Woody sucked on his teeth, then exposed them like a flasher. “These homesites are very special. I’m afraid they are beyond the budget of most seniors.”
Too bad Aunt May wasn’t representing herself in person. She’d eat this guy for lunch. “Oh, well then. Maybe it isn’t the right thing. May didn’t want to spend more than a million on a lot. She put a three-million dollar ceiling on her vacation home budget—construction and all.”
Woody’s Adams apple waggled up and down. He’d swallowed hook, line and fish pole. Now you’ll be a polite little suck-up and answer my questions. Hand over everything I want.
“That’s wonderful,” Woody hedged. “I have complete confidence Emerald Cay will meet her expectations. But as Sally explained at the banquet, we can’t put the horse before the cart. Our documents aren’t ready. We have to dot all the i’s…”
Having run out of hackneyed phrases, the smiling salesman spread his hands wide in a helpless gesture. “Can I call you next week?”
“Of course.” I smiled back.
Woody’s door practically hit me in the butt. Janie’s instincts were sound. Something wasn’t kosher. I’d picked up a few skills working Army intelligence, including the ability to read documents upside down. Two sales contracts sat on the corner of Woody’s desk. Both for Emerald Cay homesites. The selling prices were $500,000 and $600,000. The contracts listed the buyers as Anthony Watson of Columbia, S.C., and John Beck of New York, N.Y.
How in hell could he write contracts if they hadn’t completed the offering paperwork?
I stopped by Janie’s office. She put a finger to her lips. A signal to keep my mouth shut.
“We’ll talk tonight,” I said. “Now how do I run your media gauntlet?”
Janie motioned me to her window. “Piece of cake. Most of the reporters are taking Sally’s tour, and your friend is entertaining the rest.”
Below, Dr. Bride, the ecological evangelist, stood next to his golf cart. He appeared near rapture as he handed out flyers and quoted selectively from the Bible. “Because they have forsaken me, and have burned incense unto other gods, that they might provoke me to anger with all the works of their hands…”
“Hey, get your fanny in gear,” Janie said. “The going won’t get any better. I’ll let you out the emergency exit.”
As I tiptoed to my car, Dr. Bride’s quavering baritone followed me. “…therefore my wrath shall be poured out upon this place, and shall not be quenched.”
THIRTEEN
A barter system had evolved between Dear Island’s two camps—folks with cars off island when the bridge failed, and those with cars garaged on Dear. Since I knew Donna’s Lexus to be part of the off-island fleet, I called to beg wheels, offering to shop for her as payment in kind. She snapped up the deal, and handed me a lengthy grocery list when I picked up her keys.
On the ferry ride, I fiddled with the taped shoebox on my lap, unsure if portaging my handgun in the closed container violated South Carolina law. Braden insisted I stash my gun in the car’s glove box during my Beaufort excursion.
In our state, it’s perfectly legal for anyone with a registered gun to keep it fully loaded in a closed glove compartment—a scary thought given increased road rage. However, it’s illegal to carry concealed weapons without a special permit, and I’d had no reason to obtain one—prior to my electrifying meeting with our killer.
The gun I kept holstered on my hip while on-duty was a different matter. As SLED-certified crime fighters, all Dear Island Security Officers were authorized to carry on the job.
No gun did much to bolster my sense of security. In the Army I had to qualify annually with a pistol. Basically that meant I could hit a paper target under ideal conditions. Until this past week, I’d never drawn my gun for real.
Inside Donna’s Lexus, I dutifully unwrapped my gun and tucked it into its cubbyhole. It seemed silly. No one would attack me in my loaner car, and I wouldn’t tote the gun to lunch. Thankfully, even people with concealed weapon permits aren’t allowed to pack heat when they enter establishments that serve liquor.
The car ride seemed far more sedate than when my Mustang met the gopher-sized potholes on Sea Island back roads. Several weeks had passed since I’d visited Gedduh Place, and I felt guilty. I hadn’t signed up to tutor new students since my last two “graduated.” Both could now read what mattered to them. In Alycia’s case, that meant tackling schoolbooks with her young children. Willard, in his late eighties, wanted to read the Bible for himself “before he passed.” I made a mental note to tell Leyla I’d take on new pupils come May. If I’m still alive.
Two years ago, Dr. Leyla Clark had traded a cushy faculty post at a Midwest university for Gedduh’s lower pay. After we got to know each other, I asked what brought her here.
“I grew up a thousand miles from the Sea Islands, but my roots are here,” she said. “First time we visited, my cousins taught me to cast a shrimp net, and Gran cut me raw pieces of cane. I knew I’d come home. I love the Gullah people, the language. It’s unique, you know? My ancestors were isolated here. I want to preserve their culture.”
Turning onto one of Gedduh’s hard-packed dirt drives, I felt the familiar time warp. A former plantation housed Gedduh Place, and many of the original buildings remained—a touchstone for a disappearing way of life.
Shade from overarching live oaks swallowed my car on the winding corridor. The trees had withstood centuries of hurricane winds in gnarled dignity. And the old buildings evoked a time-capsule sensation. Their thick walls filtered the outside noise and Lowcountry heat, giving the interiors a church-like serenity.
I parked, entered a building that had been partitioned into offices and started down the hall. Today, the cool quiet triggered goose bumps, not meditation. The center had a small fulltime staff. When there were no classes, it seemed downright spooky. I paused to make certain the echoing footsteps were mine alone.
Leyla’s office door stood open. She frowned at a large stack of papers as I crossed the threshold. When she saw me, her handsome face failed to light with the usual smile. “Oh, Marley, I’m glad you came. I’m scared something horrible has happened to Sharlana.”
I’d met Sharlana once. Leyla’s sister, Rena, had married a Gullah native and moved to the island years before Leyla accepted the Gedduh job. Sharlana was Rena’s youngest child. My friend came around her desk and we hugged. “Let’s walk. I’m so freaking frustrated I feel like a caged animal.”
She led me outside. “When did your niece go missing?”
“About six o’clock Tuesday evening.” Leyla turned and clutched my arm, her grip as tight as her voice. “Now it’s Thursday and no one’s seen her. I’m sick with worry.”
I matched Leyla’s pace as she headed toward a sandy lane that ended at a rickety crabbing dock.
Her voice trembled. “Rena—Sharlana’s mom—called the sheriff’s department at midnight when my niece wasn’t home yet. She’d already phoned all of her friends.”
“What did the sheriff say?”
Leyla dabbed at perspiration on her mahogany forehead. She looked ill. “A deputy came, talked with the family. He suggested Sharlana’s disappearance was likely teenage rebellion. But, Marley, she’s not the type to hook up with some boy and leave her parents frantic. Do you have contacts in the sheriff’s department? Someone you could convince to take this seriously?”
I put my arm around her shoulders, and gave her an encouraging squeeze. “I know one deputy. I’ll do what I can. Sharlana graduated high school last year, right? Didn’t her boyfriend start college at Georgia Tech?”
We reached the dock and stopped. Too many sagging sections to advance any farther. Near the bank a fallen tree provided a makeshift bench. Leyla sat and patted the space beside her.
“We hoped Sharlana would head to college, too, but she argued it was a waste until she decided on a career. Claimed she needed to live a little first. My sister tried a carrot-and-stick approach. Told Sharlana she’d foot the
bill for college. But if she didn’t go to school, she had to pay room and board.”
Leyla stared out at the water. The sun’s reflection hurt my eyes. “I’ll give my niece her due. Sharlana didn’t bitch and moan. Got a job and paid rent. Of course, that sent my sister round the bend, too. The idea of her bright daughter cleaning toilets for—now don’t take offense—some lazy-ass honkies.”
I laughed. “No offense taken. Where’s Sharlana working?”
She looked surprised. “I figured you knew. Dear Island housekeeping. Told her mom she was doing graduate studies in racism on an honest-to-God twenty-first-century plantation. Said the lady of the house—Bea Caldwell—was a real witch.”
A chill of foreboding swept over me. Bea was killed Tuesday night, the same night Sharlana vanished.
I suddenly remembered four-year-old Teddy’s innocent replay of Bea’s last phone call: “You believed Adam…Adam Spate.” With a sinking feeling, I wondered if Bea, with her affinity for horrid racial slurs, had said something quite different: “You believed a damn spade.”
Leyla’s head dropped into her hands. “Do you think that woman’s killer murdered Sharlana, too?”
Yes, that’s precisely what I think. Of course, I didn’t admit it. Hope is a powerful weapon, and I wanted to leave my friend armed for the days of waiting.
“Perhaps there’s a connection. That doesn’t mean Sharlana’s dead. You said your niece came home from work, then left again about six?”
“Yes. She changed clothes and tacked a note on the refrigerator, telling her mom not to wait supper. She was headed to town and would be back by nine. Sharlana wrote it, my sister knows her handwriting.”
No wonder these folks are terrified.
“Did she drive herself to town?”
“No, she doesn’t have a car. Rena assumed a friend picked her up. But she called everyone she could think of. None of her friends saw her that day.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. I helped her up from the stump and hugged her before we began to retrace our route. Leyla moved slowly, as if she dreaded what waited.
Halfway between the crabbing dock and the center’s main building, a loud snap startled me. Someone stepping on a twig? The sound came from my right. The woods were thick, choked with underbrush. Leaves rustled and my breathing quickened. I thought I heard a whisper. Who was out there?
“Something wrong?” Leyla stared at me.
I’d stopped dead behind her. “I’m just jumpy. Thought I heard something.”
She shrugged. “Probably deer. Sooner or later the developers will replace them, too. Find a breed that poses for pictures.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence. I felt edgy as if the woods hid a predator. Were we being watched? Enough paranoia. Leyla has real problems. Don’t project your personal terrors. It’s easy to ridicule hunches, harder to shake them.
When we reached her office, I bid Leyla goodbye. “I’ll do everything I can. I know some ladies in housekeeping. I’ll talk to them. Did Sharlana have any special friends at work?”
Leyla smiled through her tears. “Yeah, a young girl. Sofia, I think. From Croatia. Her town never recovered from the civil war. Sharlana was teaching her English. Poor girl knew about eight words when she arrived.”
Croatia? Another connection to Eastern Europe? The coincidences were piling up.
Leyla walked me to my car. “Sometimes I despair. Did you know the Dear Company let a bunch of housekeepers go? Replaced ’em with a boatload of refugees. I never dreamed people would be elbowing Sea Islanders out of the way to scrub floors.”
Leyla’s contagious misery fed my certainty that Kain Dzandrek was involved. God, I wanted a go at him.
***
I was late for my lunch date and surprised to find only one of my friends on Plums’ patio. Brenda Gerton held down a prime table for four, ignoring the evil eye from people waiting to be seated.
The restaurant overlooks Beaufort’s Waterfront Park. As I walked onto the back porch, a sleek thirty-foot ketch gracefully docked under sail at the downtown marina. On terra firma, kids swarmed over the play fort that anchors one edge of the village green. They giggled with delight in the mild sunshine. An added bonus was the breeze—stiff enough to keep no-see-ums, the insect scourge of a Lowcountry spring, at bay.
“It’s about time somebody joined me,” Brenda sniffed. “I went ahead and ordered for you. Now don’t be difficult and make this the first time you study the menu.”
I pulled out a chair. “Nope. I’m content with my rut.” Lunch at Plums meant a cup of she-crab soup, a chicken-salad sandwich, and unsweetened tea—a nod to my Yankee heritage.
Brenda frowned. “You okay? When the sheriff announced his murder witness was a security officer and referred to ‘her,’ I knew it was you. If memory serves, Dear’s only other female officer is on maternity leave. Did some nutcase really attack you?”
“Yeah, but I’m fine.”
Brenda snorted. “Fine? You had a concussion, right? Don’t rush things.”
“I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t be traipsing all over creation on your own. I thought the sheriff had more sense. You’re the number one topic for Beaufort gossip. If that maniac eavesdrops on the right conversation, he’ll know more about you than your own momma.”
I laughed at Brenda’s colorful phrasing. “Hey, where’s Tammy?”
“Beating the bushes for the Hollis County Alliance. Called to say she’s running late.”
I’d met Brenda and Tammy in a history course on the University of South Carolina-Beaufort campus. We had little in common beyond our age. Brenda, a career wife and mother, had never worked outside the home. She was born-and-bred Beaufort aristocracy. In contrast, Tammy was a private banker on Wall Street who relocated when her much older husband retired. Neither woman had any interest in military matters. Maybe it was our differences—plus a quirky sense of humor—that bound us as friends.
“Well, are you going to tell me about the attack?” Brenda probed.
“Nope. I’d just have to repeat everything once Tammy arrives.”
“Speak of the she-devil.” Brenda nodded at Tammy bulling her way toward our table. Her pleasantly plump face was flushed, her eyes stormy. She slammed her briefcase on the table then muttered, “Sorry.”
Tammy took a deep breath. “Couple more weeks like this and I quit. I used to close multimillion dollar deals, and the A-holes here treat me like pond scum. I need a drink.” She snagged a passing waitress and ordered a gin and tonic.
When Tammy arrived in the Lowcountry, she decided her I.Q. would drop faster than her golf handicap if she didn’t find something to occupy her mind. She signed on as membership director for the Hollis County Alliance, a private-public partnership aimed at economic development. The area’s volatile mix of seat-of-your-pants entrepreneurs, landed gentry and nouveau rich carpetbaggers intrigued her.
“What’s got you so riled?” Brenda asked.
“I called on two new businesses, and you’d have thought I gargled with garlic juice. A polite no thank you is one thing, rude and crude another. Zach Antolak—he opened a mortgage brokerage six weeks ago—told me how he preferred to be welcomed.”
The waitress slid a gin-and-tonic in front of Tammy and she took a long swallow. “Then I called on Clay Jacobs. He wasn’t lewd, just said he had no time for small-town ass kissing. Claimed he had more business than he could handle. Good God, he’s an appraiser who hung out a shingle a month ago. With that attitude, how’s he getting customers?”
I raised an eyebrow at Brenda. Her hubby was one of the county’s leading real estate attorneys. “Has real estate made that big of a rebound? Can any dipwad make it?”
Brenda shook her head. “No way. Ned says the second-home market is improving but not what you’d call robust. Banks are still skittish about exposure to developers. But Ned did check out that Jacobs fellow for Stew, who couldn’t fathom how the newcomer had stolen all his Dear business.”
Stew’s name piqued my interest.
“Jacobs comes from Columbia so Ned called buddies there. Few months back, the guy got slapped on the wrist for ethics violations. The Alliance is probably better off without him.”
Tammy looked my way. “Marley, I can’t believe I’m blowing off steam when I haven’t asked how you feel. The sheriff said you ‘scuffled’ with a killer. What the hell does that mean?”
Our food arrived, giving me a short reprieve. Between spoonfuls of she-crab soup, I dished out a subtly shaded version of the truth. Yes, I’d been attacked but I now felt hunky-dory. Yes, I remembered seeing the killer, but his facial features were still fogged by my mental mist.
“I’m sure our killer’s moved on,” I lied. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. Who starts?”
For our once-a-month luncheons, each of us prepared a mini-lecture. Five minutes—or less—on a topic the others weren’t likely to know beans about. Tammy usually enlightened us on finance. Brenda offered up colorful local histories. I talked about the military and weaponry.
“I’ll go first.” Tammy opened her briefcase. “I even brought handouts. My topic? Estate planning.”
Brenda protested. “Our friend just pulled one foot from the grave and you want to speculate on how they’ll divvy up her jewelry?”
I laughed at the interplay. “Don’t get your undies in a twist, Brenda. Retired military broads don’t have jewelry.”
Tammy cleared her throat to quell further rebellion. “As I was saying…”
I half listened. Couldn’t quit mulling over Tammy’s brush-offs—first by a shady appraiser, then by a mortgage broker with an Eastern European name. Luckily Tammy didn’t quiz me on her info. A waitress brought coffee, and it was Brenda’s turn.
“Okay, I’m going to educate you Yankees on how the Turners regained their fortune after the War Between the States. Notice the name: nothing ‘civil’ about that war.”
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 15
