Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (10 page)

If Gator knew his wife was dead, he was one hell of an
actor. He’d thrown on a silk kimono. While a belt cinched it at the waist, it
bared a wide fissure of chest above the tie. The developer wore pajama bottoms,
but no top. Wiry white chest hairs sprang through the kimono breach. For some
reason, I found myself staring at Gator’s bare feet. His stubby toes were
exceptionally hairy, and the hairs were charcoal black—a striking contrast to
his chest’s white steel wool. I wondered at what anatomical point Gator’s body
hair changed color, then shuddered as I decided I really didn’t want to know.

“Sir, we need to check on your grandson, make sure he’s
tucked safely in bed,” Braden said. “Could you tell me where he’s sleeping?”

“What the hell is this about? My grandson’s fine. Don’t go
bothering him.”

Though polite, Braden didn’t waver. “Sorry but we must, sir.
Sheriff Conroy will explain everything. Now where can I find your grandson?”

Gator directed Braden up the staircase. “First room on the
left. But you’ll answer to me if you wake that boy.”

As the deputy hustled up the stairs, Sheriff Conroy gravely
announced Bea’s death.

Confusion clouded Gator’s meaty face. “What do you mean
dead? Like she’s lying dead somewhere in our house? How the hell would you
know? Man, you’ve got your wires crossed.”

Braden slipped back into the room and gave a discreet
thumbs-up as Sheriff Conroy walked Gator through the nightmare. No, there was
no mistake. Yes, Mrs. Caldwell was dead. Her body had been found in a deserted
site in Beach West. Yes, her Mercedes was parked there. No, the death did not
appear accidental.

Gator appeared angry, but not disconsolate. No tears, no
anguished shrieks. Was it shock? Or maybe Gator couldn’t decide on the proper
manly response. He didn’t ask to see Bea. He kept shaking his head, alternately
muttering “that son-of-a-bitch” and “the bastard.”

“You came home from dinner at the clubhouse just before
nine?” the sheriff probed.

“Yeah, had to get home to tuck Teddy in,” Gator answered.
“That’s my grandson.”

“And you never left again?”

“Well, obviously my wife did. I didn’t. Never heard Bea take
off.”

“You had a babysitter tonight?” the sheriff continued.

“Yeah, Mrs. Pope. She left as soon as we came home.”

Braden held up a hand as he inserted himself into the
interrogation. “Mr. Caldwell, sir. We can’t rule out the possibility that
someone abducted your wife. Do you lock your doors?”

“No need,” he replied gruffly. Gator’s mouth had started
running before his brain engaged.

“Mind if we look around? Could you show us where Mrs.
Caldwell usually sleeps?”

“Bea sleeps with me.” Gator exploded in anger, as if the
question were a slur on his manhood, then his mouth snapped shut. He must have
realized his protestation sounded a tad strange, given that his wife was found
miles from his bed, and he hadn’t noticed.

“When I went to bed, Bea said she wasn’t sleepy,” he
amended. “Probably went to the den. That’s where she piles up them home
decorating magazines.”

Braden pressed on. “Could we take a look at the den?”

“Yeah.” Gator led us up a grand staircase that echoed the
front entrance’s curved Tara theme. Sheriff Conroy, Braden and I followed
single file.

At the top of the stairs, Gator turned right and pointed at
the first door. Inside, twin antique fainting couches covered in heavy silk
brocade provided the only seating. Plumped pillows left so little space that
even an anorexic butt would have been forced to hover. The pillows were arrayed
as if
House Beautiful
photographers were expected. If Bea sat here
tonight, her exit had been anything but hasty.

Conroy looked around slowly and mumbled, “Doesn’t look
disturbed.”

“Mind if we walk through the rest of the house?” Braden
inquired.

“Yeah, okay.” Gator slumped down the hallway ahead of us,
his shoulders hunched. Maybe he did feel something.

The door next to the den gave way to the master bedroom
suite. Gator nodded us in like a headwaiter. The room had two focal points: a
king bed and French doors that opened on a private deck with a view of the Atlantic.
Rumpled sheets spilled from the bed. Gator’s dirty underwear lay heaped on the
floor, while his trousers and shirt draped a chair. If Bea had disrobed, she’d
been neat.

I flashed on the murder scene and her silvery pantsuit.

“Gator, what did Bea wear to the club last night?”

“I don’t know. Some silvery getup.”

“Wouldn’t she change—put on a nightgown—if she wanted to
read before turning in?”

Gator swiveled my way and bared his teeth. “You accusing me
of lying, Marley?”

“No. Just trying to get a handle on your wife’s state of
mind.”

After a moment’s silence, Gator answered. “Truth is we had
us a little spat. I wasn’t real happy with something Bea said at dinner.
Thought she insulted a client. When we got home, I yelled. She stormed out of
the bedroom. I went to sleep. End of story.”

The scene he painted certainly had the ring of truth.

“Where does Bea keep her purse?” I wondered.

Gator’s irritation was evident. “How the hell should I
know?”

Sheriff Conroy cleared his throat, a signal for me to shut
my trap. However, I was determined to follow my train of thought. “If Bea left
voluntarily, she probably took her purse,” I explained. “I didn’t see one on
her car seat or…umm, near her body.”

Gator shrugged. “Sometimes she sets her purse on the kitchen
counter.”

I turned to the sheriff. “Mind if I look?”

His frown indicated the prospect of ditching me had definite
appeal. “Go ahead.”

The kitchen gleamed. It should have. Mine would too if I had
free daily maid service.
Bet that perk never shows up on their income tax
.

The counter boasted the usual assortment of kitchen gadgets
but no handbag. Of course, Bea could have tossed the purse on a couch or table.
Or maybe the muddy ooze near Bea claimed it. Then again, the killer might have
wanted a souvenir.

A tug on my pants startled me.

“Who’re you?” asked a squeaky voice.

Looking down, I found the instigator, a small raven-haired
boy in pajamas covered with friendly-looking dinosaurs.

“You a new babysitter?”

“You must be Teddy.” I tried a smile. The boy nodded and
rubbed fists against his eyes.

“I didn’t hear you come in. You’re pretty quiet.”

His face scrunched up. Somehow my comment suggested he could
be whining. “I’m thirsty. I want juice.”

Should I give a four-year-old juice at three a.m. or would he wet the bed? Who knew? But, hey, I wouldn’t be here come morning. Figuring
my number one mission was to keep the tyke happy, I opened the refrigerator and
handed over a Juicy-Juice.

Suddenly the boy seemed suspicious and frightened. “Why you
here?”

How to answer? I didn’t want to scare him. “Some friends and
I came to see your grandpa.”

“Why?”

It wasn’t my place to tell the kid Bea was dead. How did you
break such news to a baby? I hedged. “Your grandfather will explain. Let’s go
upstairs and he can tuck you back in bed.”

Something in my sentence—maybe the mention of bed—brought on
a microburst.

“Don’t let him tell Bea-Bea,” he wailed. “Bea-Bea said not
to come downstairs—not ever—after grandpa kissed me goodnight. Bea-Bea yelled.
She was on the phone.”

Teddy pointed at a wall-mounted phone above the granite
countertop.

“I won’t tell Bea,” I assured Teddy. “Did Bea yell at you
tonight?”

If Teddy answered, his words were incomprehensible amidst
his sobs. But his shaking head indicated yes.

“Did you hear what she said?”

The boy whimpered. “Can’t tell. Bea-Bea said she’d spank.”

“I promise. No one’s going to spank you. What did Bea say?
You play cops and robbers, don’t you? If you tell me what Bea said, you can
help the cops catch bad guys. You’d be a hero.”

For what seemed an age, Teddy sniveled and I coaxed. “Be
brave. You can tell me.”

Finally he blubbered a reply. “Bea-Bea was mad. She sayin’
‘You believed Adam…Adam Spate.’”

I heard a racket and looked up to see Gator storming toward
us. The sheriff and Braden followed timidly in his wake.

“What, you’re browbeating babies now?” Gator yelled,
bringing his red face inches from mine. His breath smelled of garlic and
whisky.

I understood his anger and tried not to take it personally.
“No, sir.”

Gator snatched up Teddy, turned on his heel and headed down
the hall.

“We’re through,” he yelled back at us. “I have to break the
news to Bea’s parents and tell my daughter to come get Teddy. Let yourselves
out. Now.”

“Goodnight, sir,” Sheriff Conroy said. “We’ll talk
tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Braden and I echoed.

***

An amused grin played on Braden’s face. “Hey, were you grilling
Teddy as a suspect? I usually can’t get hostiles to crack in a single
interrogation. Want to share your techniques?”

“It comes naturally. I have a gift with pre-school perps.
Seriously though, Teddy provided a clue. The boy made an unauthorized visit to
the kitchen after he was tucked in for the night. When he surprised Bea on the
phone, she yelled at him. Teddy claims she was already mad as a hatter. The
boy’s playback of the conversation seemed muddled but he recalled a name, Alex,
no, Adam Spate. I don’t know a soul by that name on Dear Island.”

Braden massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked as tired
as I felt. “I’ll run the name, see what we come up with. We’ll check phone
records, too.”

The sheriff sighed. “I’ll bet the killer used a pay phone or
an untraceable prepaid cell. This guy doesn’t appear careless—just freakin’
sadistic and weird.”

“Did you find Gator’s reactions a bit odd?” I asked. “It
almost sounded as if he knew which ‘son-of-a-bitch’ killed Bea.”

Braden flicked me an approving look. “I felt something off,
too. But Gator could simply have been railing at the anonymous bastard who
tortured his wife.”

The sheriff phoned my chief, who suggested we convene in his
office.

True to predictions, the parking lot resembled a saltwater
lake. As the spring tide began its retreat, patches of asphalt rose like tiny
volcanic islands.

I turned to Braden. “Drive to the front door so you two
don’t get your feet soaked. Then I can scoot over and drive.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Braden asked.

“I want to check the marina first. If the killer isn’t an
islander, he might have arrived by boat. I’ll make some notes to check with our
harbormaster come morning. Save some hot coffee for me.”

The deputy’s eyebrows bunched as he frowned. “Okay. But
don’t take any chances. If you see something suspicious, call. This guy enjoys
killing.”

Ironically Braden’s warning cheered me. His tone spoke of
genuine worry.

He likes me.

Jeez, I sound like a teenager.

It was dark, though the approaching dawn brightened the sky
with a promise of morning. I parked at the marina and sat in my car for ten
minutes, gazing at the pale moon and listening to the breeze rustle the palm
fronds. My chromed cocoon felt snug, and I needed to decompress. Could Gator
have killed her? Images of Bea and Gator at various public venues chased around
in my head. Lovey dovey kisses. Murderous glares. Did either mean anything? Who
knew what their marriage was like? Only Bea and Gator.

My own marriage shocked plenty of folks. We met while stationed
in Bad Kreusnach at one of the lovely German town’s communal hot springs. I
could still hear my CO’s rant.

“Marley, are you freaking nuts? Marry Jeff and you kiss
your career goodbye.”

“Sayonara,” I replied with a wry smile. “I’m thirty-four
and in love for the first time.”

“How did this happen, Marley? He’s a noncom for God’s
sake.”

“Too bad Army regs don’t require insignia on bathing
suits. I didn’t plan it, you know.”

Our wedding didn’t end my career, just applied the brakes to
promotions. We were happy because neither of us tried to change the other. We
were old enough to know better. We admired the other’s strengths; shrugged off
the irritating foibles. We laughed one hell of a lot.

Hey, Jeff. Hope you’re still laughing. I miss you, kiddo.

It was time to sally forth. Get this over with, drink hot
coffee—and look at Braden.
Look, don’t touch.

After exiting the car, I strode down the boardwalk connected
to the floating docks and took a sharp left onto a section reserved for
temporary anchorage. All slips were full. If a boat had left, someone else had
snatched the vacancy.

With no idea which, if any, of the twenty-odd boats might
have been captained by Underling, I began taking notes on each moored vessel.
Arched lampposts spaced every fifteen feet pooled enough ocher light to
decipher boat registration numbers without a flashlight.

As I bent forward for a closer look at the third boat’s
bobbing registration number, a board creaked. I started to turn. Pain seared my
body as outraged muscles spasmed in series, a head-to-toe cataclysm. I
screamed—but no sound came out. My mind fuzzed. Thoughts skittered about like
dry leaves. Total blackness descended.

My cheek was planted firmly against slimy decking. Slivers
from the rough board pricked my skin.

Maybe sixty seconds elapsed. It felt like an hour.

Before my mind could clear, my tormenter zapped me again. My
brain cells registered a single fact—prongs were embedded in my back. I prayed
for the torture to end.

As the second electrical assault subsided, my body’s
movements were beyond my control. My skin felt raw and tingly; I couldn’t lift
my head.

I’m as good as dead
.
How will he kill me? No ant
hill nearby.
An image of Stew’s floating corpse invaded my consciousness.
Is
that how they’ll find me?

I wanted to see my attacker’s face. My neck muscles ignored
my mental screams. I couldn’t raise an eyebrow, let alone my chin. Positioning
restricted my view to the dock and the water and flotsam below. I watched a
chunk of white Styrofoam dance on the black water’s ebb and flow.

My attacker jerked my arms behind my back. Something sharp
cut into my wrists as he cinched them together.

I heard a
psst
noise. It stopped, then repeated. A
rhythm developed. On, off, rattle. On, off, rattle. An aerosol can?

The assailant grunted, the first human sound he’d made. Next
came a sloshing gurgle, and a pungent, unpleasant odor assaulted my nose.
Gasoline.
An icy liquid soaked my pant legs.

Oh, God. He’s going to set me on fire.

My heart hammered so hard I expected to implode before he
lit a match. Maybe a heart attack was better.

Don’t panic. Think.
I’d been stunned before as part
of my own less-than-lethal weapons certification. Though he’d zapped me twice,
I’d be able to move in a minute—provided he didn’t hit me with another jolt.
And I felt pretty confident he wouldn’t pull the trigger now. Gas fumes could
ignite and we’d both go up in a ball of fire. He wouldn’t risk it while he
stood nearby.

God, please don’t let me become a human torch. I’d rather
drown.

Could I marshal enough strength for a small roll? My
fingertips brushed the edge of the dock. A quarter body turn and momentum would
carry me. A sudden plunge into the dark water. Surely more of my muscles would
rally before I drowned.

Mustering every ounce of grit I possessed, I held my breath,
and heaved. A slight twitching sensation came as a reward. My toes wiggled
inside my shoes. The rest of my body parts remained stationary, as leaden and
unfeeling as a fallen statue. I was exhausted, frightened, dispirited.
Focus.
Don’t let him win.

I channeled all my will, all my hope.
Come on, muscle
memory. One small turn.

The splash sounded deafening in the still night. I gasped as
the ocean bay pulled me downward in its frigid embrace. Not a good thing when
there’s three feet of water overhead. I gagged on the saltwater, but my legs
responded. I kicked upward. When my face broke the surface, I sucked cool air
in hungry gulps and floated on my back.

“Damn.” The expletive came from above. The dock swayed
beneath pounding footsteps. Thank God, they were moving away. A motor cranked
and an outboard roared to life. The boat’s wake flung me toward a piling. I
struggled to keep my head above water and wrapped my legs around the piling as
if it were my lover.
He’s leaving. I’m alive.

My glee proved fleeting. Before I could think about
extricating myself from the drink, the dock shook again. Thundering footsteps
headed my way.

Once again an expletive rang out above. “Crap.”

For a moment, I wondered at my crazed déjà vu—could electric
shock have put my brain in reverse? Would I find myself back on the dock in
another minute, only imagining I’d escaped?

“Marley. Where are you? Can you hear me?”

I recognized the voice. Braden. “Here,” I yelled. Well,
tried to yell. A whimper escaped my throat. I’m not sure how Braden hoisted me
onto the dock. My waterlogged uniform, bound hands, and uncoordinated muscles
amplified my dead weight.

“Dammit, what happened? I had a bad feeling about you coming
here alone.”

“He shot me…in the back…with a stunner. Twice.” My thoughts
erupted like hiccups, a mental stutter. My teeth chattered so violently I
thought the enamel might crack.

Braden took a knife from his pocket and cut the plastic
zip-tie around my wrists. Then he wrapped his arms around me. “A boat rocketed
out of here just as I pulled in. The killer must have seen my headlights. Did
you get a good look at the guy?”

I shuddered. “Not his face, and he only said one word,
‘Damn.’ He planned to kill me. I know it.”

“I believe you.” Braden shucked his jacket, and cocooned my
quaking body inside. He held me tightly, letting his body’s warmth seep into my
bones. I had an insane desire to smother my rescuer with kisses.

“There’s gas all over the dock,” Braden said. “And the sick
bastard spray-painted a message.”

I didn’t think it could get worse until I read my intended
epitaph. The wet orange paint glowed. The message: “KENTUCKY FRIED COLONEL.”

“He knows me? He knows who I am. He never touched me, didn’t
look at my ID. It wasn’t some stranger. I don’t go around introducing myself as
Colonel Clark.”

The deputy glanced toward the one empty boat slip. “His boat
was in slip number 23. Dear’s harbormaster should have a copy of the boat’s
registration. Maybe we can use it to trace him.”

He stroked my cheek. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you. We’ll
catch the SOB. At least we know he’s off island.”

But he’ll be back, I thought, and shuddered again.
I’m
unfinished business.
Somehow I knew this failure would infuriate my
would-be executioner. I’d screwed up his plan.

“Take me home. Please.”

Braden’s concerned eyes studied my face. “Maybe we should
stop by the fire station, let the paramedics check you out,” he hedged.

“No, I’m okay. Or will be. Please, I just want my own
house…my own bed.”

Braden used the patrol car’s radio to call my chief and the
sheriff, who were still holed up in Dixon’s office. The chief swore at his
news.

“Is Marley in shock?” I heard Dixon ask. “Does she need a
doc?”

Braden looked at me for an answer. I fiercely shook my head.
“I’ll be fine. I promise. I just need to get warm.”

As the deputy relayed my reply, the chief’s loud voice
floated back. “She’s one tough bird.”

They talked a few more minutes as Braden drove, but my
ability to concentrate was shorter than their conversation. I was too busy
reliving my attack. To divert my mind, I fastened on how strong and warm
Braden’s arms felt when he wrapped them around me. I liked the feeling and
wished he’d pull me to him again with more than comfort in mind.

“Since you’ve already told me everything you remember, the sheriff
agreed it’s pointless to put you through more tonight,” Braden said, as we
reached my drive. “Said you could give a formal statement tomorrow—actually, I
guess it’s later today.”

He helped me out of the car, draped my left arm around his
shoulders, and circled my waist. He pulled me tightly to his side. “Hold on,”
he whispered. “Take it slow and easy. We’ll get you warm in no time.”

I felt woozy and weak. At the door, I fumbled in my pocket
and withdrew my keys.
Thank God, I didn’t lose them in the water.

Inside, Braden shepherded me down the corridor toward the
master bathroom. Though I normally use the guest bath, I didn’t argue. My
squishy shoes squeaked on the hardwood floors. Leaning against him, I realized
my wet clothes were soaking his shirt. “You’re wet. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll dry. Let’s worry about you first.” In the bathroom, he
lowered me to the padded bench beside the garden tub. I’d used it as a towel
holder before, never as a seat.

“I’ll draw a hot bath,” Braden said. My teeth chattered.
I’ll
sink in hot water up to my neck. Heaven.

I smelled lilac. He’d added drops of the bath oil I kept on
the ledge for guests. A mist rose from the tub. He took off my shoes and socks
and rubbed my feet to massage warmth back into them. “Um, do you need any help
undressing?”

“Of course not. I’m fine.” My voice sounded shaky, even to
me. “Leave me and get some dry clothes for yourself.”

He looked unconvinced. I made a half-hearted shooing motion
and tried to unbutton the top button on my blouse. My fingers felt like
icicles, cold and unbending. Braden stood his ground. I fumbled a minute more.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t be so stubborn. Let me help.”

He knelt before me and gently nudged one pearl button from
its nest. His clever fingers dropped lower and the second button relinquished
its hold. Hot water cascaded from the faucets. Steam began to fill the room. My
blouse was undone.

Tenderly he lifted it away and slid it down my arms. He
reached behind me and unhooked my bra. His hands grazed the sides of my breasts
as he pulled the fabric forward.

God, how I want to run a finger down his cheek, pull his
mouth to my breast.

“Can you stand? Lean on me.”

He put my arms on his shoulders and pulled me up. My nipples
hardened as they touched the cool fabric of his shirt.
I can’t let this
continue. I’ll do something foolish. He’s being kind and I’m imagining scenes
from
Sex in the City
.

I didn’t have much willpower left in the tank, but used it
all. I smiled at Braden and gave him a gentle shove toward the door. “I’m feeling
a lot better. There are some things a girl just needs to do for herself.”

“You sure?” He was trying to be a gentleman, staring into my
eyes, not letting his gaze wander below my chin.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay, but I’m leaving the door open a crack so I can hear
you if you need help.”

Once he left, I wriggled out of my pants and slid into the
soothing water. I felt warm and liquid. Steam from the hot water misted the
mirror. But with the door ajar, it began to defog. In one clear patch, I could
see Braden in the bedroom. He’d stripped off his wet clothes. He was nude and
erect. My breath caught.
God, he’s beautiful.

He looked toward the bathroom and our eyes met in the
mirror. Neither of us looked away. The doorbell rang.

“Goddammit,” Braden swore. He pulled a clean pair of
trousers from his duffle bag, and ran to answer the door.

Janie’s voice floated down the hall. “I saw lights on.
Thought I’d check to see if Marley was ready to go to breakfast.”

Braden gave her a quick update and tried to get rid of her.
Fat chance.

Your timing sucketh, Janie my dear. Well, maybe not.
Maybe you saved me from acting like an idiot. What if Braden’s just a horny
bugger? Maybe he’d have reacted the same if he’d seen any naked broad. Doesn’t
mean he wants ME.

Janie barged in before I could finish my mental debate. She
looked down at me with her hands on her hips. “Are you playing with a full
deck, girl? You’re gonna trot out your women’s lib card once too often.
Wandering in the dark with a murderer on the loose. I swear.”

The irony prompted a smile. A variation on my lecture to the
Cuthbert twins and their preteen playmates. But I was a grown-up. In theory, I
was able to take care of myself—and trained to protect others. A responsibility
I’d failed. A vicious killer had been inches away, and I hadn’t even managed to
see his face.

“You need hot coffee and breakfast,” Janie said. “Don’t stay
in that bath too long. It’ll cool and you’ll catch your death.”