked monks stealing silently across the adjacent fairway’s velvety winter rye.
I checked to make sure no golfers were teeing off behind us, then sprinted onto the eleventh fairway. The soft grass with its spongy cushioning was kind to rickety knees. A couple of hundred yards later
I ducked into a wooded shortcut to the nearest ocean crosswalk.
“Hey, you don’t waste time warming up.” Braden’s breathing, like mine, was audible but not labored. I’d lost any illusion of leaving him panting in my wake. The man could run, even if he didn’t enjoy it.
When the ocean cutover took us past Stew’s condo, I glanced at his windows. The panes were fiery mirrors. They caught and liquefied the dying sun’s glow, turning it into molten ingots. A fisherman in waders stood resolutely in the surf, rhythmically casting his line. The filament danced over the frothy breakers. Half a mile down the narrow ribbon of beach, a woman walked a dog. Lonely silhouettes.
We slowed on the uneven surface. The rhythmic slapping of our shoes against the sand all but drowned out my words. “It’s beautiful, so peaceful. Hard to imagine some maniac is murdering people on Dear.”
“Nothing to say murder and beauty can’t coexist,” Braden answered. “It’s just easier to accept death in tacky surroundings. Back alleys. Crack houses. Slums. Your island’s untouched by that kind of ugliness. It’s isolated. You have to cross what, four bridges, to get here from the mainland? How long have people lived here, anyway?”
“That final bridge—the one that’s defunct at the moment—was built in the seventies. Before then the island was a hunting preserve. In the fifties, a logging company strip-cut the pines. Hard to believe, looking at the heavy forest that’s grown up since.”
We lapsed into silence as we picked up speed. Braden almost stepped on a horseshoe crab’s carcass. Birds had picked its prehistoric armor clean, leaving only its turtled brown shell and spiny tail. Jumping to avoid the remains, he lost his balance in the ankle-deep sand and accidentally hip-checked me. Reaching out to steady me his grip felt strong, hot and reassuring.
“It’s not easy running on this stuff,” he complained as he released my arm.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 12
