I knew Braden was awake when one of his hands slid unerringly into a retaliatory position. As he began an exploratory foray, he didn’t need to be De Soto to discover I was ready, willing and able. My low moan and greedy grasp of a most-favored appendage gave the game away. I can’t recall the last time I used the word “swoon”—if ever—but I may have done so when his soft but slightly prickly beard led the charge of his counterattack. Then all my troubles, all my bruised flesh and banged limbs, were forgotten in a warm electric rush that sent twitching impulses of pleasure scurrying to every nerve ending.
When the tremors quieted, I sighed my contentment.
“I’m sure going to miss you,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Braden looked hurt. He brushed back my hair and twirled a finger in an unruly ringlet glued to my damp forehead. “Are you kicking me out—slam, bam, thank you, Sam?”
I hadn’t intended to delve into our relationship at this moment. But my thoughts had popped out. No way to stuff them back in the box.
“No.” I smiled. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want—or visit whenever you like. It’s just that Janie mentioned the bridge reopens tomorrow. So it won’t be long before Sheriff Conroy recalls his deputies. No need for you to bivouac here once you can drive on and off the island.”
“Oh,” Braden stayed quiet for a moment. “If I don’t clear out, Dear’s gossip fires will rage, right? Would that cause you heartburn?”
“Not really. I quit fretting about other people’s opinions about the time I screwed my military career by marrying a noncom.”
I nodded toward a watercolor that occupied four feet of bedroom wall space. It pictured three middle-aged ladies on a beachcombing expedition. “Do you like that painting?”
“Uh, it’s okay. Not very flattering. Are you deliberately changing the subject?”
“No, it’s relevant. I think the artist loved those women. Sure their thighs are dimpled with cellulite, but it doesn’t stop them from sallying forth in bathing suits. Look at that lady on the right, her rump is so plump it’s stretched her suit to near transparency. Do any of them give a hoot? No. They’re merrily collecting shells and laughing. Content inside their own skins.”
I stopped and kissed Braden’s fingertips. “So am I. Most of the time anyway. I’m a poor candidate for Botox and unlikely to care if my neighbors approve my sleeping arrangements. But we have a sizable age gap and we didn’t really plan this…arrangement. I’m not looking for a commitment. In fact, I think another commitment is tearing you up.”
Braden interrupted. “What are you talking about? There’s no one else.”
“Sure there is. Your sons. Your boys are calling you back to Atlanta. I saw your wallet lying open at the hospital. You’d been studying their faces, right? If you want to be part of their lives, don’t take no for an answer.”
He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Brady and Duncan. I keep hearing the Cuthbert twins, how they believed their dad didn’t love them. I want my sons to know I’m crazy about them. I want them to come to me if they’re ever in trouble or just troubled.”
“Sounds like you’ve made a decision,” I said.
“Yeah, about my involvement in their lives, not about where I’ll live. Who’s to say I can’t be a good dad and live on Dear Island? And what happens to us if I leave?”
I tried to keep my tone light. “We’re fine. You’re kind and brave—not to mention tender and sexy. For the past year, I’ve been sleepwalking. You’ve been a wonderful wake-up call. I don’t want to say goodbye. But I don’t want you to stay out of inertia. If you think you can handle long-distance parenting, we should be able to juggle a long-distance romance. It’s something to think about.”
“Okay,” Braden answered. “But I sure as hell don’t want this to end.”
We had both avoided the “love” word. Was I in love? Or just grateful to be back among the living?
***
Braden slipped his arms around my waist as I turned an omelet for a final browning. “If you think I’m moving out of this bed-and-breakfast any time soon, you’re nuts.” He kissed the back of my neck. Then he poured us coffee, and retrieved a Diet Coke from the fridge to set beside my placemat. Already the man had adjusted to one of my idiosyncrasies.
I forked a generous mouthful of eggs, and my gaze snagged on a cooler collecting dust in a kitchen corner. “Remember that blue-and-white cooler the twins watched Hugh haul from Kain’s Sunset Island drop to Dear? Was it ever found?”
“Nope, and deputies searched every inch of the Cuthbert mansion as well as Gator’s and Sally’s houses. They also looked in likely cubbyholes on company property—restaurants, clubhouses, resort and real estate offices.”
“Well, wherever it is, I bet it’s still flush with cash,” I said. “Gator and Sally had no time to launder anything—money or undies—between Kain’s order for fifty thousand clean bills and their arrest. So where do you suppose Hugh hid it?”
Braden’s fork wavered mid-air. “A rental property? Kain must have told Hugh not to foul his own nest. With the boys snooping around, Hugh needed a neutral hidey-hole.”
“Well, it wouldn’t take long to check out active rentals,” I said, “especially ones rented for a month or more. I doubt Hugh would be the renter-of-record though.”
He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I doubt a judge would give me a warrant to search a couple dozen rental properties based on a hunch.”
I smiled. “No warrants needed. Every Dear rental agreement includes a waiver giving island housekeeping, security guards, firemen and emergency personnel the right to enter the premises at any time for any reason. And, guess what, yours truly is a security guard.”
After breakfast, we called Chief Dixon to get his okay for our treasure hunt. He grunted a “yes” so long as I didn’t bill my hours. “Hey, my budget’s toast with all the freaking overtime. I think you’re on a wild goose chase, but who cares if I’m not in range of the buckshot.”
Dixon’s foul mood probably related to his employment picture. While he worked for DOA and not the developers, the Dear Company paid fifty percent of security salaries. Given the financial morass bequeathed to creditors by Gator and Sally, the new regime might arrive swinging a broad budget axe.
I assured the chief my efforts were gratis. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t have you down for any shifts this week. Pressure’s off. Relax a little. Lord help us, I think the excitement’s past.”
The consensus was that all the bad guys—with one horrible exception—were dead or behind bars. A charter pilot had identified a photo of Kain, confirming his Saturday night flight to Miami. By now the mystery man could be anywhere. Braden’s bet was in one of the “stans” in what was once the USSR.
I got goose bumps thinking about the man creeping back and trying to extract a pound of flesh from my hide one sliver at a time. I didn’t want him at large—anywhere.
With the chief’s nod to enter rental property, Braden and I suited up for duty, strapping on holsters and guns. As I pocketed my wallet, a slip of paper fell out. The note held the numbers I’d scribbled the night we tossed Hugh’s boat.
“You ready?” Braden asked.
“Yeah, let me grab my GPS. Remember that list of numbers Hugh stashed with marine charts? While we’re cruising around, let’s see if any of the numbers might be island coordinates.”
***
Eager to help, the Dear Island resort manager showed us how to work the rental software. In ten minutes, we compiled a list of twenty-four properties meriting a look-see. All were rented after January 1 for extended periods, and none of the vacationers were repeat guests. Sue had already culled the list of Canadians and other snowbirds who returned to Dear year after year.
With a roster and duplicate keys in hand, we headed to the north end of the island. We decided on a surprise knock-and-search operation. No advance calls to see who answered. Though all of Kain’s collaborators appeared to be hospi
talized, handcuffed or fugitives, we saw no reason to take chances.
Our canvass proved time-consuming. Most of the houses sat empty. It seemed strange for so many renters to be AWOL on a Monday morning, especially a cold one that felt more like January than April. Yet Dear’s newly reopened bridge acted as a powerful magnet. Long lines of cars queued to take turns snaking over the jury-rigged one-lane connector. While some residents headed to grocery and liquor stores to stock up on staples, others simply relished the freedom to drive wherever they pleased. The jailer had opened Dear’s gates.
By late afternoon, we’d crossed eighteen houses off our list. Rummaging around in thirteen empty houses had brought only one discovery—tourons leave lots of disgusting stuff strewn about, from plates smeared with spaghetti goo to soiled boxer shorts.
The people who did answer their bells were clearly not in Kain’s thrall. Braden’s ID checks didn’t even scare up unpaid traffic tickets. Still, we searched their haciendas in case Hugh had hoodwinked them.
At four p.m., I rebelled. Prior attempts to badger Braden into taking a break had failed. He belonged to the finish-before-you-relax school. Our first incompatibility issue. I could not last six or seven hours without a caffeine and carbohydrate fix. If I skipped lunch, I invited one humdinger of a headache. My noggin now felt like a bowling ball being drilled for new finger holes. So I refused to use my magic security pass again until I was issued crackers and a Diet Coke.
My snit fit delivered us to E.T. Grits. Braden, who insisted on saving his appetite for an early T-bone, slouched against a pillar at the front of the convenience store while I speed-walked to the refrigerated cases at the back. I grabbed a Diet Coke and started downing it as I made my way to the junk food display. While gazing longingly at a king-size Butterfinger, I felt eyes boring into my back. I spun and spotted an elderly lady one aisle over. Her angry brown eyes, magnified by thick glasses, lasered me. I felt like a bug. Was my blouse unbuttoned? Did she think I wouldn’t pay for the pop?
A second later, she moved on. I watched her hunched back as she scurried away. Her gray poodle hairdo swayed from side to side as she crab walked down the narrow aisle.
By the time I reached the checkout, the disgruntled oldster was out the door. Sheila, the checkout clerk, tallied my debt. “Do you know the woman who just walked out?” I asked.
“No. She’s not a regular. But I saw her with Sally last week. Why—should I know her?”
I waved off Sheila’s puzzled look. “No. The lady just looked at me as if I’d farted and tried to shift the blame her way.”
Sheila laughed. “Probably needs to eat more prunes. Maybe she can’t fart.”
Braden sauntered over. “Happy now? Can we get a move on? I’d like to finish our little exercise in futility before the sun sets.”
***
“What the heck is that thing?” Braden asked.
We were en route to the twenty-second house on our list, a mushroom-like villa on Blue Crab Point, the last of four homes sprinkled along a slender wedge of forest that protruded into the marsh. A rickety wooden bridge linked the marooned point to the island proper. The desolate spot was as remote as you could get on Dear.
The end villa had not aged well. Separated thermopanes made the glass walls look milky, like the sides of dirty fish tanks. Our long-term rental was secluded and eerie.
“If Hugh wanted a setting to discourage guests, we’re here,” I said as we parked. Untrimmed oleanders crowded my Mustang and shrouded the cave-like entryway. Braden rang the bell. Once. Twice. No answer. Big surprise. We hadn’t seen a car or lights. No sign of occupancy.
He unlocked the warped front door. It funneled visitors directly to a circular staircase that led to the living quarters above. I shivered. The tubular entrance was damp, clammy. “Braden, I’m getting a bad feeling. Maybe we should call for backup?”
He laughed. “For mold? Go back to the car if you want. I’ll take a quick look. We only have two more houses to check. I want to finish up.”
I didn’t turn back. The stairway proved too narrow for a side-by-side ascent, so Braden took the lead. For some reason, he decided to show off his stair-climbing speed. In contrast, my recently battered legs stuck in low gear. He disappeared from view as I chugged up the stairwell’s last spiral kinks. A minute later, I heard his disembodied voice. “All clear. No criminals except the decorator. The rug’s an orange shag.”
Relieved, I stopped a minute to catch my breath. Then I heard Braden’s voice again—“Oh, sorry ma’am”—followed by a loud thud.
“Braden,” I yelled. “You okay?”
Silence. I drew my gun and crept up the last two stairs, my back tight against the slender banister. “Braden?” I yelled.
My call echoed, unanswered, in the hollow stairwell. My heart raced. What’s happening? Had some lady beaned Braden with a frying pan, thinking she’d surprised a burglar?
Indecision immobilized me. Should I call for help? Oh no, Braden had the radio, not me. You have a gun, I told myself. So did Braden, my alter-ego answered. Yeah, but he wasn’t expecting an ambush.
The door to the living room canted slightly ajar. I kicked it and rushed inside, my gun arm leading the charge. At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. Braden was on the floor, propped in a sitting position. A small rivulet of blood meandered down his forehead. His eyes were closed. A woman crouched behind Braden, shielded by his body. All I could see were a few wisps of frizzy gray hair and the gun she held tight to his temple.
“Hello, Marley,” a voice boomed. “You don’t have a shot. Might as well drop the gun. Otherwise I’ll kill lover boy.”
Kain’s amused voice.
Oh, God. He’d slipped back on the island in drag. Why? He’d been home safe.
“Everyone’s so nice to old ladies,” Kain said. “We’re so disarming.”
Sweet Jesus, he was actually enjoying himself. I took a deep breath and considered my options. Kain’s assessment was correct. I had only one clear target—Braden.
We were dead. I couldn’t shoot Kain without hitting Braden. And Kain could take me out any time he wanted. Why hadn’t he?
“Marley, did you hear? Listen up. Put your gun on the floor and kick it over. I’m serious. You’ve got one minute or I’ll kill him.”
Though terrified, I was beyond anger and felt mulishly stubborn. If I had to die, so be it. I was going to take this scumbag with me.
“Not a chance, Kain.” I was pleased to discover my voice didn’t quaver. “If you shoot Braden, I can shoot you. No way am I giving up my gun.”
I hoped Kain would pop his head up to argue and give me a clear shot. He didn’t. I felt as if I was conversing with the Mad Hatter or a demented puppeteer hiding behind a live prop.
After a moment of silence, Kain answered in a reasoned manner—though the macho voice floated up from a pile of gray curls. “Normally your assessment would be quite accurate, Marley. You lose the gun; I kill you. But there are extenuating circumstances. I need your help. It’s in my best interest to keep you and your detective alive. I want your cooperation.”
“Why?” I infused my voice with sarcasm and tried to anticipate his answer. Did he want help getting off the island? Did he need transportation? A hostage? Was this another perverted trick? A new game?
Kain sighed. “I see you’re skeptical. I’m not any happier about the circumstances than you are. Hugh left me in a quandary. After he learned the twins tailed him from Sunrise Island, he phoned to say he was afraid they might have followed him to this rental, too. He promised to find a safe place to relocate some of my, shall we say…property previously stored here.
“Unfortunately, the stupid ass got himself shot before we could speak again. I hoped he hadn’t had time to move the items. Instead, I found a note. Hugh knew my fondness for word games, so either he was trying to impress me or confuse the police. Regrettably, his note makes no sense. I assume I’m missing a clue—probably related to Dear’s landmarks or inhab
itants. That’s where you come in, my dear colonel. I need an interpreter, a linguistic sherpa.”
I actually laughed. Talk about your unholy alliances. “Oh, Kain. Even if I believed you, what’s the point? As soon as you claim your property, Braden and I are dead. You’ll shoot us both.”
“Gentleman’s honor, I won’t. No matter what you think, my offer buys you time. I’m sure that overactive brain of yours is already figuring ways to outsmart me. Maybe you can. It’s your only chance.”
Damned if he wasn’t right. I was frantically plotting ways to thwart the sucker. But, at the moment, I wasn’t even certain there was a note. Maybe the note was a creative lie.
“Where’s the note? I want to see it.”
“Look at the door.”
I glanced sideways at a note Scotch-taped to the back of the door. The printing was large and childlike: THE KING’S HOME. COLD CASH.
I lowered my gun. Kain was right. He needed help, and I needed to buy time.
TWENTY-SIX
I yanked frantically against the handcuffs as I screamed at Kain. “You lying bastard. You want my help? Forget it. You can go straight to hell.”
Across the room, Kain chuckled. “My, my, such language. Calm down. Is this any way to talk to your new partner? I didn’t tell a single lie. I said you could buy time. I didn’t say how much. And I promised I wouldn’t shoot your cop. I haven’t, and I won’t. This little incendiary device is set to go off at midnight. Almost seven hours away. If you’re efficient, and we find Hugh’s hiding place before then, you can untie him before this glass silo goes boom.”
Kain gave an exaggerated shrug. He was still in drag and looked harmless, almost silly in his Q-tip wig and pink velour leisure suit. Now that I knew it was Kain, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him in E.T. Grits. I had to hand it to the guy, he knew his costumes. In addition to the wig, he’d donned brown contacts and thick glasses. He was also decked out with a prosthetic bra and leg padding that made his thighs look like an ad for anti-cellulite cream. The get-up helped him perfect a waddling gait. A slouch disguised his true height.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 26
