Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (14 page)

I made a pot of Ajax-strength coffee and dealt mugs to all
players. Some do-gooder would probably haul me up on charges for
over-caffeinating minors. I wanted the boys a lot less pie-eyed. Interviewing
drunks is seldom enlightening. Either they’re laughing like lunatics or they’re
so wiped drool snakes down their chins as they stare into space.

Braden and I didn’t bother with a good-cop, bad-cop routine.
Neither of us was in the mood to play the good guy.

“How’d you get out of your house?” I asked. “Tie Hugh to a
chair?”

“He’d probably like that,” Henry snickered. “Wouldn’t give
that kinky mother the satisfaction. You oughta see his porn collection.”

When Braden replied, his tone was pure drill sergeant. “Cut
the crap. No elaboration. No f-words. No attitude. Just answer the questions,
and make it snappy. I just met the two of you, and you already turn my
stomach.”

Jared’s eyes went wide. Then the sneer returned. “Hey,
you’re a cop. We know our rights. I demand a lawyer. You aren’t messing with
some lame-brain lowlifes, you know.”

His cockiness made me want to smack him. “I know exactly who
you are—hoodlums holding a gun outside my bedroom window. Now, think
whom
you’re messing with. I’m no cop, just a ‘little old widder lady’ trying to
protect herself. If I get too frightened, my nasty ol’ gun could fire by
accident.”

I switched off my sweet old lady imitation and adopted a
sergeant-major’s bark. “No jury in the world would convict if I shot you. Got
it? You’re on my property, carrying a gun. I could plug you right here, but the
blood would make a real mess on my tile. Talk.”

Though Henry and Jared smirked through my bluff, my
honest-to-God anger planted a niggling seed of doubt. Henry raised his hands in
surrender. “Okay, okay.”

I repeated my initial question. “How’d you get out of the
house—past Hugh?”

“We waited till he left,” Jared answered. “He takes off lots
of nights after he’s poured
Mommy
into bed. He takes The Predator—our
fourteen-foot skiff. We followed him to the dock. He went out Mad Inlet. We’ve
watched him before; it’s usually three, four hours before he’s back. We figure
he meets some drug dealer.”

Henry butted in. “Yeah, you should be grilling Hugh, not us.
I bet he murdered Stew. Dr. Death was out that night. Leave it to some aging
lounge lizard to cook veggies with a dead body.”

Braden slammed his palm down on the table in front of
Henry’s face. Silverware jumped, and I feared he’d cracked the sturdy oak
surface. Coffee sloshed wildly in the rocking mugs. The deputy had the boys’
attention.

“How do you know about the vegetables? We didn’t release
that detail. Only the killer could know. Guess I should read you your rights
after all.”

“Oh, man, ask your old lady. This is Dear Island,” Jared
complained. “How long do you think it took for everyone on this dirt-bag island
to hear the news? That’s old, man.”

After a moment’s silence, I sighed and broke in. “Okay, what
possible reason would Hugh have to kill Stew?”

The boys shrugged in unison. “He met Stew at the marina
Saturday. When he got home, he made a call on his cell. Sounded mad as hell,”
Henry said.

“That’s real conclusive, Slick.” Braden’s voice dripped
sarcasm. “We have better reason to suspect you losers. Who knows, maybe you
killed Stew and Bea for thrills.”

Henry’s head snapped up. “We weren’t even on the island when
that bitch got offed.”

“You were with Hugh in Beaufort, right?” I asked. “That
gives him the same alibi.”

Jared pouted. “Maybe… But he’s still a freakin’ killer, and
nobody cares.”

I looked closely at the boys. “Okay, in the last five
minutes you’ve accused Hugh of being a drug addict and a murderer. Sure you’re
not just pissed because he tries to make you toe the line?”

While the twins’ anger was real, it didn’t exactly lend
weight to their accusations.

“Maybe he hasn’t killed yet, but it’s not for trying. The
bastard feeds Mom a dozen kind of pills, practically pushes ’em down her
throat. Keeps her too blotto to notice he’s pissing our money away. When she
sobers up, he diddles her till she moans.”

“Enough.” I shuddered. Good God, was their home life truly
this horrific or were they playing us for yucks? For their safety, I wanted the
boys locked away until their mom could arrange bail. But there was no way to
get them off island, and it wasn’t a good time for houseguests. If the real
killer showed, they could get caught in the crossfire. I’d figure out how to
investigate their painful accusations later.

“We’re taking you home. Tomorrow you may have a new
address.”

After I spoke, I realized the decision to release the boys
hadn’t been mine to make. Not unilaterally anyway. Did Braden have more
questions? Did he want to keep them here? I would apologize…later. I was
unaccustomed to having a partner—in any arena.

Braden didn’t appear miffed. “You heard the lady. Move it.”

In the car, the boys fell silent, just as they had the last
time I chauffeured them home. Dreading a return to their pricey prison? Or had
acting like brats sapped all their energy?

On this visit, Braden assumed the doorbell honors. No
response. The mansion’s front door was locked, and a blinking camera light
above the threshold indicated the security system was engaged.

“Told you so,” Henry said. “Hugh-baby is out on some drug
run.”

“You boys have a key?” I asked. Jared shook his head no.

Braden wasn’t buying. “So how were you planning to get back
in? Transporter beam? Or were you going to ring the bell and wake Hugh? What’s
open—some back door, a window?”

The boys looked at each other. Henry shrugged. “There’s a
separate entrance to the servant’s quarters. It’s off the security grid. When
Hugh fired the maid, we stole the key.”

“Well, here’s what’s going to happen,” Braden said. “I’m
going to walk you to that door and watch you go inside. Then Marley and I will
sit in your driveway until Hugh arrives. Capiche?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

By the time Braden returned, I was as close to horizontal as
I could manage, my car seat cranked to full stretch.

“God, I’m tired,” I mumbled. “You think the boys are telling
the truth?”

“Probably. Though I’m sure their stories are shaded with
more than a little malice. Hope my sons don’t turn out like those two.”

“How old are your boys?”

“Braden Jr.—Brady—is three; Keith, two. They live with their
mom and her new husband in Atlanta.”

“You have pictures?”

“Sure.” He flipped open his wallet and passed it to me with
his penlight. I held the light low so no escaping glow would warn Hugh of our
presence. The chubby faces made me grin. Shavings off the old block. Both
inherited Braden’s hazel eyes and killer smile.

“Must have been hard to leave,” I managed.

“Um, Brady and Keith already call Jim ‘Daddy.’” Pain colored
his voice. “My ex made it clear there’s no room for me. Says my hanging around
would
confuse
my sons. Claims I wasn’t around all that much when we were
married, so it shouldn’t be a hardship.”

Braden’s forlorn expression spoke of guilt and regret. “You
have kids?”

“No. Jeff was ten years older than me. He had two children
with his first wife and wasn’t anxious for more. Military careers aren’t
exactly conducive to parenting.”

“So who are the kids in the pictures by your bed?”

“Photos of my stepchildren when they were little. Duncan’s
forty now, a pilot for United, lives in Chicago. He’s divorced, no kids. Janice
lives in San Diego. She has a three-year-old daughter, Riley. She’s the blonde
pistol with the sandcastle. The rest are shots of my great-nieces and nephews.”

Conversation petered out. Neither of us felt up to talking.
I couldn’t stifle a yawn. “Hope we don’t have long to wait.”

Something caught Braden’s interest. “Looks like your prayers
are answered.”

Walking briskly, a man angled across the estate’s cobbled
driveway. He’d yet to spot our car stashed in a cubbyhole partially screened by
twenty-foot oleanders. The man’s gliding gait identified him. “Walks like
Hugh.”

“Let’s see if it talks like him,” Braden muttered sotto
voice. “Stay put this time. But get your gun out and keep it out.”

I started to object, and then thought the hell with it. My
weariness was so complete I wasn’t sure I
could
climb out of the car. I
did muster enough energy to open my car window.

Braden’s sudden materialization startled Hugh, who jumped
when the deputy braced him. The two men stood beneath a nearby lamppost, giving
me an orchestra seat. Hugh was decked out in black again, apparently his fave
color. The shimmer of tailored silk made me think of a seal. But his chalky
face and the twinkle of gold ruined the illusion.

Though neither man raised his voice, I could hear every
word.

Braden explained what had brought us to this address: the
twins. That put Hugh at ease until the deputy segued into the boys’ report of
Hugh’s meet with Stew. The tattle drew a smirk. “We were planning a fishing
excursion. I don’t think that’s illegal.”

Just as easily, the former lounge singer shrugged off the
twins’ allegations of nocturnal assignations, and their claim that he’d had a
heated phone conversation after lunching with Stew.

“I’m not shocked by their wild tales. They hate me. It’s
their father’s doing. He’s filled their minds with malicious poppycock. A real
loser. Don’t know why Grace keeps him on the dole. He gets a
ten-thousand-dollar stipend the first of every month.

“But I digress. To answer your questions, yes, I argue with
business associates on occasion. Who doesn’t? Did I disagree with someone that
day? Don’t recall. But if I did, it had nothing to do with Stew. And, yes, I go
for evening boat rides. I have insomnia. It’s peaceful on the water at night.
Sometimes I simply need to get away from those boys.”

From the car, I sent Braden mental vibes.
Ask about Kain.
Ask if he knows Kain.
Finally he did.

This time Hugh fumbled the conversational ball. His face
entered a bleach cycle and drained of color. “Never, um…heard of the man.” A
nervous catch in his voice refuted his assertion.

Abruptly, Hugh ended the exchange. “If you’ll excuse me, I
need to speak with the boys. If you have more questions—for me, Gracie, or the
twins—call John Schmidt in Beaufort. He’s our lawyer. I’ll deal with Henry and
Jared. Goodnight.”

The man pivoted and stormed to the front door.

“Better call that lawyer early tomorrow,” Braden said in a
parting shot. “I’m going to recommend placing the boys in foster care.”

Hugh’s response to the Kain question pumped adrenaline into
my system. As soon as Braden climbed in, I launched the car in reverse. Less
than a hundred feet down the road, I braked.

“Why are you stopping?”

“I’m going to the Cuthbert dock and give The Predator a
once-over.”

“We don’t have a warrant,” he objected.

“Oh, but I’m not looking for evidence. While driving by, I
heard a strange noise. Had to check it out, make sure everything was secure.
Wouldn’t want to shirk my duty as a private security guard. You coming?”

A flashlight retrieved from my glove box lit our way along a
swaying boardwalk. It bridged seventy-five feet of tidal marsh before
culminating in a two-slip dock. A sailboat and The Predator, a small skiff,
were berthed side by side. I’d checked Grace’s boat registrations and learned
she also owned a cabin cruiser. Too big to negotiate the manmade channel, it
was moored at the marina.

“What are we looking for?” Braden asked.

“Don’t know,” I answered. A full-scale rummage under The
Predator’s seats scavenged meager finds. A tidal chart for Mad Inlet. A marine
map of this section of the coast. A sheet of paper with two columns of numbers.
I pulled out a notebook and copied ten of the numbered pairs while Braden made
a cursory inspection of the bow.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Some numbers on a sheet of paper. They mean nothing to me.
Probably a list of losing lottery numbers. Let’s head home.”

***

There was no time for nuzzling or post-coital coos when the
alarm trilled. After our romp with the twins, we’d set the clock to catch an
extra hour of shuteye, and we were pushing the envelope.

Braden had a nine a.m. appointment with Sally, and I’d
promised to corner Woody as soon as the office opened. I also had to decipher
the ferry schedule, borrow one of the cars parked off-island, and drive to
Leyla’s office at Gedduh Place. My lunch rendezvous on the Beaufort waterfront
was scheduled for one-fifteen.

I jumped into the sweater set and capris laid out the night
before, brushed my teeth, and padded to the kitchen barefoot. No time to make
fresh coffee. I siphoned two mugs of late-night dregs from the unwashed pot,
nuked them to tepid, and returned to the bedroom. I congratulated myself on my
steady, non-slosh delivery.

Braden zipped up his pants and grabbed a mug. “Ah, coffee.
You’re a goddess.”

Then he sipped the bitter brew and choked convincingly. “You
just tumbled off your pedestal. This is awful. I see you no longer feel a need
to impress me. Guess there’s no more lasagna in my future. Am I cooking again
tonight?”

“No.” I grinned. “Fair’s fair. It’s my turn at the stove,
though you’ll have to settle for a quick-fix menu. I’ll pick up groceries in
town.”

Braden’s smile evaporated. “No way I can talk you out of
this excursion? I’d feel better if you stayed on the island. Why take chances?”

“We’ve been through this. If, somehow, the killer is keeping
tabs on me, the outing will set the bait. He’ll see I’m alone. No deputy riding
shotgun. He won’t try a hit today. Heck, if I don’t know what car I’ll be
driving, how could he? And he sure as hell isn’t going to stab me with a fork
on Plums’ patio.”