by Linda Lovely
I tuned in as Weaver questioned Eric. The boy reported that his Uncle Kyle had been feeding him pharmaceuticals like popcorn to keep him out of the way. Feeling ill, Eric began spitting out pills as soon as his caretakers left the room. He’d wandered down to the kitchen for a snack and was foraging in the walk-in pantry when he heard his Uncle Kyle and Hamilton having a heated argument.
“Hamilton insisted I had to die,” Eric said. “Kyle found the stash of pills I’d been spitting up so they weren’t sure how much I knew. Hamilton suggested a drug overdose, but Uncle Kyle claimed it was too risky. He said even if I talked, no one would believe a druggie.”
Eric stopped talking and stared at the hands folded in his lap. Weaver patted his shoulder. “What happened then?”
“Hamilton called my uncle a coward. That made Uncle Kyle mad. He said he wished he’d never asked Hamilton for help when Dr. Glaston put the squeeze on him. Hamilton told Uncle Kyle to suck it up or he’d just be another loser bastard.”
As Weaver peppered Eric with a new question, his eyes seemed to focus.
“I knew Kyle kept a Glock by his bed. So I snuck into his room and stole it. I crept downstairs, saw Hamilton standing in the doorway. A stair squeaked just when I took aim. Hamilton dove behind Uncle Kyle and ran out the front door.”
Eric stopped talking. Weaver asked an agent to go to May’s kitchen and get him a glass of water. He gulped it down.
“So you shot Kyle?”
“I didn’t mean to. The bullet hit his arm. All that blood made me feel sick. I ran back through the kitchen. Then I came here.”
Eric hiccupped.
I was convinced the young man told the truth. He wasn’t a killer though it would have been easy for Hamilton to convince a jury otherwise. “Ladies and gentlemen, the boy is out of his skull. He shot his uncle and two women during a blackout episode.” Given gunpowder on the young man’s hands, and his verbal threats at the funeral parlor, a guilty verdict was a slam-dunk. Not a living soul could have disputed Hamilton’s twisted version of the facts.
The phone rang. I jumped a foot. Guess I was still wound a tad tight. I looked over at the FBI agent. “Can I answer that?”
She nodded and I walked into May’s bedroom.
“May and Ross are awake,” Eunice reported. “Come on over. I called Mrs. Lady’s and ordered takeout. Stop on your way and bring lunch. I ordered hot tamales for you.”
“I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
Weaver herded Eric toward the living room. “I’m taking him into custody,” she said. “I have to until we check out all the facts. He’ll be under guard in a hospital. First job is getting him clean of whatever chemicals they’ve been pumping into him.”
“You don’t need anything else from me now, right? That was Eunice. Ross and May are awake. I want to go see them. Plus I’m hoping I can convince May to stay at Ross’s house until I can get her condo looking like it did when she last saw it.”
After Weaver gave me her blessing, I dressed and headed to Mrs. Lady’s to pick up the lunches. I wasn’t quite sure how to tell them about all the fun they’d missed while they slept. If they were up for a spicy lunch, I’d deliver.
My relatives were all gathered around the kitchen table when I arrived. I dished out our entrees and waited until everyone had dug in before I began my tale.
I explained that Jake had been killed because he’d found out that Dr. Glaston was going to sell Jolbiogen research to terrorists. Hamilton devised the plan to murder Jake—he knew about Jake’s medical condition from the company doctor’s files—and Kyle arranged for his mistress, Vivian, to switch out the eyedrop container during the wedding reception.
“Hamilton and Kyle must have killed the others, too—Dr. Glaston, Gina and Olivia. They were all killed using chemicals available at Jolbiogen. But why would Hamilton murder Jake?” Ross asked.
“Hamilton wanted Glaston’s deal with the terrorists to go through—he needed that money because his company hadn’t been doing well. Plus, Dr. Glaston was blackmailing Kyle, threatening to reveal that Ansley Hamilton had betrayed Jake and fathered a child out of wedlock. Hamilton cared too much about status to allow that,” I said.
Then I told everyone about my early morning visitors. May wasn’t exactly happy about losing a Tiffany lamp and the damage to her ceiling and door. I didn’t even mention the blood on the rug. She agreed to stay at Ross’s until her home was back in order.
After I burped my last tamale, Weaver called. “Thought you might want to know how Hamilton planned to set up an alibi. You’ll love this. He called the FBI just after he finished shooting Kyle, Vivian and Nancy. He knew we’d triangulate the call to see where it originated.”
“So, wouldn’t it show he called from the murder scene?”
“No,” Weaver answered. “He used a two-way radio. Taped one radio to his cell phone in a rental house across the lake from the murder scene. He used a voice command to initiate the call. Then talking into his radio, he carried on a conversation while he tidied up the crime scene.”
“Thank heaven, he didn’t get away with it,” I answered.
As soon as I hung up, I dialed my home on Dear Island. It was time to share some good news with Darlene and Julie.
“How can I thank you, Marley? Now we can come home. Now we can come home and I can give Jake a proper farewell. I won’t feel right until Reverend Schmidt says the final prayer.”
***
“Now my mother isn’t one to brag, but she’s quite the baker.” Ross chuckled, a warm-up exercise for his audience. “A week after Mom and Dad married, Mom was determined to bake an apple pie that compared favorably with Grandma Carr’s famous pastries. So when the crust burnt on her first attempt, she hid her disaster on the roof…”
Arms gesturing, Ross owned the dais, his grin broader than a beaver prepared to smile down an oak. The audience loved his storytelling, almost as much as May’s. There wasn’t a single frown among the kin gathered to celebrate May’s entry into her ninth decade.
After two days of lake jollity, this was our final evening bash. The banquet at Village West. What a grand night. May preened like a peacock at a table with her three sons. The roast couldn’t have pleased her more. My cousins Ed and Woods already had done their shtick to heavy applause. May’s daughters-in-law laughed their heads off.
May beamed and wagged a scolding finger at Ross. My aunt could dish it out, but she could take it, too—especially since adulation so clearly laced the ribbing.
Our large table accommodated my sister, brother-in-law, nephew and nieces and their spouses. Duncan had earned an honorary slot by my side. That ensured I’d be grilled about our intentions. Was our romance serious?
At the moment, I didn’t care. In fact, I was carefree.
I looked at the table next to us, delighted that Darlene, Julie, General Irvine and Agent Weaver had joined in the merriment. Darlene and Julie, returned from their unscheduled vacation at my island home, had bravely soldiered through Jake’s memorial. Their lives were returning to normal.
To her credit, Darlene arranged and attended the funerals for Kyle and Olivia Olsen, Robert and Gina Glaston, and Vivian Riley. She paid for Nancy’s funeral, too—somewhere in Texas—but opted not to attend.
Of course, the expense didn’t really matter. In good taste, I never mentioned how the terms of her husband’s will and the deaths of Gina and Kyle made Darlene richer than Midas.
Since May’s kidnapping, there’d been more unexpected—and beneficial—fallout. In response to emails from Ross, wooden boat lovers around the country had sent contributions to replace the antique boats lost in the shootout. My cousin found two replacement antiques that could be restored to the same pristine condition. He’d also organized a fall boating extravaganza-tribute. He expected it to bring wooden boat lovers from around the U.S. to the unveiling of Gus and Harry’s born-again boats.
I tuned back into Ross’s familiar story just as he regaled the audience with U
ncle John’s climb onto the roof as he followed the apple pie scent.
Peals of laughter echoed through the banquet hall as Ross delivered his punch line. I joined in. She who laughs last…
Under the tablecloth, Duncan’s hand crept over and his fingers began a merry tap-dance on my thigh.
Life is full of surprises. Ain’t it grand?
***
Titles by Linda Lovely
Marley Clark Mystery Series
Dear Killer ©2011
No Wake Zone ©2012
Romantic Suspense
Final Accounting ©2012
HOA=DOA
Don’t miss Marley’s third adventure to be released Fall, 2013, when Marley returns to the South Carolina Lowcountry.
Marley Clark’s free-spirited friend Janie has gone entrepreneur, launching Helping Hollis HOAs, a Lowcountry management company that serves homeowner associations (HOAs) throughout Hollis County, South Carolina. Unfortunately, DOA—dead on arrival—threatens to become the acronym most associated with Janie’s start-up firm as neighborhood fights turn lethal and Board members wind up wearing toe tags.
Braden Mann, Marley’s former flame, is back in the Lowcountry and eager to stoke their relationship fire. But there are complications (of course).
Marley answers Janie’s plea to help end the mayhem and finds a link between the neighborhood bloodbaths and one person’s crusade to seek revenge for a decades’ old murder.
If you didn’t read Marley’s first outing, it’s a crackling good read, the first chapter follows.
Dear Killer
One
The wrought-iron gates stood open—again. The college kids assigned to lock up were zero for three this week. I sighed, switched on my flashlight, and walked toward the swimming pools. One more chink in the resort’s security armor for vandals to exploit.
I noticed a smudge of light on the horizon and a twinge of unease crept over me. Hilton Head Island snaked into the ocean about twenty miles south, as a pelican flies, and its neon glitz cast a yellow pall over the velvet blackness. Normally our resort has too many competing halogens to detect a neighbor’s light pollution.
Three lights in the Dolphin Club were out. It was too dark. Goose bumps raced up my arms. Something was hinky. Frozen in a cabana archway, I listened for any sound, some hint an intruder lurked in the shadows. Only gurgling water and a chorus of tree frogs broke the silence.
Sweeping my beam over the three-pool terrain, I strained to catch any movement. All was still. A second pass spotlighted an anomaly: clothing piled on a chair beside the Jacuzzi.
I walked closer, then paused as a shadowy blot rippled the surface of the water. It took a second to grasp someone floated face down. I sprinted. My feet made crunching noises as my shoes pulverized glass from the broken lamps.
No, no, no. Please don’t let him be dead.
I thought “him” even though it was impossible to tell if the body belonged to a man or woman. A shock of hair streamed from the submerged head. Pale bony shoulders gleamed in the moonlight. When I grabbed the body under the armpits and hoisted it over the hot tub’s lip, the man’s head lolled backward.
Oh, God.
Stew Hartwell’s gray eyes were wide open, though sightless. I felt for a pulse. Nothing. I went on autopilot, pinching his nostrils shut, using two fingers to feel for any obstructions in his mouth.
I put my lips to his. They were warm. The Jacuzzi’s one-hundred-four-degree water had left them soft and yielding. I blew, paused, blew. A rhythm. Breathe, dammit, breathe, dammit, breathe.
Nothing. My heart raced.
I rolled Stew on his stomach and pounded his back to expel water in his lungs. I flipped him and attacked his chest with my fist, trying to kick-start his heart. I put my lips to his once more. His mouth felt clammy now. Still, I tried to force more of my ragged gasps into his unresponsive lungs.
Come on, breathe.
Nothing. After five minutes, I gave up. Sweat trickled down my back. My face was damp and I realized I was crying. My breath came in labored pants. Oh, Stew. I’m sorry.
Years ago, my husband, Jeff, struck up a friendship with Stew. Whenever we visited the island, the two got together—poker, golf, Sunday football on Stew’s big-screen. He was one of the good guys.
Now he’s dead. Like Jeff.
My hot breath—wasted breath—rose in white puffs and mingled with the steam escaping the bubbling cauldron. The cool ocean breeze quickly wicked all warmth away.
I pulled a radio from my pocket and called Gary, the security guard on the front gate. “It’s Marley Clark. I’m at the Dolphin. We have a drowning. I tried to revive him, but he’s gone. Call EMS anyway.”
“Who drowned?” Gary asked. “Is it a kid?”
I didn’t answer. Though it was three in the morning, some sleepless codger might be amusing himself, listening to a police scanner. It wasn’t rational, but I hesitated to say Stew’s name aloud. If I kept quiet, maybe he wouldn’t be dead.
“Sorry, Gary. I can’t talk now. Get someone to wake up Chief Dixon. The front entrance is wide open. I’ll stay with the body.”
Before Gary could ask more questions, I clicked the radio off.
Enough questions assaulted my brain. Stew was totally nude. What a way for your dead body to be discovered.
Of course, he was long past caring about decorum. That made the plume of sandy hair drifting from his head seem even sadder. The man let the baby-fine hair on one temple grow long for a classic comb-over. The result, like every comb-over, made me wonder if men who favored this camouflage technique shared a vampire’s aversion to mirrors.
What possessed you to go skinny-dipping alone in the middle of the night?
During my resuscitation attempts, I’d dragged Stew most of the way out of the hot tub. However, his hips still rested on the Jacuzzi’s curved ledge, and his legs dangled in the swirling water, giving them an eerie animation. His limp penis, withered from its extended submersion, showed no such life. It looked forlorn nested in its mat of brown pubic hair.
I was tempted to cover Stew. Provide him with some final dignity. But I knew better than to mess further with the scene. My attempts to resuscitate Stew had mucked things up enough. The unusual circumstances would certainly qualify the drowning as a suspicious death.
I looked away from Stew’s torso. His feet continued to bob and the obscene jig drew my attention to the hot tub’s water.
What the hell? I saw a carrot first. Orange and large, it bobbed to the surface by his toes. I watched in disbelief as the roiling water spit up celery stalks, whole onions and what looked like bay leaves. Gradually I realized a potpourri of vegetables simmered in the bubbling pot.
Sweet Jesus. What is this—a sick joke?
I looked wildly about to make sure I was alone. I’d been kneeling, and as I stumbled to my feet, I saw blood on the concrete. My own. Shards of broken glass protruded from my knees and blood soaked the khaki slacks of my guard uniform.
That’s when I noticed the towels, folded to form an arrow. It pointed to a patch of sand.
The Dolphin’s designers had inserted sand and palm oases to break up the sea of concrete that cradled the complex’s swimming pools. A crude message was scratched in the nearest greenery-and-dune pod.
Just one word: “STEWED.”
My mind went numb. Nothing made sense. Had some psycho drowned Stew just to make a gruesome pun?
I remembered angry-looking punctures on Stew’s back when I rolled him. Seizing his left shoulder, I eased his body up. Four marks embossed his pale back. Two close together, another two six inches away.
“Goddammit.”
Nausea swept over me. I could barely imagine Stew’s terror if my hunch proved correct. The crimson pricks looked like fresh stun jabs. I’d seen similar marks on my own body. When the Dear Island security officers were issued Tasers, our training required a demonstration. I’d been “volunteered” and knew firsthand the pole-axed feeling of having my
limbs turn to jelly, of being aware of everything yet having a total disconnect between mind and body. I shivered, wondering if Stew had been fully cognizant of his fate, his brain frantically screaming at unresponsive muscles as his killer prepared to drown him.
I lowered Stew’s shoulder, backed out of the crime scene along my original entry route, and prepared to intercept Chief Dixon and the EMS paramedics. They needed to understand the circumstances to avoid adding contaminants.
The wait would be brief. Dear Island’s only five miles long and one and one-half miles wide. It took less than ten minutes to drive between any two points. And, yes, Dear Island is spelled D-E-A-R. Pre-1970 maps showed it as Deer Island. That was before it succumbed to a developer’s spelling disorder or cuteness fetish. Having met my share of Lowcountry developers, either theory seemed plausible.
My manhandling of Stew’s body had drenched me. My teeth clattered like castanets, and my knees throbbed. Congealed blood plastered my trousers to my legs. I plucked slivers of broken glass from the fabric. Anything to keep from looking at Stew. I fast-walked in tight circles, rubbing my hands to conjure up heat.
Paramedic Bill O’Brien was the first to charge on the scene. “Where’s the victim?” he yelled as he hustled in my direction.
“He’s dead,” I answered. “No pulse. I tried mouth-to-mouth. Nothing.”
“I’ll give it a go anyway. Lead the way.”
“Okay but this isn’t a routine drowning. Stew Hartwell’s been murdered. We need to think about the crime scene.”
“Murdered? Are you sure?”
Bill’s tone telegraphed skepticism. Residents took smug pride in the fact that Dear Island didn’t have enough crime to warrant keeping statistics. There was the occasional theft as well as a smattering of complaints about inebriated idiots, usually vacationers or “tourons” in island speak. But a murder? Never.
Chief Dixon arrived in time to hear our exchange. “What in hell are you saying, Marley?” Dixon demanded.
