Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (19 page)

I laughed. How I wished we could retire on this note. Sadly,
I needed to tell him about Sharlana’s disappearance and its possible tie to
Bea’s murder. Too much coincidence. I also reminded Braden that Eastern
Europeans had a booming market in long-range ECDs that lacked the Taser’s
telltale confetti. “Kain’s from Poland. It could be another link.”

Braden promised to fold Sharlana’s investigation into his
double-murder probe.

One other thing weighed on my mind—Dear Island’s real estate
irregularities. Though sorely tempted to break my promise to Janie, I had no
right to play know-it-all parent. Janie was an adult. Besides, I felt confident
my friend would come clean tomorrow. Of course, a little nudge from me wouldn’t
be out of line.

At seven a.m. my alarm buzzed like a horsefly. I groaned and
swatted it off. My body ached from the self-inflicted thrashing on the
lighthouse stairs, and my head throbbed from multiple nightcaps. It had been
years since I’d imbibed beyond a single drink, and Braden poured with a heavy
hand. His loud groan implied he was equally groggy.

I made coffee while he showered, then followed him into the
steamy bath and showered while he shaved. I’d known the man less than a week,
and we acted like an old married couple. The sight of a nude man in my bathroom
wasn’t the least bit jarring. It seemed…natural.

I raised my voice over the drum of water. “I forgot to ask,
what happened with the Cuthbert twins?” I caught Braden studying my reflection
in the steamy mirror.

“The lady of the house showed for court yesterday,
relatively sober. The judge released the twins into Grace’s custody pending a
hearing next week.”

Braden vacated the bathroom as I climbed out of the shower.
“Want to bet how long Henry and Jared stay out of trouble?” I asked. “Think we
can get the father involved?”

“Hope so. Those boys are in a bad place.” Braden sat on the
bed to pull on his socks while I toweled dry. “What are you doing today?”

“The police artist, then a meeting with Hank Jones. He runs Camp
Dear. We’re scouting kayaking points of interest for teens. We set up the
excursion last week before the first murder.”

Braden’s look telegraphed his opinion: I was bonkers. It
killed him not to say so.

I smiled. “Hank was Special Ops. He can handle himself. And,
yes, we’ll both be carrying. He called while you were in the shower. But the
precautions are just that. We’re just paddling around the local creeks.”

I threw on a robe and we wandered out to the kitchen. Braden
poured coffee and I pulled a six-pack of plastic-encased blueberry muffins from
the bread drawer. The muffins had survived yesterday’s kamikaze ride unscathed.

Braden sighed. “I’ll meet you and Janie here at four-thirty
so we can catch the last ferry. My car’s parked at the boat landing so we can
take it to Hilton Head. I’ll make a hotel reservation.”

I watched enviously as Braden slathered butter on his
muffin. “Sound’s good. Mind if I talk to folks in housekeeping about Sharlana?
After my mother-in-law died, I hired one of the housekeeping supervisors to
clean the house. We hit it off. Diana might open up to me.”

“Diana? She’s yours. You’ve got my cell phone number, right?
Call if you get a lead—or need me.”

Butter migrated to Braden’s fingers, and his tongue snaked
out for a final lick before he carried his plate to the sink. “Be careful.” He
leaned over to kiss me goodbye.

“I will. Have to live long enough to see if those exotic
dancers crank your engine.” I winked.

“Yeah? What’ll you do if I get excited?” He waggled his
eyebrows and exited.

I phoned housekeeping. Diana’s crew had already left to
clean a group of villas. I asked for a call back when she broke for lunch—about
two p.m. according to the message taker.

Finally, I closed my eyes and pictured Underling’s face. A
disturbing way to begin the day, but I wanted a clear picture in my head when
the police artist arrived.

Ten minutes later I answered the doorbell and greeted a dead
ringer for Mr. Magoo. The elfin man in rumpled duds wore Coke-bottle glasses.
His eyes, magnified to fried-egg dimensions, bespoke vision in the
legally-blind realm.
How does this guy tell a cauliflower from a kumquat,
let alone suspect A from suspect B?

I’d fretted for naught. The artist played his laptop like a
Stradivarius. With a symphony of keystrokes, he built a frightening likeness of
Underling. The details chilled me. Tufts of black hair sprouted from his
oversized ears. The smashed nose made breathing look like a snorkeling
exercise.

The artist cocked his head. “Ugly sucker, isn’t he? Don’t
worry. Soon he won’t be able to show his face. You have a wireless net, right?
Can I use it to transmit?”

“Anything to help put that SOB in jail.” Goose flesh crept
up my arms as I stared at the cartoonish yet evil face projected on the
computer screen.

***

I changed into grungy shorts and a ragged, long-sleeved tee,
a souvenir from the Beaufort Shrimp Festival’s 5K Run. I also donned a pair of
ancient sneakers in case we ran aground on a mud flat. Razor-sharp oyster
shells slice neatly through bare feet.

Hank beat me to the friend’s dock where I store my kayak.
He’d been busy. Both our oceangoing kayaks sat in the water ready to shove off.

“Sure you want a human bulls-eye as a traveling companion?”
I asked.

He grinned. “Hey, I survived Afghanistan. I think I can
handle Dear. But let’s try to avoid tipping over. Don’t know if my pistolo
fires as well wet.”

After seeing my GPS, Hank bought an identical model, and
this was its maiden voyage. I showed him how to set trip functions to track
distance and speed. “Teens can use the speed calculations to see how tidal
pulls influence their paddling pace.”

With high tide seventy minutes away, we had a perfect
two-hour window to poke around the meandering ocean creeks. As we paddled, I
told Hank how I’d been stranded between two muddy humps on my first-ever kayak
outing. While waiting for the water to inch high enough to escape, a handful of
shrimp and one small fish imprisoned in the same landlocked puddle flopped into
my kayak. Hank rolled his eyes. No one ever believed me. I should have snapped
pictures.

Five minutes out, I realized my neck muscles had relaxed. I
needed
this. Exercise—especially in the great outdoors—was my Prozac. It calmed me,
renewed my optimism. What a grand day. An egret soared in the Carolina blue
sky. As sunlight pierced its white feathers, the translucent wings glowed. Only
the soothing metronome of gentle surf and the calls of quarrelling seagulls
broke the silence.

The peaceful illusion shattered when a motor starter coughed
downwind. In the lee of tall marsh grass, we were invisible to the frustrated
boater. We paddled to a spot that offered a view of the portion of Flying Fish
Creek that wound past the Cuthberts’ dock to Mad Inlet.

Hugh Wells was the boat’s sole occupant. Once the motor
caught, he headed out the inlet toward the ocean. Impossible to follow him in a
kayak. Still we paddled in his wake. Hugh’s skiff bucked over the breakers near
the mouth of the inlet, then skimmed smoothly across a calm ocean on course to
Hilton Head. Of course, he could be angling toward one of the many tiny islands
between Dear and Hilton Head. Or maybe he had no destination, just out for a
pleasant spin.

A dolphin surfaced four feet from my kayak. Its black eyes
seemed to lock on mine. Oxygen whistled through its air hole and the mammal
gracefully dived. When I once again looked toward Hugh’s boat, a small craft
covered with camouflage paint shot out of the shallows near Sunrise Island. Had
it lain in wait? Two heads bobbed above the chase boat as it crossed the
breakers. Did Hugh have a tail?

It was a mystery I couldn’t solve. Rip tides swirled the
waters of Mad Inlet.

“Hey, aren’t we going to stay in the creeks?” Hank asked.
“The water here looks like a wicked witches’ cauldron.”

“Yeah, just wanted to take a quick look-see.” With a few
swift strokes, we returned to the tranquility of the creeks.

We glided beyond the Cuthberts’ dock and set a cross-island
course for the marina. Soon our rhythmic strokes built to a soothing cadence.
Rounding a bend where the wandering waterway sliced into the new Beach West
development, I pointed out an osprey nest and showed Hank how to mark it as a
fun GPS waypoint for summer campers.

Further along, we locked in GPS coordinates for another
waypoint, a fork in the creek that ended just short of an artesian-fed pool.
Winter and spring, it served as an alligator spa. The Beach West logging road
skirted the inland lagoon, and I drove by often. If temperatures dipped into
the forties, clouds of steam hovered as the earth belched heated water from its
belly. Two weeks ago, I counted the snouts of fifteen alligators luxuriating in
the spa’s warmth. Using the location as a turnaround point, we headed back to
my friend’s dock.

Hank thanked me for the GPS lesson and offered to serve as
bodyguard any time I wanted to escape the house.

His throwaway comment reminded me a killer was still on the
loose.
Damn.

I foraged for food, showered, changed clothes, and packed my
overnight bag. Camped on the sofa, I’d just lost my battle to prop my eyes open
when Diana returned my call. After stifling a yawn, I explained my friendship
with Sharlana’s aunt and my promise to help gather information about the
missing teen.

“Come on over,” Diana said. “Sharlana’s a nice kid. We’re
all worried. Look for me in the break room.”

Dear’s housekeeping building isn’t on any sightseeing tour.
Tucked behind trees on a piece of swampland, the prefab metal affair offers no
redeeming vistas. With my entry, I traveled from spring to summer in the space
of two feet. Hot, humid air blasted from long rows of laundry machines, heating
the interior more efficiently than a furnace.

Wandering down the center aisle, I soon spied the break
room. Near the entrance four men played cards as they wolfed down brown-bag
lunches. Across the room, Diana and two companions sat at a scarred table
beside ancient vending machines.

“Hi, Marley,” Diana greeted. “This is Gina, Sharlana’s
supervisor, and Sofia, one of the girl’s friends. I’m afraid Sofia doesn’t
speak much English.”

Gina was a middle-aged black woman. Sofia was a blonde waif
who looked all of fourteen. I shook hands with Gina. Sofia dipped her head in a
quasi greeting, but didn’t lift her eyes.

“I explained you wanted to chat,” Diana said. “See if we
could come up with anything to help the sheriff.”

“I appreciate your time.” I paused. “Sharlana’s last few
days at work—did she appear worried, scared, upset? Did she mention any
trouble?”

Gina, a talkative Gullah native, needed no additional
conversational lubricant. She confirmed Sharlana got the short end of the
stick—a one-week assignment at the Caldwells, dusting, vacuuming, ironing and
polishing silver while Bea carped. Gina described the missing teen as a
happy-go-lucky girl who hadn’t confided any fears, although she was counting
the days until she served out her sentence at the Caldwells.

“I don’t mean no disrespect to the dead,” Gina added, “but
no one wanted to work in Miss Bea’s house if’n there was some way around it. I
didn’t see Sharlana that last day. My boy, he took sickly with the flu bug
that’s flyin’ round.”

The supervisor looked up, her eyes sad behind thick glasses.
“Sharlana’s a worker bee. I started frettin’ when she didn’t come or call
Wednesday. Then her momma phoned to say she’d gone missing. I prayed real hard
Sunday for God to lift the evil that’s done got Dear by the throat. I’m
downright spooked to walk ’round this island by my lonesome nowadays.”

Diana cleared her throat. “’Fraid I have nothing to add. I
didn’t see Sharlana till quittin’ time that last day. Since the bridge was out,
our boss hauled us to the marina in batches to be ferried across. Last I saw,
Sharlana was huddled with Sofia on Cap’n Hook’s boat.”

Sofia hadn’t uttered a peep. “What did you and Sharlana talk
about?” I asked.

The girl didn’t speak. She twirled her straight blonde hair,
her eyes glued to the table.

“You’re not in trouble. No need to be afraid. Don’t you want
to help us find your friend?”

“No can help. Know nothing.” She looked up with tears in her
eyes. “English not good.”

Though she wasn’t facile with English, I figured her
understanding went beyond her speaking ability. Her accent sounded familiar. On
a hunch, I addressed her in Polish. She flinched as if she’d been slapped.

“You speak Polish.” Her response—also in Polish—sounded like
an accusation, not a compliment.

“Yes, I studied it in school. Are you from Poland?” We were
both rusty in our common-denominator language and spoke haltingly.

“No, my mother’s mother teach me. She lived with us in Croatia.
My sponsor…he’s Polish.”

Kain Dzandrek?
I bit my tongue to keep from asking. I
couldn’t afford for her to clam up before I found out if Sharlana had confided
in her. The language shift seemed to put Sofia more at ease. The comfort might
have come from increased privacy. Our tablemates couldn’t understand a word.

“I hope you’ll excuse us for leaving you out of the
conversation,” I apologized in English to Gina and Diana.

Diana stood. “Sure. Nice seeing you. Hope the sheriff finds
Sharlana safe.” Though Gina seemed miffed to be missing out on potential
gossip, she took the hint. “Already clocked out. Guess I’ll head home.”

Alone with the hair-twisting teen, I asked more direct
questions. She volunteered nothing. Each question coaxed forth a bare-bones
reply. I learned Sofia was an orphan. She’d seen a sign at a shelter offering
passage to the promised land—America. If I understood correctly, she was a
modern-day indentured servant. She lived with other immigrants in a collection
of shacks on Sands Island. She never saw a paycheck and believed she’d “earn”
her freedom in five years. Her wages were held to repay her boat steerage and
sponsorship fees.

The girl and fifteen fellow workers were assigned to Dear Island.
Dozens more shipmates from savaged communities like Chechnya had been placed
with cruise ships or other resorts needing menial labor. When I asked her age,
she mumbled “eighteen.” A practiced lie. My guess of fourteen hadn’t changed.

“Sharlana is your friend?” I asked.

Sofia nodded. “Yes, very nice. Teaches me ten English words
a day. And brings gifts…foods I never tasted, like sweet potato pie. I miss
her.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

A tear dribbled down her cheek. “My fault,” she whispered.
“I promised Sharlana I wouldn’t tell, but I did. She was afraid. I wanted to
help. She heard Miss Bea argue with her husband about the man who drowned. Miss
Bea said she didn’t buy pearls to wear in prison. Begged her husband to pack up
and leave before his killer friend murdered them, too.”

“Did Bea identify this killer friend? Did Sharlana hear his
name?”

“I don’t know.” Sofia’s hands shook. The child had reason to
be scared.

“Who did you tell about Sharlana’s eavesdropping?”

Sofia shook her head. “No. I can’t. Please leave me alone.”

“Is your sponsor Kain Dzandrek?” I held my breath.

The waif bolted. I didn’t run after her. For long minutes I
stared into the dank, overheated room. What could I do beyond sharing Sofia’s
story with Braden?

Except for Sharlana, only one
living
person knew what
Bea said, and that man, Gator, was in Beaufort burying his wife. If Sofia’s
hearsay was true, Gator had to suspect his “killer friend” arranged Bea’s
murder. So why didn’t he give the guy up? Was he afraid? Or had he given his
wife’s killer the all clear?

***

I rushed home and found Braden packing an overnight bag. He
glanced up as I walked into the bedroom. “I’ve been running all day,” he said.
“No lunch, no breaks. Thought I’d pack and spend the next hour returning phone
calls.”

“First, let me tell you what I’ve learned.”

“Okay, but let’s talk in the kitchen.”

He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a hunk of cheese
and an apple. While he munched, I filled him in on my conversation with Sofia.

“I fear Sharlana’s dead,” I began. “She overheard Bea and
Gator arguing. Sounds like Bea blurted out the killer’s name. Instead of
calling the cops, Sharlana confided in Sofia, who blabbed to a woman she called
her ‘housemother.’ Anyway, the news got relayed to the girl’s so-called
sponsor. A hundred to one, it’s Kain.”

Braden put down his half-eaten apple. “You’re tossing out a
lot of conjecture. Any facts?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. I figure Bea’s
outburst prompted Kain to contract her murder, psycho-style, to keep cops
looking for a madman. He probably arranged a less spectacular end for Sharlana.
Bizarre murders on two islands the same night would puncture his single-madman
smokescreen. Especially if anyone connected Bea’s death with her maid’s. I’ll
bet Sharlana’s body is never found.”

Braden hoisted his eyebrows to mid-forehead. “Let me make
sure I understand. You’re saying the Dear murders are tied to modern-day
slavery? And Kain Dzandrek is your candidate for a Polish Simon Legree?”

“Yes.” I ignored his mocking skepticism.

He shrugged. “Your so-called slavery may be legit. Think
about it: your version of reality comes courtesy of a naive orphan speaking
pidgin Polish, and Kain Dzandrek isn’t the only Pole on the East Coast.”

I tried to interrupt. “But…”

He held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll grant you that
Kain’s bent. But I don’t buy imported ‘guest workers’ as a credible motive for
murder. Let’s say Kain furnished Dear with a dozen workers at less than minimum
wage. Profits on a transaction like that wouldn’t pay the monthly electric bill
on his mansion.”

I bit my lip to keep from screaming in frustration. “Okay,
maybe there’s more to it. But will you please talk to Sofia before something
happens to her?”

“Definitely. We’ll drop in, see if we can turn up hard
evidence to tie the workers to Kain. Do you know how to find the barracks?”

“No, but nuns run a migrant outreach program not far from Gedduh
Place. Word about the place would definitely reach the sisters.”

The deputy’s acquiescence encouraged me to go for broke. “We
ought to confront Gator tonight. Bea’s funeral is tomorrow. We could drop in
during visitation and ask a few questions. Maybe catch him off guard.”

Braden held up one hand. “Whoa. I’m not bracing a widower
while his wife’s casket sits ten feet away—especially with reporters spying and
the sheriff stopping by to offer condolences.”

He paused. “In fact, we should cancel this Hilton Head
trip—it was a bad idea from the get-go. We’ve got enough trouble north of the Broad
River.”

I shook my head. “No way. Kain will be at April’s club
tonight. I’m going with or without you. I don’t have to worry about police
protocol.”

Braden groaned. “You think Kain will confess…that you can
trick him into providing some clue?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not exactly. But this guy has a huge ego.
I’ll bet he’s real pleased with himself. Maybe he’ll drink to celebrate. Maybe
he’ll be itching to brag and throw out hints he thinks some stupid rent-a-cop
doesn’t have the smarts to pick up on. What do we have to lose?”

A few phone calls provided directions to the worker
barracks, located at the end of a dusty road christened “Harry” during a push
to ID every crossroad for 911 calls. “Harry” had been the best-known inhabitant
of the muddy track that circled behind acres of tomato fields.

At four-thirty, Janie rang the bell, right on time for our
outing. Braden mumbled a hello. As we walked to her car, she nodded her head
toward the deputy. “Seems kind of scratchy. Sure was a short honeymoon.”

True, he was irritated but I appreciated his
willingness—though coerced—to compromise. As we drove to catch the last ferry,
I repeated Sofia’s story for my neighbor.

“Surely the girl’s confused.” Janie frowned. “I write weekly
checks to Help-Lease. It’s an employment agency headquartered in Washington, D.C.
Provides foreign workers who don’t complain when they’re asked to do manual
labor. We pay the agency a lump sum. In exchange, it delivers the crew, houses
the workers, and takes care of workmen’s comp, FICA withholding—the whole nine
yards. Nothing illegal. It’s a legit temp agency.”

“Could Kain own Help-Lease?” I asked.

Janie shook her head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree,
Marley. Hugh went on a cruise ship staffed by Help-Lease and told Gator about
the agency. My boss followed up, eager to glom onto a source for cheap, docile
employees. If a worker turns out to be a dud, he’s gone. No lawsuit threats, no
grievance cases.”

I didn’t argue the ethics with Janie. I did wonder about
Help -Lease scale of operation. What happened to guest workers after they
fulfilled their labor contracts—
if
that’s what they were? Were they
dumped unceremoniously back in their homelands? Did they have any shot at
happy-ever-after?

After an uneventful ferry crossing, we piled into Braden’s
waiting car and headed toward Sands Island. The barracks proved easy to find.
Once painted a dazzling blue, which, in Gullah mythology, wards off evil
spirits or hants, the dilapidated shacks had faded to a bluish-gray.

We walked inside. The paint job had failed to thwart evil.
Cockroaches didn’t bother to scurry; they sauntered, knowing they owned the
filthy landscape. Single cots lined the walls; the thickest mattress skinnier
than a slice of Wonder bread. Most chilling was the absence of people. A few
stray articles of clothing—mostly worn socks—said the occupants vacated in a
hurry.

“Jesus Christ,” Janie muttered. “I can’t believe folks lived
like this and didn’t gripe.”

My fingers itched with the urge to strangle someone. “To
people living in worse hellholes, this looks like Nirvana. No one’s lobbing
grenades. There’s food. Their sponsor knows where to look.”

Braden shook his head. “Doubt we’ll ever find Sofia. By
nightfall she’ll be billeted in some other backwater shack or maybe on a cruise
ship. Who’s going to run to the police to protest?”

Janie looked downright ill. “I feel like crap. I never
questioned anything. You guys still want to go to Hilton Head?”

“More than ever. I can’t wait for Kain to see I’m alive and
ready to stick a red hot poker up his ass.”

Braden opened the car door. “You’re delusional. This guy
won’t talk to you—or anyone—about anything.”

“Want to bet?” I challenged.

He muttered something under his breath. It sounded
suspiciously like “freakin’ Yankee women.” I knew he meant me—and possibly his
ex-wife. Not the most promising pairing.