Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (9 page)

A sense of determination gripped me. Since Jeff’s death, I’d
been floating. The sight of Bea’s grotesque face filled me with righteous anger
and a surge of energy. No one deserved to die like this. Not nice guy Stew and
not even poor, stupid Bea—their lives reduced to freakish jokes.

We had to catch this sick bastard before he killed again.

The lonely vigil with Bea’s remains lasted less than ten
minutes but felt like an hour. Bill O’Brien, the former Army medic who served
as our fire department’s Emergency Medical Service guru, kept his
first-to-arrive honors.

Seconds later, Chief Dixon’s four-wheel drive Cherokee
followed the ruts left by the EMS truck and churned to a stop in the spongy
marsh mud. Braden rode shotgun. My reaction surprised me.

Too bad I have my own coat tonight. I need you to wrap
those arms around me.

O’Brien pronounced Bea dead and speculated about the foreign
object visible on her tongue. Using a sheet of plastic to shield himself from
the ants, the medic almost rubbed noses with the corpse as he maneuvered for a
closer look. “God, it looks like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. My kids eat
enough of them. D’you suppose the killer gave her candy? Or maybe she popped it
in her mouth right before she got zapped.”

I groaned. “Bea was allergic to peanuts. The candy was
insurance—just in case her allergy to fire ants didn’t provoke a fatal attack.”

The chief produced a sound between a retch and a cough.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.”

We established a perimeter around Bea’s corpse though I
seriously doubted the forensic whiz kids could uncover usable evidence. The
lane we’d traveled provided the only motor access to Beach West. Since noon,
probably thirty trucks, SUVs, and cars had boogied in and out, carrying surveyors,
DHEC inspectors, workers, gung-ho real estate agents and curious islanders. In
high spots, traffic pulverized the sandy soil into shifting dunes, while the
muddy low spots boasted more elasticity than Play-Doh. The ooze reclaimed even
a heavy vehicle’s tire tread in minutes.

The fire ant mound sat atop a hillock, which rose above a
bog-like depression bordering the dirt road. An exceptionally high spring tide
had already liquefied the impressions my shoes made when I approached Bea and
retreated. If the murderer left prints, they’d long since vanished. Bea might
as well have been beamed to the spot.

As we waited for Braden to finish his call to the sheriff, Dixon
kept muttering. “Dammit all to hell. Pluck a dang duck. How in tarnation did
someone coax Bea here in the middle of the night? I sure as hell don’t want to
be around when Gator learns some sicko offed his wife. Unless, of course, he
did it himself.”

My jaw dropped. Gator’s name didn’t appear on my
most-admired list, but this was beyond the pale. “Jesus, you can’t seriously
think Gator could have done this?”

The chief hawked up some phlegm and walked a few paces away
before pulling the eject button. “Never know. If it weren’t for the murder
method and smart-ass note, he’d be suspect number one. I’ve never struck a
woman, but if Bea’d been my old lady, I’d have been sorely tempted. ’Course I
hear Bea was a regular Jekyll and Heidi—lovey-dovey and sweeter than molasses
at home but a bitch on wheels out of Gator’s sight.”

Braden ended his call and pocketed the cell phone. “Since
the winds are down, the sheriff is going to helicopter over with the coroner
and land at the marina helipad. Want me to pick them up?”

Dixon sighed. “No, I’ll roust one of the security officers
sleeping at the fire station.”

In the half hour since my grisly discovery, the water level
had crept higher and higher. Soon the marshy off-road area where we stood would
be submerged. The encroaching tide would rinse away the murderer’s “TO BEA OR
NOT TO BE” calling card and any other meager evidence. A nightmare vision of
the eddying water lifting Bea’s limbs and reanimating her corpse fired goose
bumps up my arms.

“Chief, the tide’s going to inundate this area—it might even
float the body.” I glanced at my watch. “The tide tables predicted ten point
two feet in Mad Inlet an hour from now. Want me to get my camera and take a few
shots?”

“You better,” Dixon agreed. “Dammit. If she starts to float
before the coroner gets here, we’ll just have to grab her.”

Braden’s frown knit his thick brows into a furry question
mark. “Jeez, if the water gets that high, won’t it flood the island?” He stood
next to me. I ignored my impulse to grab his arm, lean into his body.

“They don’t call this the Lowcountry for nothing,” I
answered. “Dear Drive will have patches of standing water. It’ll be up to our
hubcaps in the DOA parking lot. With just the right conditions, acres of land
you see every day—even at high tide—are swallowed whole. Makes you think about
building an ark.”

I retrieved the camera stored in the patrol car to document
run-of-the-mill problems—like raccoons strewing garbage from the marina to Timbuktu
when club trashcans weren’t emptied. While snapping away, I provided the chief
and Braden a synopsis of the real estate dinner party, including Bea and
Gator’s seemingly cordial couplet appearance, the lady’s loud-mouthed soliloquy
on insects and allergies, and her golf course run-in with the Cuthbert twins.

Braden tapped his index finger against his lower lip as he
listened. “Can you give me a list of the folks at your table? We’ll need to
check alibis.”

“Good luck. Everyone who lives or works on the island wished
Bea dead at least once,” Dixon added. “But this is screwy enough to be a teen’s
wet dream. Maybe those Cuthbert kooks think they can get themselves on
primetime TV. Who knows how their hopped-up little brains work.”

Dixon appeared ready to launch into a full-fledged diatribe.
“Hold on, Chief, you said Hugh and the Cuthbert twins didn’t make the last
ferry. If so, they’re in the clear.”

“Maybe.” He scowled. “Or maybe they bribed some druggies to
do their dirty work.”

We all knew the boys—following in mother Grace’s
footsteps—habitually used alcohol and occasionally tossed marijuana into the
mix. We suspected the twins pilfered Grace’s feel-good cornucopia and acted as
penny ante suppliers to impress other kids.

Dixon’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. How much might
hatred color his judgment?

“I seriously doubt Henry and Jared could lay hands on enough
booze or Mary Jane to buy a murder hit. And if they could, they’d get rid of
Hugh, not Bea.”

A change of subject seemed prudent. “What do you think the
killer used for a writing instrument this time? I’m thinking rebar.”

“Yeah.” Braden nodded in agreement. “I noticed the corkscrew
impression in the mud.”

We lapsed into another silence. My wet feet cramped, and I
stamped them to restore circulation.

Before the lurking tide could float Bea’s arms and legs, we
shifted her body. Braden also bagged her hands to preserve any trace evidence
that might be washed away.

“How in Sam Hill did the murderer get Stew and Bea to drive
themselves to his kill zones?” Dixon wondered aloud as he stared at the corpse.
“The victims must have known him. Would Bea have agreed to meet here if she’d
been afraid?”

The questions went unanswered as we completed our gruesome
tasks. Then we sheltered in the back of the EMS unit until the welcome slam of
a car door signaled the arrival of the sheriff and coroner.

“Sorry it took so long.” Sheriff Conroy shook hands with Dixon
and nodded toward Braden and me. “Our pilot will hustle for medivac runs, but
saw no call to put himself in high gear for us to commune with a dead body.”

After the coroner did his thing, the men wrestled Bea into a
body bag. Less than anxious to touch her again, I didn’t complain about the
Lowcountry’s rampant male chauvinism. The coroner borrowed a shovel from the
sheriff’s trunk, scooped up a generous portion of the ant hill, and sealed the
teeming mass in an oversized baggie. Could the ants chew through their plastic
prison? Based on the carnage they’d already wrought, it seemed plausible.

The coroner and sheriff walked to a patch of high ground and
conferred.

“The coroner’s flying back with the body,” Sheriff Conroy
reported when he rejoined our group. “That means I’m stuck breaking the news to
Gator. Thank God telling family isn’t part of my usual job. Braden, you’re
coming with me. I know Gator’s an excitable bastard. Chief, how about joining
us?”

“Not on your life.” Dixon chewed on an unlit stogie. He’d
quit smoking, but still teethed on a soggy cigar when agitated. Bits of tobacco
clung to his plump lips.

“Ol’ Gator and me aren’t exactly bosom buddies. Better if
I’m not along.” The chief pointed his shredded nicotine pacifier at me. “Take
Marley. The man’s four-year-old grandson—name of Teddy—is visiting. It’d be
good to have a woman along to look after the boy if he wakes.”

I considered protesting. In principle, I liked children but
lacked practical experience. No kids of my own and, even as a teen, I steered
clear of babysitting, preferring to earn my money lifeguarding, waitressing or
flipping pancakes. Still, curiosity got the better of me.

How much trouble could a four-year-old be?

***

I sat shotgun. Braden drove and Sheriff Conroy took the back
seat. With sections of the road flooded, we adopted a funereal pace. No need
for sirens or speed. Braden did a slow head roll and cast a weary look my way.
“Thought you said nothing happened on Dear after midnight.”

The sheriff wasn’t talking. Maybe he was rehearsing his
lines for Gator.

“It seems unreal,” I said. “Less than forty-eight hours ago,
I sat at a table with Bea eating crème brûlée on bone china. Now she’s dead. I
can’t wrap my mind around the fact that someone on Dear did this. I may not
know every resident, but I’ve met most. When these people fight, it’s a snit
fit over a neighbor’s untidy lawn. They get revenge by removing offenders from
their party lists. They don’t paralyze people on fire ant hills.”

Braden looked at me. “You said it yourself, it doesn’t take
a magician to get past the gate. Why assume our killer’s a resident? Maybe it’s
some homicidal tourist.”

I shook my head. “Wish I believed that. But whoever killed
Bea knew about her allergies, plus he was able to lure—or trick—her into visiting
a swamp, alone, in the middle of the night. The woman was no Einstein, but she
wasn’t a complete imbecile.”

“There are other possibilities,” Braden said. “She wore an
allergy-alert bracelet. Maybe someone kidnapped Bea at gunpoint, forced her to
drive there.”

The prospect of a kidnapping never occurred to me. “A lot of
islanders never lock their doors—it’s some sort of we-live-in-paradise badge of
honor. At Gator’s house, you might try the front latch; see if it’s locked.
It’s conceivable someone just walked in.”

“It’s also possible that Bea’s murder is a copycat killing,”
Braden added. “Maybe hubby seized a golden opportunity to offload his wife
without alimony.”

The sheriff shifted in his seat and snapped out of his
reverie. “At least we know where our killer is, what with the bridge blockade.
He has to be on this island. That narrows things down, gives us a starting
point.”

Picturing the killer trapped on the island offered cold
comfort. “Yeah, it does remove a few suspects,” I said. “Everyone in the
Cuthbert household is off-island. Of course, if you made it over in a
helicopter, a boat could have slipped across, too, once the winds died down.”

The scary face glimpsed on the docks—Underling or his
look-alike—flashed through my mind. I couldn’t fathom a connection with Bea but
wondered if all of yesterday’s itinerant boats remained snugged in their
assigned slips. The marina might be worth a gander after our call on Gator.

We pulled into the Caldwells’ circular drive. Nary a light
inside or out. Like most island abodes, the home featured a two-car garage and
storage space at ground level with the main living areas on second and third
floors. Insurance requirements now dictated the live-in portion of coastal
homes be at least fourteen feet above sea level. However, older homes—including
my low-slung ranch—had been grandfathered. I was thankful for the reprieve
since it would have cost a fortune to separate my house from its foundation and
jack it up on stilts.

Something about the shadowy scene seemed out of kilter. “If
Bea left of her own accord, she didn’t want to advertise it. Otherwise she’d
have left a porch light burning.”

“Or she left in a panic—or a huff—and didn’t think about
turning on lights,” Braden said.

Together, we trooped up the curving grand staircase to
double doors. The etched glass panels featured a pair of egrets, wings unfolded
and eternally poised for flight. Braden tugged on a plastic glove and thumbed
the latch on the active door. It clicked open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sheriff Conroy
hissed. He’d been zoned out when I suggested testing the lock. “We don’t have a
search warrant. You want to be charged with breaking and entering?”

“Just checking Marley’s theory that a kidnapper could have
waltzed in through an unlocked door.” Braden gently pulled the door shut. “I
wasn’t planning to enter uninvited.”

The sheriff dismounted his high horse. “Sorry. I’m uptight.
You know what they say about bearers of bad tidings.”

Braden pushed the bell. A stately chime echoed inside. After
the third singsong chorus, we heard Gator hollering. “Bea, Bea. Where are you?
If you’re downstairs, get the damn door.”

Braden tapped the bell again, triggering more trills. A
minute later, Gator yanked the door open. “What in blazes do you want? Do you
know what time it is?”

The sheriff exhaled deeply as if he’d been holding his
breath. “I’m Sheriff Conroy.” He used his conciliatory politician’s voice. “We
met at Jess Hamrick’s fundraiser. Sorry to wake you, but we need to talk. Can
we come inside? It’s about your wife.”

“I can’t imagine where she’s got to. Bea?” Gator bellowed.
“Get yourself down here.” He turned back to us. “What’s so all-fired important
it couldn’t wait until morning?”