Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (6 page)

The trophy wife prattled on, making googly eyes at Nickel.
“Here I am blessed with the name Bea, and bees scare me silly. I’ve been
telling Gator we need to defecate all the bees on Dear—right along with those
nasty red fire ants. I’m allergic to them, too.”

Janie kicked my shin when my giggles bubbled to the surface.
I assumed the woman wanted to
decimate
the bee population.

“I told our new chef not to use any peanuts. If a food even
touches peanut oil, I could die. It’s a curse, havin’ my delicate
constitution.” Bea batted her eyelids with a fervor that stirred more air than
the room’s ceiling fans.

“Unless we find a new pollination scheme, bees and flowers
go hand-in-hand,” I said, trying to filter my sarcasm. “But I’m no fan of fire
ants. I didn’t realize a single ant could sting repeatedly until I stumbled on
a mound.”

Janie shuddered. “Yeah, fire ants set anchors in your skin
so they can swivel their stingers and inject venom again and again. Hurts like
hell. That’s one reason I don’t go tramping around Beach West. I saw one fire
ant hill that looked like an elephant took a dump. It had to be three feet
high.”

I nudged my tablemate. “A great image to help digestion.”

Conversation faded as the tuxedoed wait staff cleared dessert
dishes and refilled coffee cups. Then Sally resumed her emcee duties. Gator
always ceded public speaking to the pixyish blonde. A natural orator, she
wasn’t bad to look at either. Just a smidgen over five foot two, Sally had an
hourglass figure and dressed to emphasize it. She wore stilettos and, though
her silk suits were tasteful, their plunging necklines showcased ample
décolletage. Her snug skirts hugged buns of steel.

“On behalf of our agents, I’m delighted to present bouquets
to the ‘flowers’ of our operation—our delightful secretaries. These ladies put
the bloom on the rose of Dear sales,” Sally cooed and clapped daintily to
initiate a round of applause. “Come on up, ladies.”

“Good thing Sally’s not diabetic,” I muttered to Janie.

Sally air-kissed the admin trio as they crushed oversized
arrangements of orchids, roses and baby’s breath to their bosoms.

“It’s worse than you think,” my friend whispered back. “See
beaming Bonnie? She gets the axe Monday.”

“You’re kidding. Isn’t there some rule against cruel and
unusual termination?”

Janie shrugged. “Not the way Gator and Sally see it. The
firing’s not personal. Besides, it’ll be my job to let Bonnie go. If Gator sees
Bonnie a month from now he’ll act as if she’s his long lost friend. What’s
amazing is he’ll truly be hurt if she doesn’t reciprocate.”

“So what award are you getting? Do you have crib notes for
your acceptance speech?”

“Hell, no,” Janie replied. “I threatened bodily harm if
anyone called me to the stage.”

With no interest in Sally’s pat-on-the-back poppycock, I let
my mind and my gaze roam. Grace Cuthbert and boyfriend Hugh were seated two
tables away. Grace was not yet fifty—a couple years younger than me. Her placid
cow eyes gave me the willies. They were bloodshot and blank. The wrinkled flesh
on her neck and arms looked like a chicken’s gullet, basted in sun, tobacco
fumes and liquor.

Having heard about the couple’s odd relationship, I wasn’t
surprised to watch Grace slurp wine from a glass her helpmate kept filled to
the brim. An indiscriminate sommelier, Hugh poured from whatever bottle was
handy. Red one time, white the next. While the jewelry-encrusted Hugh was only
ten years younger than Grace, the worn-out lady looked like his mother.

“And what can we say about Grace Cuthbert’s vision and
generosity…” Sally said.

When Grace missed her cue for a queenly wave, Hugh nudged
the heiress to start her bobble-head nodding. Unfortunately the nudge undid her
queasy equilibrium. With all eyes fixed on her, she slithered off her chair and
under the table. Hugh’s efforts to halt the slide proved ineffective. He was
left holding one of her arms like a ref awarding victory to a dazed
prizefighter.

The floor show ended in minutes. The help bundled the
inebriated heiress outside with a minimum of fuss. Watching, I felt a surge of
pity for her hoodlum sons—a mother missing in action and a smarmy sycophant
calling the shots. What a home life.

“I’m sure it was the excitement,” Sally said, attempting to
recover momentum. She then proceeded to present multimillion-dollar-sales
awards and laud Gator’s bulldozing talents. Next she noted Nickel’s addition to
the team.

“Woody Nickel comes from the Keys, where he sold out a
classy development in less than nine months. ’Course we don’t expect him to be
’round here for long either. At least we hope not—cause that’ll mean we’ve sold
out. Next week we’ll be selling homesites faster than pancakes on Shrove
Tuesday. We’re counting on Woody to take Dear Island to the next level.

“Now for tonight’s final surprise.” She upped the wattage of
her smile. “What could possibly make a real estate agent happier—or richer—than
an opportunity to sell Beach West? How about a sister development on Emerald
Cay?”

What the hell is Emerald Cay?
My tablemates appeared
equally baffled, with three smug exceptions—Woody, Gator and Bea.

With a flourish, Sally plucked the oversized artist’s
rendering of Beach West from its easel to expose another plat hiding in its
shadow.

“We bought Hogsback Island,” she announced proudly, “and
rechristened it Emerald Cay. As y’all know, Hogsback—I mean Emerald Cay—sits
diagonally across the channel from our marina. This unspoiled paradise is less
than three minutes by boat. Ferry service will connect our islands. Emerald Cay
homesites and amenities will be spectacular—an equestrian center, one-acre
lots, palatial homes. But the icing on the cake will be the island’s
green
appeal. We’re harnessing wind, ocean tides and sun to provide all of Emerald’s
power.”

The agent to my right moaned with orgasmic anticipation.

Sally thrust her hands forward to stay the applause. “I know
you’re dying to hear more. But we closed the deal too late to have details
ready tonight. Next week we’ll have complete info on both offerings. True
synergy. Major marketing dollars. Hey, I’m betting all of y’all will join our
million-dollar club next year. Hell, we may need to start a billion-dollar
club.”

Sally whipped up enthusiasm to a fare-thee-well. Clapping
crescendoed, wave upon wave, but Janie’s hands never left the table. She
twisted her napkin like she was wringing a neck.

“Holy bat wings,” Janie muttered. “When the hell did they
get this wild hair? And who’s the new fairy godmother? I can’t believe they
convinced Gracie to fork over enough for two projects plus mucho marketing
bucks.”

As soon as Sally lowered her microphone, Janie grabbed my
wrist with an iron grip and sprinted for the door. “Come on,” she said, teeth
gritted.

We emerged from the club’s interior ahead of the milling
masses. Janie shook her head with metronome regularity all the way to her golf
cart, muttering “damn” every other beat.

“Last I knew, Gator was wrapping pennies to scrape together
payroll,” she grumped. “The owner of Hogsback wrote six months ago asking ten
million for his island. Sure Gator drooled, but he dictated a letter saying ‘we
pass.’ Banks are still skittish about pricey resort real estate. Sally must be
banging some bank president to pull off a loan this size.”

I chuckled at Janie’s nonstop diatribe. “You can’t stand it
that Gator didn’t confide in you before tonight’s bash.”

“Damn straight,” she replied, absent her usual grin. “That’s
a first, and it worries me—especially since Woody and Bea knew. Woody’s a
horse’s patoot, and Bea’s a stupid witch. How could he tell them and not me?”

I had no answer. If Janie was this troubled, she had reason.
Maybe she worried that her head—like Bonnie’s—might be destined for the
chopping block, and she’d be the last to know.

We rode in silence the rest of the way home.

At the witching hour, I started my security watch of the
south end of the island. At least the skies had cleared. Patrolling in fog was
as much fun as swimming in pea soup. We seldom ride in pairs, and tonight was
no exception.

Only a handful of streetlights dotted the main drag while
total darkness cloaked any side street lined exclusively with undeveloped lots
and vacant houses. The gloom made me appreciate the world our ancestors
glimpsed by starlight. Swaying shapes, shadowy movements, the red eyes of
animals glowing like fiery embers.

At times, the island nightscape appeared serene and lovely.
I searched the heavens for falling stars and conversed with Jeff, imagining him
winking at me from above. However, this was not a night for communing. It had
an eerie edge.

By one a.m., I completed two slow circuits of the small
residential feeder streets, some paved, some gravel, branching off Dear Drive.
Since most of the island’s seniors played Taps long before midnight, the number of houses lit up like Halloween pumpkins surprised me. It seemed Stew’s death
would have a definite impact on electric bills.

His murder, just twenty-four hours old, made the undeveloped
Beach West terrain seem even spookier than Dear’s side streets. Entering this
black hole made me superstitious. But, at two a.m., it was past time to bump
down the logger’s lane that sliced into our island’s last bastion of jungle.

Twisting vines, thicker than a well-fed python, stitched the
palmettos, oaks and pines into a forbidding tapestry. Here and there, trees
felled by storms, insects or bulldozers provided visual breaks in the dense
growth.

A reddish light flickered through one of these windows.
A
smoldering rubbish pile?
I radioed the guard working the gate to let him
know I planned to leave my vehicle to investigate.

Absent a Bobcat, there was no way to drive to the glowing
beacon. So I picked my way through underbrush, wishing my feet were encased in
knee-high clodhoppers instead of lace-up work shoes. Last month Gator had to be
rushed to the E.R. after a water moccasin, residing in the general vicinity of
my shoe treads, sank its fangs into his ankle.

Uh-oh. The light spilled from a lantern. Scorched palm
fronds weren’t to blame.
Crapola, who was out here?
The fine hairs at
the base of my neck rose to attention. I sucked in a deep calming breath.
Should
I creep back to my car and call for backup?
Might a delay magically
improve my night vision? Would standing still give a snake time to slither up
my pants leg?

The call to action won. I’d get close enough to see who was
there, then decide on the appropriate flight or fight response.

Through the bramble, a hand appeared. It gripped a goblet
that glittered in the lantern’s beam. Blood red contents.
Holy moly.
For
courage, I brushed the gun at my hip. Did I really need to find out
who
inhabited the clearing by my lonesome? My brain waved a white flag.

Get out of this freaking swamp and summon backup.

My plan to retreat changed when my toe met a vine.
Freefalling into the clearing, I yelled, “Freeze,” like a reincarnated Elliot
Ness. My order prompted a girlish scream from a member of the interrupted
party.

Years of military training served me well. I hit the ground,
drew my gun, and recovered my feet in one fluid motion.

If you’re going to make an entrance, might as well go
whole hog.

I’m not sure what evil I expected, but it wasn’t the
Cuthbert twins. Jared stood still, a crimson decanter raised toward the
heavens. Henry paused mid-step in a shadow dance. His prop was a monster-sized
serrated hunting knife.

The spell broke. Jared fumbled the container. Its viscous
contents splashed over the rim, and bloody splatters exploded across his chest.
Henry’s gleaming weapon spiraled to the ground like a kamikaze glider.

My heart sank. The Cuthbert boys weren’t alone. Chief
Dixon’s twelve-year-old granddaughter Sammie and her friend Amy sprawled on a
rotting log, transfixed by the twins, my gate-crashing, pot consumption,
alcohol, or all of the above.

“Stay where you are,” I yelled. “Don’t move a muscle.”

I holstered my gun and attempted to lower my heart rate.
Did
I need my Taser?
While I know young teens can—and do—kill, these kids
seemed unlikely murder suspects.

Dressed alike, the twins wore two-hundred-dollar sneakers
and dirt-streaked iridescent mesh shirts cut off to expose nonexistent abs. The
crotches of their baggy britches swayed around their knees. Wearing those
getups, the boys stood no chance of gathering sufficient knee-pumping speed to
outrun me in the rugged terrain.

“Oh, man,” Jared whined. “You ruined everything, you bitch
pig. We were about to powwow with old Stew’s ghost. You freaked his spirit,
man.”

“Freakin’ ’ho,” Henry chimed in. “You made me drop my holy
blade.” He paused then resumed his chant. “She grabbed his head and massaged it
a-quiver…I snatched a gun and ventilated his liver.”

Though I figured Henry was spouting bad rap lyrics, he was
weirding me out.

“I’m snowboarding on blood-stained ice. I yanked out her
cheating eyeballs and rolled ’em like dice.”

“Knock it off, Henry,” I ordered.

“Hey, man, your chrome don’t scare my bro’,” Jared
interjected.

“Shut your traps,” I barked. “The nearest ‘hood’ is at least
two-hundred miles away, so ice the attitude. Sammie, cough up an answer now:
What’s going on?”

“Just a séance,” the young girl mumbled. She tugged at the
peasant blouse sliding down her skinny arms. The drooping top exposed a strap
on what we called a training bra in my day, though this girl had zilch to
tutor. The child’s attitude was sullen, and the eyes she flicked my way were
bloodshot.
Bollocks
.

The aroma of burning leaves made me cough. Marijuana.

“Jared, what’s the red stuff?” I motioned at the decanter.

“Tomato juice.” He added a theatrical cackle as an
afterthought. “It’s a hell of a mixer. Like whad’ya think it was, blood? What a
dork.”

“Bring it here.” I grabbed the container and took a whiff.
Yes,
my nose said, tomato juice. I stuck in a finger and extracted a
sample.
A Bloody Mary. Pot and vodka. Great.

“Okay, party’s over. It’s way past island curfew. And we
won’t even talk about the marijuana or booze. I’m taking you home and talking
with your parents. If we had a jail, you idiots would call it home tonight. As
it is, my decision on pressing charges will wait till morning.”

My threat struck no fear in the pubescent quartet. Only Amy
seemed abashed.

“Hey, she’s going to talk to
Mommy
. This should be
fun,” Jared smirked.

“We get a ride in a berry,” Henry added.

“Can it.” I snatched the swaying lantern from a tree branch,
then slipped on thin leather driving gloves to scoop up Henry’s knife and a
reefer as potential evidence.

“You guys, pick up everything else. You’re not leaving a
mess.”

Their nonchalance infuriated me. “Didn’t it occur to you
bozos that you could be the next murder victims? What were you thinking,
sneaking out in the middle of the night when a killer’s on the loose?”

“Hey, what are you thinking, coming here?” Henry mimicked.
“You couldn’t find a turd floating in a fish tank.”

Would I be found guilty if I took out my pistol and capped
him? Unfortunately, jurors would only acquit if they could hear his garbage
mouth.

No signs of remorse. The foursome was simply miffed at being
caught. The girls kept cutting their eyes to the twins. A case of misplaced
hero worship.

We trooped to my patrol car and I shooed everyone inside.
Unwilling to leave Sammie and Amy sitting unprotected in the car while I dealt
with the Cuthbert boys, I stopped by the security gate and requested another
patrol car to ferry the girls home.

“Ask whoever plays chauffeur to make sure a responsible
adult answers the door,” I added. “Have him tell the parents to expect a call
from me.”

My fervent hope? That the chief wouldn’t answer the knock at
the Dixon door. Sammie and her mom lived with my boss, who’d want to tear the
twins limb from limb for corrupting his granddaughter.

I wanted the Cuthbert boys locked within their mansion
before Chief Dixon heard about tonight’s activities.

***

On the ride home, the boys turned uncharacteristically
quiet. I marched them to the front of their modern-day castle and rang the
bell. I expected a long wait while Grace and/or her boyfriend Hugh gained
consciousness. The door ripped open instantly.

Though it was three in the morning, Hugh was dressed like
Batman. Black leather pants, a black long-sleeved silk tee, and shiny black
boots comprised his kick-ass stealth ensemble. His hair was slicked back with
goop. Either he’d just doused himself with cologne or his fragrance-of-choice
had more holding power than a pissed-off skunk.

“What?” Hugh barked, eyeing my delinquent charges.

“I found the boys in a clearing at Beach West. We have a midnight curfew for children under eighteen. But that’s not the biggie. They were
drinking, smoking pot, carrying a weapon, and had twelve-year-old girls in tow.
They coaxed those girls into the woods in the middle of the night while there’s
a murderer at large. I want to talk with their mother. Now.”

“Get in here,” he yelled at the boys. They moved, but behind
his back they choreographed mocking gestures.

“Would you please get Grace?” I asked again.

“Afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “Her health is fragile.
She’s on medication. No way I could wake her. Even if I could, she’d be groggy.
Tell you what, I’ll catch her up when she comes to. You come back, say,
five-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Believe me, Henry and Jared won’t cause more
trouble,” he added. “I’ll sit on the runt bastards. I don’t mean to be rude,
but I’m expecting a call. Doin’ business in another time zone. Goodnight.”

The door shut in my face before I could suck in a breath to
protest. Though angry enough to bang on the door, I figured Hugh spoke the
truth: Grace would be blotto. Odds were good the boys would stay put the rest
of the night. Tomorrow was plenty soon for a roundtable with this dysfunctional
crew. By then Chief Dixon would have cooled down sufficiently to join the
party.

The radio crackled as soon as my car cleared the Cuthberts’
drive.

“Marley,” Chief Dixon’s voice boomed through the speaker.
“What the hell are you doing? Do you still have those pissants in your car? Are
you at the Cuthberts? I’m coming over.”

It took a few minutes to calm my irate chief. Told him he’d
have ample opportunity to kick butt at tomorrow’s conference.

Before hanging up, I reminded him of my off-island plans for
the morning. “But, don’t worry, I’ll be in your office by four-thirty.”

***

The next hour of my night shift proved routine. Making a
second swing by the Cuthbert estate, I drove to the end of Dear Drive and
parked in the cul-de-sac overlooking Mad Inlet. The thready sound of a small
outboard floated across the water.

Island skippers seldom ventured out so early. Had the
Cuthbert twins taken their gangsta act on the water?

A small skiff headed toward open ocean. Beyond Dear’s
sandbars, it could go anywhere—Hilton Head, Fripp Island, Wilderness Point Park.
All were within easy reach when the ocean was calm, as it was tonight. A sliver
of cloud-shrouded moon revealed only a blotchy silhouette on the dark water. It
was impossible to tell if the boat carried more than one person.

Waves from the wake slapped at nearby pilings. The boat must
have motored down Flying Fish Creek. Just prior to bankruptcy, Dear’s first
developers dredged a tidal creek to create dockable homesites. Grace had
purchased a vacant lot cattycorner from her oceanfront estate to conveniently
moor boats.

Maybe a check of her dock was in order? No. Wouldn’t help.
Without knowing the size of her fleet, it would be impossible to determine if a
boat was missing.

Water lapped at the top of the riprap that served as the
creek’s retaining wall. The tide was near its crest. That meant the mystery
boat could have launched from any of two-dozen creekside docks or even the
marina. At high tide small boats could navigate the full length of the crooked
fissure. The waterway ran from the mouth of Mad Inlet to the middle of the
island, where it narrowed and meandered due west to the marina.

A glance at my watch provided unwelcome news. Two hours to
go. My eyes itched. I poured coffee from my thermos while I stared out to sea.
In a blink, the tiny craft disappeared.

What do you think, Jeff? Am I letting my imagination run
wild?