Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (11 page)

Maybe I daydreamed or nodded off. It seemed only a moment
before Janie was back, ordering me to towel off. After helping me from the tub,
she handed over my flannel nightie and a floor-length velour robe. She eyed the
robe’s shiny caboose with obvious disgust.

“This is a disgrace. When did you shop last? The 1980s? Boy,
do you need lingerie. Couldn’t find slippers, but I guess these’ll do.” She
tossed a pair of wooly knee-highs on the toilet lid. “They sort of complement
your ensemble.”

Her diatribe earned an eye roll. “You mentioned breakfast. I
can’t believe you cooked. What d’you do, nuke the last piece of lasagna?”

“Hell, no. I’m servin’ up omelets, pancakes, and sausage. I
do takeout well. Called over to the 19
^th
Hole and bribed that
waitress, Arlene, to run food over. You gave her a real nice tip by the way.
Didn’t have my purse on me.”

I laughed. Janie’s levity put welcome space between the
night’s horrors and the day’s promise. Sun streamed through the bedroom window,
and the lagoon behind my house sparkled crimson and gold.

“Did Braden leave?” God, how I hoped he was still here.

“No, honey. He’s a man, isn’t he? We’re talking food. Let’s
head to the kitchen.”

The table in my breakfast nook brimmed with our catered
feast. Braden stood and pulled out a chair for me. The deputy didn’t look me in
the eye. Was he embarrassed?

“I feel terrible,” he said. “I never should have let you go
to the marina alone.”

“Hey, it’s my job.” I tried to smile. “As the chief said,
I’m a tough bird.”

I figured I’d drink a cup of coffee and choke down a couple
of bites to humor Janie. My stomach was on tilt, and I was sleepy, not hungry.

I sat down, accepted the proffered hot mug, and sniffed.
“What d’you lace it with, Janie?”

“A wee bit o’ the Irish, me lass.” Her South Carolina drawl
overwhelmed her sorry attempt at brogue. Even Braden chuckled. Suddenly I was
famished. I regularly lose many things—car keys, my temper, brain cells—but not
even attempted murder could vanquish my appetite.

After we scarfed down every morsel, Braden seemed more
relaxed. His eyes met mine and held. He grinned.

“Looks like you’re feeling better, the way you attacked your
food. Remind me to go Dutch when we go out to dinner. Are you up to talking a
bit before you get some sleep?”

Braden turned a policeman’s stony stare on Janie. The one
that says: “Why don’t you leave before I toss you out?” My friend refused to
take the hint.

“Might as well let Janie stay,” I said. “She’ll find out
everything in an hour tops.”

My neighbor kept her chair. When Braden and I replayed the
evening’s nightmares—first Bea’s grisly death and then my flirtation with the
afterlife—Janie gasped on cue and interrupted with the occasional question.

For background, I recounted my possible afternoon sighting
of Underling at the marina, and my earlier, very strange encounter with the
man’s Polish boss on Hilton Head.

“Does his name ring a bell?” I asked Janie. “Know of any
link between this Kain Dzandrek and Hogsback Island? Has Gator ever mentioned
him?”

“Nope. The MacIsaac family owned Hogsback. They’re Scottish,
not Polish. Can’t see a connection. This is the first I’ve heard of the guy.
And I’d remember a wealthy Polish émigré. I’m an equal-opportunity gold
digger.”

Next we reconstructed our visit to the Caldwell household.
When I got to Teddy’s sobbing report of Bea’s conversation, Janie shook her
head. “You’re right, there’s no Spate family on Dear Island or any employees by
that name.”

A light bulb flickered in my brain, but I wasn’t quick
enough to decode the message. I tried to focus, but the thought was gone. As
the adrenaline rush dissipated, my eyelids slid closed.

Braden offered to clean my waterlogged weapon, and my mind
wandered as I watched him disassemble the piece. I dozed as Janie catalogued
Bea’s personality disorders for the detective. Somehow my unlikely wardens half
walked, half carried me to bed. For the next four hours, I was dead to the
world—a much better proposition than being dead.

What triggered the nightmares? Maybe I heard voices. Maybe
my brain needed to sift through the night’s terror.

Back on the dock again—this time on my knees, my hands lead
weights. A crowd of people stared at me. Upfront Stew held hands with Bea,
while Hugh yelled at the Cuthbert twins. Janie gossiped with a black stranger.
Behind them, the Polish thug glared at me. And little Teddy ran in circles, yelling
“Adam.” Braden shouldered through the assembly to reach me. He grabbed my arm…

Janie shook my forearm like a terrier with a bone. “Wake up.
Your boss, the sheriff and Braden are in the living room. I hunted up some
clothes for you.”

“What time is it? Why aren’t you at work?” I tugged on jeans
and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. I’d been cocooned in a down comforter,
and it was hard to leave my warm nest. My sweatshirt seemed too thin to keep
the ocean’s chill from seeping back into my bones.

“It’s one-thirty. I wasn’t about to leave you alone.
Besides, Gator isn’t in today. Sally said she could hold the fort. I offered to
help with Bea’s funeral arrangements but Gator said he’d handle it himself.”

I slid into a rocker beside the crackling fire. Sun streaming
in the windows proclaimed it to be a beautiful day, not cool enough to justify
a fire. But Janie must have sensed my craving for warmth. The dancing flames
gave me a moment’s pause though, as I remembered how close I’d been to becoming
a Roman candle. Janie didn’t join my inquisitors, though I bet she remained
within earshot.

The sheriff inquired about my physical well being while the
trio of lawmen surreptitiously evaluated my mental health. Impatient with the
Miss Manners ritual, I testily urged them to get on with it. I retold my story
twice, but nothing new sprang to mind as I relived the nightmare. I never saw
the man, not even his retreating silhouette. His one-word curse wasn’t enough
to diagnose an accent. The only smell I remembered was gasoline.

When they finished repeating their questions, I had my own.
“Did the marina yield any clues? How about the missing boat’s registration?”

“Dead ends.” The chief shrugged. “The guy rented the slip by
phone. Called in a stolen credit card and boat registration number. Folks at
the marina were too busy with the ferry to check itinerant boats. Especially
since everybody’d prepaid.”

“What about Kain Dzandrek?”

“Yeah, Braden told us about your run-in…that you thought
you’d seen some Polish thug at Dear’s marina,” the sheriff replied. “As a
courtesy, a Beaufort County deputy accompanied one of our men on a visit to
Dzandrek’s place. The man’s smooth. Said his lunch mate was a stranger, someone
he’d heard speaking Polish and invited to join him on a whim.”

“Bull hockey. The man works for Dzandrek. I’d bet my life on
it. What a crock,” I protested.

“Well, it’s a crock we have to accept. Dzandrek doesn’t have
a sheet. There’s no proof he’s guilty of anything but a fat bank account. Lots
of rich expatriates have a soft spot for Hilton Head.”

“Did your deputy ask Dzandrek about Hogsback Island or
Hugh?” I prodded.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Look, we have no call to grill
the guy. You overheard some Polish, and you admit you’re not one hundred
percent on the translation. You didn’t like the guy’s manners or his sidekick.
Doesn’t make him a killer.”

The chief interrupted. “Are you thinking these Polish
wankers might be friendly with Hugh Wells? If so, they didn’t visit Hugh-boy on
Dear last night. When Bev Collins got off the morning ferry, she gave me an
earful about her sleepless night. Said Hugh and the twins were in an adjacent
suite at the Beaufort Inn and had the TV blaring till the wee hours.

“That reminds me, our bridge is kaput. Engineers say it’ll
take at least two weeks to make even temporary repairs. Meanwhile, we can send
golf carts over in emergencies—say, porting folks to an ambulance. Otherwise,
everybody’s stuck with the ferry.”

“You still shorthanded?” I asked.

“Not too bad. I talked most of our crew into bunking here
for the duration. Bud’s the only one who balked. His wife’s due with their
first baby. Can’t blame him.”

Sheriff Conroy stood and stretched. “We’re going to beef up
our Dear presence, too. Braden’ll stay until we catch this killer—or we’re
certain he’s moved on. Two more deputies come on board this afternoon. They’ll
rotate shifts so there’s always a deputy on duty. The resort’s springing for a
villa for our guys.”

The news triggered a pang of regret. I’d hoped the handsome
deputy would need my extended hospitality. Was Braden disappointed, too? His
eyes fastened on his boss. The sheriff’s decree didn’t provoke so much as an
eyelash twitch.

Okay, he’s fine with the sleeping arrangements. What’s
your problem? You hardly know the man. Are you that lonely?
You can take
care of yourself.

Sure as hell, I’d watch my back—literally. I reached behind
me to rub the tender stunner contact points.

“You think the killer will return?” I asked.

“Nah, I doubt it,” the chief said. “No time soon anyways.
He’d have to come by water, and he knows we’ll be watching the marina. Too
risky.”

Risky, how?
If I was wrong to suspect Underling, the
homicidal maniac could be anyone. Without a clue as to the killer’s identity,
how would we ever know if he returned?

“Wish we could lure the sucker back,” Sheriff Conroy
lamented. “If only Marley had seen the guy’s face. ’Course we could lie—say she
did.” He gave me a speculative look. “We could let it out that Marley hit her
head rolling off that dock, that we’re hoping her temporary amnesia will clear
so she can provide a positive ID. That might interest him.”

“Yeah, and get Marley killed,” Braden objected. He took a
deep breath. “But we could use a decoy, hide Marley off island. With a wig and
the right clothes, Ed could pass for Marley. He’s slim and the right height.”

Oh, great. He suggests a man for my understudy. And what’s
with the protect-the-little-woman nonsense? I was seriously insulted.

“Hello, I’m here. How about including me in this
conversation? The killer knows who I am. It wouldn’t take him two minutes to
detect a decoy. If you want a trap to work, I’m the bait.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Braden said. “You’re retired. No one’s
paying you to dodge bullets.”

The retired reference stung.

Think I’m over the hill, do you?

“I’ve already earned a permanent spot on this psycho’s hit
list. Think he’ll shrug off a botched job? I don’t. If you don’t catch him,
I’ll be looking over my shoulder a long time.”

Janie waltzed into the room and took up a guard dog position
by my chair. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you, Marley. No way he could take on
the two of us.”

Janie was someone you pigeonholed at your own risk. She
purred like a kitten with real estate prospects but unsheathed razor-sharp
claws if anyone challenged office oligarchy. The woman refused to pump her own
gas—“not something a lady should be expected to do.” Yet she carried condoms in
a jeweled Daughters of the American Revolution case. My neighbor played life by
her own rules. Rule number one: a fierce allegiance to friends.

“Forget it, Janie. I won’t put you in danger,” I said.

“Fine.” She agreed much too quickly. “Then
you
stay
here, Braden. You need a bed anyway. Sheriff, if you’re going to dangle
Marley’s ass out there with a ‘come and get it’ sign, the least you can do is
provide round-the-clock protection.”

I caught Janie’s sly smile.
Lord, help me. She’s using
murder to find me a live-in beau.

“Not a bad idea,” the chief agreed. “Marley and Braden can
work the same shifts.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

I didn’t want to be foisted on Braden. My secret fear? I’d
do something goofy and inappropriate. My mind wasn’t exactly firing on all
cylinders. My emotions seemed to be calling too many shots. “I can take care of
myself.”

“Don’t argue,” the sheriff said. “Your friend’s right. If we
put you on the line, we protect you. Either Braden stays in your house or we
take you off the island. Your choice.”

Braden turned toward me. “You’d be doing me a favor,” he
cajoled. “Otherwise I bunk with Dan, who plays that god-awful rap.”

“Okay, you win.”

Or was I the winner? I was afraid to examine my feelings,
especially given his naked cameo appearance in my dream. Not to mention the
melt down when I saw him nude in living color. Why had Braden’s suggestion of a
transvestite doppelganger smarted? The answer was as plain as the bruises on my
wrists. I wanted the deputy to prefer me as a roommate for reasons other than a
fondness for elevator music.

He’s too young. I scolded myself. Another part of my mind
replied, Who cares?

Maybe I
had
hit my head on a piling when I rolled off
that dock.

After testy negotiations about my freedom to come and go as
I pleased, we reached détente. It was Wednesday afternoon. Officially I was off
duty until Saturday night though I’d continue to serve as island liaison for
Braden’s investigation.

I won grudging permission for one off-island excursion—a
standing once-a-month lunch date with Beaufort friends. The sheriff balked at
first, but finally conceded that a killer wasn’t likely to try a hit in broad
daylight at a trendy waterfront café. On one point, however, they stood firm.
After sunset, I would never be alone.

Never alone at night?
I pictured Braden in my room. 
Undressing. Sliding between cool sheets. His tan skin a stark contrast to the
pale linens. I’d given my houseguest the master bedroom. Now I wanted it back.
Wanted to share that big bed.