His cockiness made me want to smack him. “I know exactly who you are—hoodlums holding a gun outside my bedroom window. Now, think whom you’re messing with. I’m no cop, just a ‘little old widder lady’ trying to protect herself. If I get too frightened, my nasty ol’ gun could fire by accident.”
I switched off my sweet old lady imitation and adopted a sergeant-major’s bark. “No jury in the world would convict if I shot you. Got it? You’re on my property, carrying a gun. I could plug you right here, but the blood would make a real mess on my tile. Talk.”
Though Henry and Jared smirked through my bluff, my honest-to-God anger planted a niggling seed of doubt. Henry raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
I repeated my initial question. “How’d you get out of the house—past Hugh?”
“We waited till he left,” Jared answered. “He takes off lots of nights after he’s poured Mommy into bed. He takes The Predator—our fourteen-foot skiff. We followed him to the dock. He went out Mad Inlet. We’ve watched him before; it’s usually three, four hours before he’s back. We figure he meets some drug dealer.”
Henry butted in. “Yeah, you should be grilling Hugh, not us. I bet he murdered Stew. Dr. Death was out that night. Leave it to some aging lounge lizard to cook veggies with a dead body.”
Braden slammed his palm down on the table in front of Henry’s face. Silverware jumped, and I feared he’d cracked the sturdy oak surface. Coffee sloshed wildly in the rocking mugs. The deputy had the boys’ attention.
“How do you know about the vegetables? We didn’t release that detail. Only the killer could know. Guess I should read you your rights after all.”
“Oh, man, ask your old lady. This is Dear Island,” Jared complained. “How long do you think it took for everyone on this dirt-bag island to hear the news? That’s old, man.”
After a moment’s silence, I sighed and broke in. “Okay, what possible reason would Hugh have to kill Stew?”
The boys shrugged in unison. “He met Stew at the marina Saturday. When he got home, he made a call on his cell. Sounded mad as hell,” Henry said.
“That’s real conclusive, Slick.” Braden’s voice dripped sarcasm. “We have better reason to suspect you losers. Who knows, maybe you killed Stew and Bea for thrills.”
Henry’s head snapped up. “We weren’t even on the island when that bitch got offed.”
“You were with Hugh in Beaufort, right?” I asked. “That gives him the same alibi.”
Jared pouted. “Maybe… But he’s still a freakin’ killer, and nobody cares.”
I looked closely at the boys. “Okay, in the last five minutes you’ve accused Hugh of being a drug addict and a murderer. Sure you’re not just pissed because he tries to make you toe the line?”
While the twins’ anger was real, it didn’t exactly lend weight to their accusations.
“Maybe he hasn’t killed yet, but it’s not for trying. The bastard feeds Mom a dozen kind of pills, practically pushes ’em down her throat. Keeps her too blotto to notice he’s pissing our money away. When she sobers up, he diddles her till she moans.”
“Enough.” I shuddered. Good God, was their home life truly this horrific or were they playing us for yucks? For their safety, I wanted the boys locked away until their mom could arrange bail. But there was no way to get them off island, and it wasn’t a good time for houseguests. If the real killer showed, they could get caught in the crossfire. I’d figure out how to investigate their painful accusations later.
“We’re taking you home. Tomorrow you may have a new address.”
After I spoke, I realized the decision to release the boys hadn’t been mine to make. Not unilaterally anyway. Did Braden have more questions? Did he want to keep them here? I would apologize…later. I was unaccustomed to having a partner—in any arena.
Braden didn’t appear miffed. “You heard the lady. Move it.”
In the car, the boys fell silent, just as they had the last time I chauffeured them home. Dreading a return to their pricey prison? Or had acting like brats sapped all their energy?
On this visit, Braden assumed the doorbell honors. No response. The mansion’s front door was locked, and a blinking camera light above the threshold indicated the security system was engaged.
“Told you so,” Henry said. “Hugh-baby is out on some drug run.”
“You boys have a key?” I asked. Jared shook his head no.
Braden wasn’t buying. “So how were you planning to get back in? Transporter beam? Or were you going to ring the bell and wake Hugh? What’s open—some back door, a window?”
The boys looked at each other. Henry shrugged. “There’s a separate entrance to the servant’s quarters. It’s off the security grid. When Hugh fired the maid, we stole the key.”
“Well, here’s what’s going to happen,” Braden said. “I’m going to walk you to that door and watch you go inside. Then Marley and I will sit in your driveway until Hugh arrives. Capiche?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
By the time Braden returned, I was as close to horizontal as I could manage, my car seat cranked to full stretch.
“God, I’m tired,” I mumbled. “You think the boys are telling the truth?”
“Probably. Though I’m sure their stories are shaded with more than a little malice. Hope my sons don’t turn out like those two.”
“How old are your boys?”
“Braden Jr.—Brady—is three; Keith, two. They live with their mom and her new husband in Atlanta.”
“You have pictures?”
“Sure.” He flipped open his wallet and passed it to me with his penlight. I held the light low so no escaping glow would warn Hugh of our presence. The chubby faces made me grin. Shavings off the old block. Both inherited Braden’s hazel eyes and killer smile.
“Must have been hard to leave,” I managed.
“Um, Brady and Keith already call Jim ‘Daddy.’” Pain colored his voice. “My ex made it clear there’s no room for me. Says my hanging around would confuse my sons. Claims I wasn’t around all that much when we were married, so it shouldn’t be a hardship.”
Braden’s forlorn expression spoke of guilt and regret. “You have kids?”
“No. Jeff was ten years older than me. He had two children with his first wife and wasn’t anxious for more. Military careers aren’t exactly conducive to parenting.”
“So who are the kids in the pictures by your bed?”
“Photos of my stepchildren when they were little. Duncan’s forty now, a pilot for United, lives in Chicago. He’s divorced, no kids. Janice lives in San Diego. She has a three-year-old daughter, Riley. She’s the blonde pistol with the sandcastle. The rest are shots of my great-nieces and nephews.”
Conversation petered out. Neither of us felt up to talking. I couldn’t stifle a yawn. “Hope we don’t have long to wait.”
Something caught Braden’s interest. “Looks like your prayers are answered.”
Walking briskly, a man angled across the estate’s cobbled driveway. He’d yet to spot our car stashed in a cubbyhole partially screened by twenty-foot oleanders. The man’s gliding gait identified him. “Walks like Hugh.”
“Let’s see if it talks like him,” Braden muttered sotto voice. “Stay put this time. But get your gun out and keep it out.”
I started to object, and then thought the hell with it. My weariness was so complete I wasn’t sure I could climb out of the car. I did muster enough energy to open my car window.
Braden’s sudden materialization startled Hugh, who jumped when the deputy braced him. The two men stood beneath a nearby lamppost, giving me an orchestra seat. Hugh was decked out in black again, apparently his fave color. The shimmer of tailored silk made me think of a seal. But his chalky face and the twinkle of gold ruined the illusion.
Though neither man raised his voice, I could hear every word.
Braden explained what had brought us to this address: the twins. That put Hugh at ease until the
deputy segued into the boys’ report of Hugh’s meet with Stew. The tattle drew a smirk. “We were planning a fishing excursion. I don’t think that’s illegal.”
Just as easily, the former lounge singer shrugged off the twins’ allegations of nocturnal assignations, and their claim that he’d had a heated phone conversation after lunching with Stew.
“I’m not shocked by their wild tales. They hate me. It’s their father’s doing. He’s filled their minds with malicious poppycock. A real loser. Don’t know why Grace keeps him on the dole. He gets a ten-thousand-dollar stipend the first of every month.
“But I digress. To answer your questions, yes, I argue with business associates on occasion. Who doesn’t? Did I disagree with someone that day? Don’t recall. But if I did, it had nothing to do with Stew. And, yes, I go for evening boat rides. I have insomnia. It’s peaceful on the water at night. Sometimes I simply need to get away from those boys.”
From the car, I sent Braden mental vibes. Ask about Kain. Ask if he knows Kain. Finally he did.
This time Hugh fumbled the conversational ball. His face entered a bleach cycle and drained of color. “Never, um…heard of the man.” A nervous catch in his voice refuted his assertion.
Abruptly, Hugh ended the exchange. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with the boys. If you have more questions—for me, Gracie, or the twins—call John Schmidt in Beaufort. He’s our lawyer. I’ll deal with Henry and Jared. Goodnight.”
The man pivoted and stormed to the front door.
“Better call that lawyer early tomorrow,” Braden said in a parting shot. “I’m going to recommend placing the boys in foster care.”
Hugh’s response to the Kain question pumped adrenaline into my system. As soon as Braden climbed in, I launched the car in reverse. Less than a hundred feet down the road, I braked.
“Why are you stopping?”
“I’m going to the Cuthbert dock and give The Predator a once-over.”
“We don’t have a warrant,” he objected.
“Oh, but I’m not looking for evidence. While driving by, I heard a strange noise. Had to check it out, make sure everything was secure. Wouldn’t want to shirk my duty as a private security guard. You coming?”
A flashlight retrieved from my glove box lit our way along a swaying boardwalk. It bridged seventy-five feet of tidal marsh before culminating in a two-slip dock. A sailboat and The Predator, a small skiff, were berthed side by side. I’d checked Grace’s boat registrations and learned she also owned a cabin cruiser. Too big to negotiate the manmade channel, it was moored at the marina.
“What are we looking for?” Braden asked.
“Don’t know,” I answered. A full-scale rummage under The Predator’s seats scavenged meager finds. A tidal chart for Mad Inlet. A marine map of this section of the coast. A sheet of paper with two columns of numbers. I pulled out a notebook and copied ten of the numbered pairs while Braden made a cursory inspection of the bow.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“Some numbers on a sheet of paper. They mean nothing to me. Probably a list of losing lottery numbers. Let’s head home.”
***
There was no time for nuzzling or post-coital coos when the alarm trilled. After our romp with the twins, we’d set the clock to catch an extra hour of shuteye, and we were pushing the envelope.
Braden had a nine a.m. appointment with Sally, and I’d promised to corner Woody as soon as the office opened. I also had to decipher the ferry schedule, borrow one of the cars parked off-island, and drive to Leyla’s office at Gedduh Place. My lunch rendezvous on the Beaufort waterfront was scheduled for one-fifteen.
I jumped into the sweater set and capris laid out the night before, brushed my teeth, and padded to the kitchen barefoot. No time to make fresh coffee. I siphoned two mugs of late-night dregs from the unwashed pot, nuked them to tepid, and returned to the bedroom. I congratulated myself on my steady, non-slosh delivery.
Braden zipped up his pants and grabbed a mug. “Ah, coffee. You’re a goddess.”
Then he sipped the bitter brew and choked convincingly. “You just tumbled off your pedestal. This is awful. I see you no longer feel a need to impress me. Guess there’s no more lasagna in my future. Am I cooking again tonight?”
“No.” I grinned. “Fair’s fair. It’s my turn at the stove, though you’ll have to settle for a quick-fix menu. I’ll pick up groceries in town.”
Braden’s smile evaporated. “No way I can talk you out of this excursion? I’d feel better if you stayed on the island. Why take chances?”
“We’ve been through this. If, somehow, the killer is keeping tabs on me, the outing will set the bait. He’ll see I’m alone. No deputy riding shotgun. He won’t try a hit today. Heck, if I don’t know what car I’ll be driving, how could he? And he sure as hell isn’t going to stab me with a fork on Plums’ patio.”
I didn’t mention my little side trip to Gedduh Place. While not exactly off the beaten path, it sat on a road less traveled.
“You’ll come right back after lunch?” Braden asked.
“Promise. Just one stop at the grocery. What are you going to do about the twins?”
“Ask Deputy Lewis to pick them up at their house and take them to the Hollis County courthouse. Let a judge sort out that mess. Maybe they can live with their father.”
When we pulled into the Dear Company parking lot, the scene stunned me. Strangers stood ten-deep on the wraparound Lowcountry porch, waiting for the office’s nine o’clock opening—ten minutes away. It was a wonder the floorboards didn’t buckle. Dozens of golf carts crowded the pavement. It looked like a gaggle of Shriners had abandoned their miniature vehicles in fright.
My motor idled as I scanned the parking lot, searching for an empty spot. A rap on the driver’s side window startled me. Dave Dougherty. The retired salesman grinned ear to ear.
“It’s somethin’ else, ain’t it?” He chuckled. “I’m brokering golf carts and making a killing. Those tabloids must hand out expense money like toilet tissue. I know you don’t have a golf cart, Marley, but tell your friends to call me. I have a waiting list for rentals.”
“Are those all reporters?” Braden sounded horrified.
“Maybe half of ’em. A real ferryboat captain agreed to moor his thirty-footer here. He’s offerin’ a regular service from seven-thirty a.m. to four p.m., weather permitting. The skipper’s charging six dollars a pop for a five-minute ride. If he gets this many heads per trip, he can retire in a month. Me? I doubled my Social Security check this morning. See ya’ll later.”
We parked catawampus in an empty niche and approached the circus with trepidation. Bollocks. Joe Reddick stood a stone’s throw away, talking loudly to a six-pack of reporters. Spotting me, he pointed an accusing finger my way. A dozen vulture eyes sized me up like fresh road kill.
“Oh, no,” I muttered.
Reddick throttled up to full rant. “Some security guards are using these murders as an excuse to bully residents. That woman could be Gestapo. The night Stew Hartwell was murdered I was trying to, um…to ascertain facts. The people of this island elected me to the Board and it’s my duty to serve them. She practically decapitated me with some martial arts hocus pocus she learned in the Army.”
Braden snuck a glance in my direction. If I’d expected sympathy, I was sorely disappointed. Good God, he was laughing. Maybe I should demonstrate my martial arts training.
“Am I about to see how a woman performs in combat?” Braden purred, egging me on.
“What’s her name?” a reporter asked. “Is she the guard who tangled with the killer?”
Braden ceased to find the scene amusing. He grabbed my arm to hustle me back to the car. That’s when Dave called out, “Marley, your friend’s a wavin’ at you.”
The golf cart wheeler-dealer pointed at an office window. Janie pantomimed energetically, motioning us to a back entrance. We made for the emergency-exit door at a dead run and slipped through before any repo
rters gave chase.
“That was too close,” I wheezed.
“Yeah, and you’re no longer incognito. Now we’ll have to fend off the press as well as the killer.” I watched Janie relock the door. “What are you going to do with those reporters? Sally must be beside herself.”
Janie grinned. “Nope. She found a silver lining. When our doors open, we’ll offer reporters island tours and free lunch at the club. As our vice president so eloquently put it: ‘Last week, I could have offered every editor on the East Coast a blowjob and still not lured a single feature writer to the island. Now they’re lined up like whores on a Saturday night.’”
I shook my head. “Surely she realizes they’re here to report on murders, not vacation property. This can’t be good publicity.”
“Sally thinks she can win ’em over. Plus she says we’ve got nothing to lose. They’re gonna stay regardless. Personally, I think Sally celebrated with happy pills after she heard our pre-Easter bookings were breaking records. Sure, a few tourists canceled when they heard about a psycho killer at large, but the ghouls are lining up, ready to take their places.
Janie turned to Braden. “If you want to powwow with Sally, you better get in her office and close the door quick. All hell’s about to break loose. Marley, you’re here to see Woody, right? He’s upstairs. His office is one door down from mine.”
Braden and I parted in the upstairs hallway. “Call the chief when you’re ready to leave,” I reminded. “He’ll bring a car over. I’ll park mine at the marina so I have a ride home whenever I get off the ferry. See you tonight.”
I wanted to kiss Braden and hug that delicious body. I settled for a discreet wink.
Woody Nickel’s office door was closed. I knocked briskly. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Marley,” I answered.
The door swung open. The speed indicated he was standing with his mitt on the doorknob. “Have a seat. I don’t have much time. Sally expects me to greet the press. Janie says you’re representing a potential buyer?”
“My aunt,” I lied, and spun my tale. “After the real estate banquet, I told Aunt May about Emerald Cay. She’s been thinking of buying property in the area, and she’s a real environmental maven. I’d love to have her nearby. Anyway I wanted to ask a few questions, pick up some literature for her.”
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 14
