Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries)

by Lovely, Linda

  “What do you mean, broke in two?”

  “Hurricane Gracie made a direct hit in 1959, and today’s Dear is the western half of the original island. The eastern half is Sunrise. Real estate agents gloss over this tidbit since it might prompt prospects to wonder what’ll happen come the next big blow.”

  “That’d make me think twice,” Braden agreed.

  “At low tide, you can practically wade to Sunrise. But, believe me, you don’t want to swim there when the tide’s running strong. Every couple of years someone ignores our riptide warnings and drowns.”

  A blur of purple caught my eye as a figure crouched behind a lounge chair rose and sprinted toward the beach. “Hey, stop!” I took off running.

  The culprit was easy to I.D. Not too many Dear residents sport purple mohawks.

  “Henry Cuthbert, I’m putting in your reservation for juvie jail,” I yelled after the fleeing teen. With no prayer of catching him, I braked, panting, at the edge of the concrete. Henry had three factors going for him—a head start, youth and bare feet. The pluff mud would have swallowed my size-ten cop shoes on the first tread.

  Once Henry reached the water’s edge, he turned to waggle both middle fingers in our direction. Then a skiff roared to his side and he dove into its well. A dune had blocked the waiting getaway boat from view. Brother Jared was driving. The whine of the motor didn’t drown out their laughter.

  Braden, who’d reached for his gun, re-holstered and grinned. “I take it those boys like to yank your chain.”

  “Yeah. Not worth chasing the pimply-faced weasels. They’re not your killers.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Identical twins. Henry sports the purple hair. Jared tinted his plume green. We call them vampires because they usually strike between midnight and daybreak. Truth be known, we’ve all longed to drive stakes through their puny hairless chests. They smash mailboxes with ball bats, throw lawn furniture in pools, and mark their territory with beer cans and urine. It’s gotten worse lately. Now they’re terrorizing elderly residents too afraid to complain.”

  “Wonder what they were doing here,” Braden said.

  “Nothing good.”

  I glanced toward the Jacuzzi. The yellow caution tape had vanished—along with Stew, of course, and the vegetable potpourri. An “Out of Order” sign leaned against the dial for the hot tub’s jets.

  “If I hadn’t been here, I’d never believe someone was murdered.”

  Braden shrugged. “Sheriff Conroy pushed to finish all on-site forensic work before daybreak. The last crew left at six a.m. Dear’s developer must have political juice. Called in favors with SLED—the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. He didn’t want any grisly reminders of murder greeting guests this morning.”

  For the next half hour, we wandered the grounds and peered into every clubhouse portal. We circled the baby pool, where a hollow see-through whale made tykes long to be swallowed by a giant fish. Then we meandered among the fake outcroppings and caves crafted to make the freeform pools and fountains appear part of a natural paradise. While the plaster-of-Paris sculptures didn’t quite achieve the intended ambiance, the hidden misters were a hit with children, who never failed to spy pirates lurking in the artificial fog.

  Today the haze whispered against my skin like a gray shroud. I kept glancing behind me, expecting something more lethal to materialize out of the cave’s dank reaches. At the cavern’s exit, the deputy stopped short. I walked right up his heels, ricocheted and wound up on my rump. Braden managed a more graceful gymnast’s landing and sprang upright. He reached down and hauled me up with ease.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I dusted off my rump. How embarrassing. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Can’t remember the last time a woman fell for me.”

  His sly smile and lifted eyebrow made me blush. Did he think I planned my little trip?

  “Glad you have a sense of humor. The last guy who landed at my feet threatened to sue.”

  “He must have been crazy.” Braden reached over and tugged gently on one of my curls. “A piece of moss.” He showed me the speck of furry green he’d extracted.

  A light-headed moment ensued. Jeez. Was he flirting? How did you tell?

  I’d been a chunky teen, shy around boys. The years most girls spent learning to flirt, I’d aced advanced placement classes, played clarinet in the marching band, and won the Iowa State debate championships. I hadn’t exactly flunked flirting, just never matriculated in how-to-date school. Once basic training rendered my baby fat to muscle, who needed to flirt? The Army’s male-to-female ratio erased any deficiency.

  Braden pointed toward the Jacuzzi. “The murderer could have stood inside this overhang and been invisible,” he said. “There’s a direct line of sight. I did a little research last night. In Russia and some East European countries, police use stunners that can be fired twenty feet from the target, and there’s no telltale confetti. It’s possible our victim never saw his killer.”

  I frowned. “Stew may not have seen his killer, but my bet is he knew him. I can’t imagine Stew skinny-dipping alone. Probably meeting someone—the ‘someone’ who murdered him. Otherwise, we’d have two dead bodies or a hysterical witness. He knew his killer.”

  “You have a candidate?”

  “No. Stew’s life seemed pretty dull.” I shared the scarce details that circulated the island about the man’s job, occasional dates, and his golf and fishing hobbies.

  When Braden questioned me, I named the women Stew occasionally squired, but couldn’t come up with a single male confidante. He’d been friendly with everyone, good friends with no one. If it weren’t for my neighbor, Janie Spark, I might have rowed in the same sad boat. But Janie was determined to rescue me from my tendency to hibernate.

  “Okay. Let’s try another tack,” the deputy said. “The chief said you could give me a rundown on the island’s shadier characters. Could Stew have crossed one of them?”

  “Honestly, I can’t think of anyone vicious enough to be a murderer. And I hate to repeat rumors. They flourish like weeds on Dear. Ninety-percent are pure baloney or plain malicious.”

  Braden looked me in the eye. “Look, I promise to keep my mouth shut. I grew up in a small town. If you dig in the local dirt, you find worms. But I’ve never come across a weirder murder, and I need all the help I can get.”

  The man’s honest admission of his clueless state had definite appeal. Unfortunately I inhabited the same unaware zip code. “Okay, get ready for a scintillating busman’s tour of Dear, complete with gossip commentary.

  “Since you’ve met the two youngest members of the household, let’s start with the Cuthberts.”

  ***

  Sitting at the southern terminus of Dear Drive, the manicured lawns of the Cuthbert estate practically oozed money. The green played against a backdrop of vivid blue sea and white-hot dunes.

  After we parked, Braden let out an appreciative whistle at the spectacular home that straddled a trio of ocean lots. “Wow. This little getaway cost some serious change.”

  The elegant exterior featured acres of bronzed glass with columns of muted tabby—crushed seashells imprisoned in a web of mortar.

  “Grace Cuthbert built it for four million,” I said as we climbed out of the car. “Bet it’s worth twice as much now.”

  “So why are we here? Is there a skeleton in her closet?”

  “Well, it’s gospel—not gossip—that Grace is an alcoholic. We’ve met a handful of times, once when I caught her twins cruising the island at four a.m. Grace lives with Hugh Wells, a former Las Vegas lounge lizard, reputed to have mob connections. But even if Hugh had wise guy contacts in the past, he appears to be enjoying early retirement courtesy of Grace’s largesse.”

  Braden frowned. “The murder doesn’t have a mob signature. Still, I’ll check him out.”

  “Chief Dixon worries more about Grace’s sons than her lover,” I added. “They’re a two-headed plagu
e. Thank heaven they’re corralled in a boarding school most of the year. They’re on spring break now.”

  “Are they screwed up enough to murder someone?”

  “No.” I didn’t need to think about my response. “They’re just obnoxious punks. A surplus of hormones and cash.”

  “How would Stew have known these folks?”

  “He wasn’t exactly a friend of the family,” I replied, “though he fished with Hugh occasionally and appraised property for the Cuthbert trust. Grace has lots of investments. She fronted twenty million to finance the island’s newest development, Beach West.”

  “No kidding. What’s the lady worth?”

  “Gossips claim $500 million. Inherited. Her family holds thousands of shares of Leapgene. Her great-grandfather founded the company.”

  Braden scuffed at some sand in the rutted cul de sac. His bunched eyebrows suggested puzzlement. “Do many multi-millionaires hang their hats here? I don’t mean to insult, but Dear Island doesn’t look, well…ritzy enough.”

  “Few fulltime residents are truly wealthy, though more and more second homeowners qualify. Arthur Zantoc, the famous artist, hibernates here, but with four ex-wives, he probably has less disposable income than I do.”

  The timbre of Braden’s laugh hinted that he might be making alimony payments. Hmm, no wedding band. Too bad I’m not ten years younger and hot to trot. Oh well, it was nice to enjoy a baritone laugh.

  While I knew he was too young for me, I felt certain Janie would love to make Braden’s acquaintance. When it came to dating, my neighbor, who was actually a month older than me, refused to discriminate on any basis—race, creed, social status or age.

  I shook my head to chase away incipient fantasies. Had to be lack of sleep. Or failure to invest in batteries.

  “You’re right about the island lacking glitz. Besides, if rich folks want seclusion, they buy their own islands. A sultan owns one maybe fifteen minutes from here by boat.”

  “What about the developer?” Braden asked. “Stew must have dealt with him.”

  “There are actually two developers. Partners. We’ll drive by Gator’s place next.”

  We climbed in the Mustang and retraced our route at a twenty-five-mile-per-hour crawl. That’s the island speed limit except on gravel roads, where it drops to fifteen. The funereal pace surely mortified my Mustang.

  I idled my car just short of a lavender McMansion with an ocean view. “There’s Gator Caldwell.”

  We watched as a short fireplug of a man injected his untidy body into a sleek Ferrari.

  “I assume Gator’s a nickname. Does he wrestle them or something?”

  I laughed. “He went to the University of Florida. Though he flunked out freshman year, he became a rabid football fan.”

  I didn’t mention that Gator’s pointy little teeth could have inspired the moniker. While they looked undersized, there seemed to be too many jagged incisors for the size of his mouth.

  “Is the guy loaded?” Braden asked as the Ferrari purred to life.

  “Depends who’s talking. I hear vendors grouse that the Dear Company is way behind in paying bills. Stew did a lot of business with Gator. Used to join him at the marina bar for happy hour.”

  “What’s Gator’s background?”

  “When he dropped out of college, he went home to Alabama. Made a mint as a paving contractor. Then he met up with B.J. Falcon, who put together the investment group to buy Dear after the last real estate slump pushed it into foreclosure.”

  “So is B.J. the brains of the outfit?”

  “Well, it’s no longer B.J. He literally got caught with his pants down. His ex-wife, Sally, now owns his shares in the Dear Company. She’s vice president and director of marketing.”

  Gator zoomed around his circular drive. Even from a distance, his scowl was noticeable.

  “Doesn’t appear to be a happy man,” Braden remarked. “Does it gall him, having a female partner?”

  “Surprisingly, I don’t think so. Sally’s smoother than her ex and shrewd. Worked in her hubby’s office fifteen years. She hatched the ideas; B.J. took the credit. She’s much better than B.J. at schmoozing with high-roller types. She lives on the island with a ten-year-old daughter and her mom, who keeps house.”

  Braden made a note to arrange interviews with both Dear Company execs.

  We gave Gator’s exhaust fumes time to dissipate before we toddled in his wake. As we approached the intersection of Dear Drive and Egret Way, Jack Bride’s golf cart pulled onto the verge beside of the road. Virulent slogans plastered the man’s distinctive ride: “Stop Dear’s Ecology Killers,” “Cousteau Would Weep,” “Crimes Against Nature.”

  Jack’s arms waved wildly as he harangued two guys preparing to fell a huge live oak in the side yard of a vacation bungalow.

  Braden swiveled in his seat to watch the histrionics as we drove past. “I was about to inquire about mentally unbalanced islanders. Do I have a candidate?”

  “That’s Jack Bride. I don’t recall him having any beef with Stew.” I instantly grimaced at my unintended pun. “God, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. Dr. Bride’s an ecology extremist. Got very upset when they broke ground for Beach West. The parcel’s mostly swamp and jungle—or as the P.R. flacks put it, ‘magnificent marsh and unspoiled subtropical forest.’

  “Last week, when workers started toppling trees, Jack swung a discarded piece of rebar like a baseball bat. Banged up some equipment but didn’t hit anyone. He’s been a nuisance, screaming at Gator, defacing signs. There’s a restraining order to keep him off company property. He’s quite vocal about Dear’s developers being ecology scumbags and crooks.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “No. He’s actually quite sweet.”

  Braden smiled. “You’re a softie. Is there anything to his accusations?”

  “No comment. I’ve heard Gator boast that any developer worth his salt has gone bankrupt at least three times. And his background is salty enough to advertise himself as a country ham. I don’t know whether he achieved bankruptcy the old-fashioned way—stupidity and greed—or if some illegal scam caught up with him.”

  I turned the car onto Blue Heron. The street runs parallel to several holes on the golf course’s back nine. We’d almost reached my own driveway when a chubby, gray-haired lady darted through an opening in the pines on a vacant lot.

  “Help me. Help me,” she screamed as she ran into the road.

  Braden jumped out of the car before the Mustang shuddered to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” he yelled as he ran toward a disheveled Mrs. Barnwell.

  “An alligator…it’s eating my baby.” She was hysterical. “Oh my poor Candi. Please help. Hurry.”

  I abandoned the car and blew by the woman. I’d closed on Braden’s heels when he drew his gun. “Braden, you can’t shoot. Alligators are protected.”

  “Are you crazy,” he fired back at me. “It’s killing a child.”

  “Candi’s her poodle,” I wheezed.

  As we neared the edge of the lagoon, there was a pitiful squeal and a fluffy patch of white sank out of sight. In an instant, all signs of life—alligator and poodle—disappeared. A thick carpet of duckweed slime resealed itself above the opening where we’d witnessed Candi’s last gasp. The brackish water went still. No ripples to indicate movement below.

  “Jesus Christ.” Braden holstered his gun and stared at a little six-foot gator sunning itself a few feet away. This reptile clearly wasn’t the culprit. “Did her poodle fall in the water? Surely these things can’t chase down a dog.”

  “Don’t bet on it. They’ve been clocked at thirty-five miles an hour for short bursts. Come on. Let’s collect Mrs. Barnwell and take her home.”

  Since I was driving, Braden assumed the role of grief counselor, bundling the elderly woman into the back seat and patting her hand on the ride to her condo. He talked so softly I couldn’t distinguish his words, but whatever he said soothed her. A nice guy. When we r
eached Mrs. Barnwell’s condo, he sat with her while I knocked on doors to find a neighbor willing to assume our comforting duties.

  As we watched the ladies mount the front steps, Braden shook his head. “I’ve been on Dear Island—what?—three hours tops, and I’ve gone for my gun twice. Unbelievable. In Atlanta’s worst neighborhoods, I could go months without touching my piece.”

  I chuckled. “You just haven’t figured out all our idiosyncrasies.”

  “Hard to believe. Not a car in sight. It’s quiet as a tomb. Yet we’ve got a weirdo murder, vampire teens and alligator attacks. I heard Hollywood sometimes uses Dear Island as a movie set. Sure they’re not making Curse of the Voodoo and forgot to tell you?”

  I started the car. “Have to admit this is more excitement than usual.”

  “How many people live here full time?” he asked.

  “Under a thousand. The island’s sparsely populated in spring. Except for Easter. The holiday bumps the population up to three thousand with tourists and second homeowners. We don’t see Hilton Head’s traffic, but we get our share in summer. Upwards of ten thousand over the Fourth of July. It’s a wonder the island doesn’t sink. That’s when most residents flee north.”

  I headed the car toward the front gate.

  “Residents are mostly Yankees?” Braden asked, unconsciously seasoning his “Yankee” pronunciation with a dash of bitters.

  “Are you asking about damn Yankees?” I teased, eyebrows lifted.

  “Hey, I didn’t say that. I married a New Yorker.”

  “My apologies.” Really. Why wasn’t he wearing his wedding band? “We transplants need to stick together. Give her my best.”

  “Doubtful. We only speak when I pick up my sons. I’m divorced.”

  “Sorry.”

  Unsure how to smooth over this conversational speed bump, I kept my mouth closed until we reached our final destination, the island’s Disney-esque security gate.

  “Thought you’d like to see the visitor logs. I’ll run in and get them.”