Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (2 page)

Chief Dixon swaggered over to greet Sheriff Winston Conroy
and engaged in a ritual good ol’ boy greeting.

“Hey, Chief, hear you got something a tad more interesting
than the usual heart attack,” said Sheriff Conroy. “Gives me a chance to show
your raggedy-ass island to our new officer. Meet Deputy Braden Mann.”

The newcomer deputy appeared to be in his thirties. Old for
a Lowcountry recruit. The lean, angular planes of his face were a bit
weather-beaten, yet his limber physique spoke of resilient muscles and youthful
energy. A straight back and commanding presence suggested he was used to giving
the orders.

“Braden was a homicide cop in Atlanta,” said the sheriff.
“Likes to fish and hunt though, so he can’t be all bad.” He motioned toward the
road. “Coroner should pull in any minute. He was right behind us over the
bridge. So what we got?”

As Dixon elaborated, the sheriff’s face clouded. “Well, I’ll
be. How’d you find the body?”

Dixon nodded my way. “Marley here noticed the front gate
unlocked and saw lights were out. Came round to investigate.”

The sheriff stole a sideways glance at me. His quizzical
look took in my uniform and age—twenty-five years senior to Dear Island’s only
other female officer, who was currently on maternity leave.

“Who do we have here, Chief, another city slicker in hiding?
Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, ma’am.”

“Marley Clark. I work part-time for Chief Dixon.” We shook
hands.

“Marley comes to us from the Pentagon, a colonel in Army
Intelligence, no less.” The chief sounded as if he wanted to one-up the
sheriff.

“Just a lieutenant colonel,” I corrected, not coveting a
bogus promotion.

Dixon continued as though I hadn’t uttered a peep. “I told
Marley she was too dang young to play retiree. Besides I like having someone my
own age to talk to.”

The sheriff laughed. “Marley looks at least two decades
younger than you, Dixon. Going to Clemson University did you in. You’ve aged
like that bleu cheese the Ag school peddles.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dixon harrumphed. “Let’s get on with it.”

The sheriff’s sole CSI practitioner and the coroner went to
work. I stood off to the side, huddled beside a lifeguard stand. The sharpened
wind knifed through my soggy shirt. Massaging my arms to knead in warmth, I
tried to recall my last conversation with Stew. When hands grazed my neck, I
whirled, startled.

“It’s Marley, right?” the deputy asked. “I’m Braden.” He’d
draped a jacket around my shoulders. My jitters knocked it to the ground.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He smiled. “You look like you’re freezing.”

Before I could respond, he retrieved the jacket and wrapped
me in it. “Thanks, but I can’t take your coat.”

“Nonsense. I’m not wet—and bleeding. How bad are those
cuts?” He motioned toward my bloody knees.

“It’s nothing.” I was surprised he’d noticed. In all the
hubbub, no one else had. “A little alcohol and a few Band-aids and I’ll be
fine.”

“Sit down and I’ll fetch a first-aid kit.” He vanished
before I could object.

I’m not used to being fussed over, especially by a stranger.
But arguing required too much energy. Besides, until the coroner finished,
Braden and I had little to do beyond shivering. A poolside lounge chair
beckoned, its cushions cold and wet with dew. I was too weary to be
persnickety.

In a minute, Braden returned. He knelt and rolled up the
legs of my trousers. Thankfully, I’d shaved my legs, a hit or miss proposition
for a woman living alone. He bit open a wet gauze pack and daubed at the cuts
with a square of white cotton. The alcohol stung, but his hands felt warm, his
fingers gentle. Despite the pain and cold, I began to relax. By the time he
pressed down the last bandage I almost wished there were more cuts for him to
doctor.

Braden snapped the first-aid kit closed and stood.

“Thanks again.” I looked up and noticed Chief Dixon
hovering. He dipped his chin toward Braden. “Sheriff wants you.”

Then Dixon inclined his head in the direction of several
bathrobe-clad residents clustered at the clubhouse entrance. He shooed me their
way. “Marley, go deal with ’em, will ya?”

I slipped my arms into the deputy’s loaner jacket and walked
toward the residents. Recognizing the ringleader—Joe Reddick—I groaned
inwardly. Recently elected to the board of the Dear Owners’ Association, the
former schoolteacher was puffed up with self-importance. He’d retired early
after a “pain-and-suffering” lawsuit yielded a hefty insurance settlement. My
hunch was the little Napoleon had been unable to control his classroom and
still itched to prove he could be boss.

“It’s four a.m. I demand to know what’s going on,” Reddick
blustered, grandstanding for the gathered throng.

“There’s been a drowning.” My tone straddled the territory
between icy and polite. “We don’t know what happened yet.”

Reddick stuck out his lower jaw and crossed his arms over a
protruding gut. “Well, I plan to find out. That’s the sheriff, isn’t it? You
can’t keep us in the dark. We’re entitled to hear what’s what. I’m going to
talk to him.”

I stepped directly in the fifty-year-old’s path and tried
reason. “This is police business. The coroner is here, and the area’s
off-limits.”

“We’ll see.” Reddick attempted to dart around me.

My reaction was instantaneous and calamitous—for Reddick,
that is. To counter his feint, I raised my arm like a traffic cop. He ran
straight into it. His own momentum undid him. He stumbled and fell in a heap,
clutching his throat as if he’d been garroted.

“Sorry,” I muttered and offered a hand up. He wheezed and
waved me off.

“Did you see her?” he stammered, showboating for his pajama-clad
cohorts. “There’s no room on our security force for thugs.” His dentures lost
their grip, and his attempts to click them back into place failed. “I’ll
p-p-press charges.”

My initial chagrin at accidentally decking the guy turned to
disgust. I thought of poor Stew lying dead and this jerk hoping to capitalize
on the drama.

“That’s right, you’re the lawsuit king. Well, other folks
work for a living, and that means the sheriff’s still too busy to talk to you.”

Reddick’s performance must have convinced the rest of the
rabble-rousers I was a deadly Kung Fu master. Quaking, they backed away like Chihuahuas
facing a pit bull.

“The excitement’s over for tonight. Go back to bed. That
would help the authorities most.”

God knows we need all the help we can get
.

The leftover coffee had sat long enough for evaporation to
leave a crystalline bathtub-ring on the glass pot.
Did I care?
Nope. It
was grade-A caffeine eligible to be nuked into service.

While the microwave zapped the sludge, I retrieved a Diet Coke,
flipped the tab, and sighed at the energizing fizz. Pop and coffee are my
two-fisted breakfast drinks. Army friends accused me of pumping caffeine to
scare newcomers to my command. Truth is, my caffeine immunity is genetic. Mom
drank it right before bed—to relax.

My mug tipped on its way out of the microwave. Hot coffee
sloshed over the rim. “Ouch. Dammit.”

Already swearing. Not a promising start to the day. My
reflection in a glass cabinet door agreed. Auburn curls askew, my eyes cloaked
in shadows like a cruelly aged Orphan Annie. I glanced at the clock. Ten
minutes until my meeting with Deputy Braden Mann.

Crapola.
No time for breakfast. I opened a jar of Jif
and drubbed out a finger-f of peanut butter. Living alone had done wonders
for my social graces.

Again, I mulled over my assignment as Braden’s island guide.
Dixon claimed my understanding of Dear’s social terrain made me the logical
pick. Younger officers, who couldn’t afford to live on the island, were
clueless. The chief also knew Dear’s power structure didn’t awe me. I’d taken a
security job for my sanity, not to keep the wolf from my door.

Dixon had his reasons. But why had I accepted?

Catching the son-of-a-bitch who killed Stew was well worth
losing a little shuteye. If local knowledge of our Mayberry by-the-sea could
give Braden a head start on nailing the bastard, I was all for it.

But I had to admit there was more. The prospect of spending
time with an intelligent, good-looking male wasn’t repugnant. Especially since
Braden was neither young enough to be my son nor old enough to recite
cholesterol counts. Conversations with fellow guards were often predictable.
The men typecast me as Ann Landers with a holster.

I slurped down a final swallow of coffee, topped it with a
pop chaser and hustled outside. Movement across the street snagged my attention
as my neighbor Janie opened her living room blinds. Had news of Stew’s murder
reached her?

Janie briefly dated Stew. Then one night, he’d attempted
romance and found farce. Poured wine and lit a dozen candles prearranged to
surround his waterbed. The ambiance disintegrated when his wispy hair fanned
out and caught fire. To extinguish the flames, Janie doused Stew with water
from a handy bud base. A single rose stuck in his singed hair. Additional dates
seemed out of the question.

Why Stew?
I wondered for the umpteenth time. He was
middle-aged and affable. As a real estate appraiser, he made a decent living.
Yet he wasn’t wealthy enough to be knocked off for money. For the life of me, I
couldn’t conjure up motives of passion or revenge. He’d routinely hit on women
from the age of thirty to AARP cardholders. Yet his survival instincts were
strong—married ladies remained off limits.

Though Stew was divorced, he was a proud dad who
enthusiastically squired his twenty-year-old daughter around the island on
every college break. Was her name Sharon? I said a silent prayer for the young
woman.

Only five cars were parked in the paved lot adjacent to the
Dear Owners’ Association building. Whoever named the quasi-governmental body
hadn’t thought much about its DOA acronym, which prompted some employees to
refer to it as the Deads. DOA oversees island necessities such as roads, the
swing bridge that links us to our nearest island neighbor, and security. Much to
his chagrin, the chief occupied an office plunked smack in the middle of the
Deads’ administrative fiefdom. I ran up the stairs and entered the reception
area slightly out of breath.

I truly looked forward to spending time with Braden. His
soft voice, calloused fingers and boyish grin exerted a magnetic pull. The
single aesthetic flaw was a slightly crooked front tooth. The fact that he’d
not spent money to cap it told me he wasn’t obsessed with his appearance—or he
had credit card debt.

I found him sitting on a cheery chintz sofa, reading an
Audubon-blessed brochure on nature sanctuaries, a designation Dear began to
tout shortly after its first developer shot the last wild boar. The officer
looked almost preppy and seemed absorbed in his reading and courtesy coffee.

“Ready for the grand tour, Deputy Mann?”

He stood and smiled. Tan skin bunched around his brown—no,
hazel—eyes. His gaze seemed both appraising and friendly. “I’m all yours,
ma’am.” He captured my hand in a snug grip.

“Well, call me anything but ma’am.” My own smile matched
his.

Dang, he hadn’t used the “m” word once last night. One
demerit. Perhaps it’s an age-culture-geography thing, but most Midwesterners in
my age group tend to prefer the screech of fingernails on a blackboard to a
lazy chorus of ma’ams.

Braden correctly interpreted my unspoken subtext and
laughed. “No more ma’ams, I promise. You clearly don’t hail from these parts.”

“Iowa,” I answered. “One of those square states in the
middle.”

I pointed through the spotless window to my red Mustang.
“We’ll be less conspicuous if we’re not tooling around in one of Dear’s bubble
tops. If it’s okay with you, I’ll drive.”

“
Very
nice.” Braden nodded admiringly at my ’77
classic. “Do you let your husband drive it?”

I startled.
Let my husband drive?

Oh, his gaze had settled on my plain gold wedding band.

“My husband died more than a year ago. A car accident.” I
never could call myself a widow. The word conjured up images of withered husks,
women waiting to die.

“I’m sorry,” Braden said. “I noticed your ring…”

“I should take it off. But I broke that finger. They’ll have
to cut the ring.”

Why hadn’t I bothered? Plain old inertia or something
else?

When we reached the car, Braden caressed the shiny hood.
“Dad bought a ’77 Mustang when I was in first grade. We had that car for ten
years. My father loved her.”

Jeez, this guy was learning his ABCs when I was heading
to college.

I’d purchased the used Mustang—in cherry condition—early in
my military stint. The impulse buy spent most of its pampered life in an Iowa
barn while I bounced from Augsburg to Fort Bragg and from Turkey to the
Pentagon. The odometer had less than twenty thousand miles.

As my key slid into the ignition, I glanced at the deputy.
He resembled a folded accordion, his knees practically tickling his chin. The
seat wasn’t set for his rugged, six-foot-four frame.

“Sorry.” I grinned. “My last passenger was an ailing
computer wedged against the dash for a ride to a repair shop. Adjust the seat
any way you’d like.”

Braden fiddled with a lever, stretched back, and sighed in
relief. Given the comment about his dad’s car, I recalculated my estimate of
his age. Last night I’d pegged him as mid-thirties. Now my guess ratcheted
slightly upward to early forties. He just looked younger. Athletic, trim. He
even smelled good. Like a new leather purse.

He appeared to take his workouts seriously. However, they’d
been powerless to halt the march of one age-related enemy—hair loss. Braden’s
black hair had thinned. A fact he didn’t try to hide. His brush cut looked
surprisingly good. Hey, spend enough time in the Army and men with long hair
look a bit prissy. Jude Law excepted.

Once we reached the scene of last night’s murder, I parked
directly in front of the Dolphin entrance, disregarding the diminutive parking lines
that decreed I was hogging two golf cart slots. While I pulled out keys to open
the decorative wrought-iron grill that served as an admission gate, Braden read
the posted hours.

“Is this the only way in?” he asked.

“No. It would be easy to slip in from the beach at low tide
though we’re talking pluff mud rather than sand for maybe three hundred feet.
That muck can suck the paint right off your toenails. So Stew and the killer
probably entered this way. The gate was open when I arrived.

“The young lady scheduled to lock up
thought
she’d
done so. No guarantee there. Facilities are left unlocked all the time. Then
again someone could have opened the gate later. Lots of people have keys.”

“Including Stew?”

“No, but he knew plenty of folks who did. The fire station
has a complete set of keys and another set hangs at the real estate office so
agents can show off club facilities if they’re closed. Dozens of club employees
and all the security guards have keys, too. Helpful, huh? A list of the keyless
might be shorter.”

In the sparkling sunlight, the Dolphin, with its cheerful Caribbean
face paint of banana yellow and hibiscus pink, looked an unlikely spot for
murder. An open breezeway bisected the first floor of the two-story clubhouse,
pulling visitors through to a smashing view of Mad Inlet and the Atlantic
beyond. Sunrise Island lay to the right, its sugar-white beaches accessorized
with the bleached bones of storm-felled trees. With the sensuous beauty of
driftwood, the giant oak carcasses guarded the lush subtropical greenery to
their back.

“What a view. Anyone live over there?” Braden nodded at Sunrise.

“No. It’s uninhabited. The University of South Carolina owns
it and uses it primarily for sea turtle research. Sunrise was part of Dear Island
before it broke in two.”

“What do you mean, broke in two?”

“Hurricane Gracie made a direct hit in 1959, and today’s
Dear is the western half of the original island. The eastern half is Sunrise.
Real estate agents gloss over this tidbit since it might prompt prospects to
wonder what’ll happen come the next big blow.”

“That’d make me think twice,” Braden agreed.

“At low tide, you can practically wade to Sunrise. But,
believe me, you don’t want to swim there when the tide’s running strong. Every
couple of years someone ignores our riptide warnings and drowns.”

A blur of purple caught my eye as a figure crouched behind a
lounge chair rose and sprinted toward the beach. “Hey, stop!” I took off
running.

The culprit was easy to I.D. Not too many Dear residents
sport purple mohawks.

“Henry Cuthbert, I’m putting in your reservation for juvie
jail,” I yelled after the fleeing teen. With no prayer of catching him, I
braked, panting, at the edge of the concrete. Henry had three factors going for
him—a head start, youth and bare feet. The pluff mud would have swallowed my
size-ten cop shoes on the first tread.

Once Henry reached the water’s edge, he turned to waggle
both middle fingers in our direction. Then a skiff roared to his side and he
dove into its well. A dune had blocked the waiting getaway boat from view.
Brother Jared was driving. The whine of the motor didn’t drown out their
laughter.

Braden, who’d reached for his gun, re-holstered and grinned.
“I take it those boys like to yank your chain.”

“Yeah. Not worth chasing the pimply-faced weasels. They’re
not your killers.”

“Who are they?”

“Identical twins. Henry sports the purple hair. Jared tinted
his plume green. We call them vampires because they usually strike between midnight and daybreak. Truth be known, we’ve all longed to drive stakes through their puny
hairless chests. They smash mailboxes with ball bats, throw lawn furniture in
pools, and mark their territory with beer cans and urine. It’s gotten worse
lately. Now they’re terrorizing elderly residents too afraid to complain.”

“Wonder what they were doing here,” Braden said.

“Nothing good.”

I glanced toward the Jacuzzi. The yellow caution tape had
vanished—along with Stew, of course, and the vegetable potpourri. An “Out of
Order” sign leaned against the dial for the hot tub’s jets.

“If I hadn’t been here, I’d never believe someone was
murdered.”

Braden shrugged. “Sheriff Conroy pushed to finish all
on-site forensic work before daybreak. The last crew left at six a.m. Dear’s developer must have political juice. Called in favors with SLED—the South Carolina
Law Enforcement Division. He didn’t want any grisly reminders of murder
greeting guests this morning.”

For the next half hour, we wandered the grounds and peered
into every clubhouse portal. We circled the baby pool, where a hollow
see-through whale made tykes long to be swallowed by a giant fish. Then we
meandered among the fake outcroppings and caves crafted to make the freeform
pools and fountains appear part of a natural paradise. While the
plaster-of-Paris sculptures didn’t quite achieve the intended ambiance, the
hidden misters were a hit with children, who never failed to spy pirates
lurking in the artificial fog.

Today the haze whispered against my skin like a gray shroud.
I kept glancing behind me, expecting something more lethal to materialize out
of the cave’s dank reaches. At the cavern’s exit, the deputy stopped short. I
walked right up his heels, ricocheted and wound up on my rump. Braden managed a
more graceful gymnast’s landing and sprang upright. He reached down and hauled
me up with ease.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I dusted off my rump. How embarrassing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Can’t remember the last time a woman fell for
me.”

His sly smile and lifted eyebrow made me blush. Did he think
I planned my little trip?

“Glad you have a sense of humor. The last guy who landed at
my feet threatened to sue.”

“He must have been crazy.” Braden reached over and tugged
gently on one of my curls. “A piece of moss.” He showed me the speck of furry
green he’d extracted.

A light-headed moment ensued. Jeez. Was he flirting? How did
you tell?

I’d been a chunky teen, shy around boys. The years most
girls spent learning to flirt, I’d aced advanced placement classes, played
clarinet in the marching band, and won the Iowa State debate championships. I
hadn’t exactly flunked flirting, just never matriculated in how-to-date school.
Once basic training rendered my baby fat to muscle, who needed to flirt? The
Army’s male-to-female ratio erased any deficiency.