Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (25 page)

Janie smiled. “Hugh and Gator were fishing buddies…and you
know how Gator likes to play big shot. While they trolled for drum fish, my old
boss yakked about his wheeler-dealer doings. He told Hugh how he and Sally
bumped up property values, using employees as shills. Worse, he spilled the
beans that he and Sally were set to bail out of their real estate investment
trust before other investors realized it was in the toilet.”

She shrugged. “Gator and Sally knew they’d go bankrupt if
word got out. They’d lose Dear and a chance that the Beach West profits might
make them whole again. Based on what I overheard, Kain roped them in gradually.
First with the guest worker gig, then money laundering and the land flip. He
promised millions in profits and Woody as an expendable scapegoat when the
mortgages proved bogus.”

Braden and I caught the eleven-thirty ferry to Dear. The
passenger seated across from us seemed engrossed in a tabloid story. I read the
headline—“Widowed Granny Steals Bobcat, Beheads Killer”—and groaned.

Geesh. My Bobcat assault didn’t sever the guy’s head, and
“widowed granny?”—puh-leese. Though happy to claim Jeff’s grandchildren as my
own, the verbal packaging suggested a frail old lady with loose dentures and a
walker.

Since it was Sunday, I half expected the island to be quiet.
Unfortunately, word of our return had drawn out the reporter vultures. To save
our carcasses, we literally ran for our car, and barricaded ourselves in my
house.

While I exchanged my bloodied uniform for jeans and a
sweatshirt, Braden gave the heave-ho to a brazen hussy who pressed her nose
against a windowpane on my back deck. Next he called Chief Dixon, who took pity
and ordered security to chase away stalkers. The deputy also taped “Trespassers
Will Be Prosecuted” warnings to the front and back doors.

Once the reporters slunk away, we tiptoed outside to look
for Pussy Galore. Janie’s cat snoozed in a patch of sunlight on my neighbor’s
stoop. The Persian eyed me suspiciously when I opened Janie’s door and shooed
her inside. But she purred approval once I perfumed the air with tuna treats.

I immediately rang Janie to say her kitty was safe. My
friend appeared on the rebound. Though seventy miles from Dear, she’d begun
orchestrating the island’s resurrection. “I had our Sunday receptionist post a
sign that our real estate office will reopen tomorrow,” she told me. “I also
asked our resort manager to pretend it’s business as usual. Renters need to
check in and out no matter who’s in the pokey. I’ll drive to Dear tomorrow to
help sort things out.”

I laughed. “You’re a marvel. Just don’t overdo it.”

“Hey, I have an ulterior motive. I’ve seen developers go
under before. Some creditor eventually stakes a claim, and the guy who’s put in
charge is always clueless. I plan to make sure the bumpkin realizes I’m
indispensable. By the by, our resort manager says the bridge is opening to
one-lane traffic tomorrow. Life is returning to normal.”

With Pussy safe, Braden and I returned to our hermitage. I
turned off the telephone ringer and set the answering machine to pick up first
ring. Then we closed every drape, reluctantly shutting out the comforting
warmth of the April sun.

I felt tired and sore, a little closer to that little old
widder lady than I wanted to admit. Braden was on his cell phone tying up loose
investigative ends.

He smiled when he hung up from his last call. “They served
search warrants on all the suspected off-island crooks—appraiser Clay Jacobs,
mortgage broker Zach Antolak, and Michael Beech, Esq., attorney at law—and they
even found a paper trail. Best of all, Beech played the fool and acted as his
own counsel. He sold out his co-conspirators.”

“Terrific,” I replied. “But still no promising leads on
Kain?”

“No.” He shook his head.

I tried to keep my expression neutral. No need for him to
see the fear mixed with my disappointment. “I’m going to soak in the tub. Try
to work out some stiffness.”

“I have to make one more call,” Braden said. “Then I hope to
get rid of a little
stiffness
myself. How about we meet between the
sheets in, say, fifteen minutes?”

I slipped out of the bath and gingerly patted myself dry.
Having caught another glimpse of my multicolored hyena hide in the mirror, I
avoided further scrutiny and hurried to my horizontal refuge. I’d stripped the
bed yesterday and now reaped my reward. When I purchased Egyptian cotton
sheets, I felt a twinge of guilt about the extravagance, despite the eighty
percent off price. Today the cool caress felt worth every penny. Braden’s voice
floated in and I smiled, thinking delicious thoughts about his mischievous
grin, sexy hint of a beard and bedroom eyes.

That’s how I fell asleep, and Braden, a gentleman through
and through, didn’t wake me. I had no such compunction when I crawled to
consciousness and realized I was as randy as an eighteen-year-old. Naturally,
it was the deputy’s fault. We were tucked in a lover’s spoon, nude, of course.
His arm draped across my waist, and my bottom snugged against his body. His
dream had to be erotic. Unconsciously the deputy pressed me tighter against a
silken hardness each time he drew breath. If he was having one of those dreams,
we might as well both enjoy it.

Slowly I lifted his arm and shifted to face him. I keep my
fingernails neatly trimmed, but they’re plenty long enough to skip tauntingly
over warm flesh. I hop scotched a wicked little tap dance down his chest and
continued the sensory wake-up call along his thighs. Meanwhile I used my tongue
to dash out an added SOS on one of his nipples.

I knew Braden was awake when one of his hands slid
unerringly into a retaliatory position. As he began an exploratory foray, he
didn’t need to be De Soto to discover I was ready, willing and able. My low
moan and greedy grasp of a most-favored appendage gave the game away. I can’t
recall the last time I used the word “swoon”—if ever—but I may have done so
when his soft but slightly prickly beard led the charge of his counterattack.
Then all my troubles, all my bruised flesh and banged limbs, were forgotten in
a warm electric rush that sent twitching impulses of pleasure scurrying to
every nerve ending.

When the tremors quieted, I sighed my contentment.

“I’m sure going to miss you,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Braden looked hurt. He brushed back my
hair and twirled a finger in an unruly ringlet glued to my damp forehead. “Are
you kicking me out—slam, bam, thank you, Sam?”

I hadn’t intended to delve into our relationship at this
moment. But my thoughts had popped out. No way to stuff them back in the box.

“No.” I smiled. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you
want—or visit whenever you like. It’s just that Janie mentioned the bridge
reopens tomorrow. So it won’t be long before Sheriff Conroy recalls his
deputies. No need for you to bivouac here once you can drive on and off the
island.”

“Oh,” Braden stayed quiet for a moment. “If I don’t clear
out, Dear’s gossip fires will rage, right? Would that cause you heartburn?”

“Not really. I quit fretting about other people’s opinions
about the time I screwed my military career by marrying a noncom.”

I nodded toward a watercolor that occupied four feet of
bedroom wall space. It pictured three middle-aged ladies on a beachcombing
expedition. “Do you like that painting?”

“Uh, it’s okay. Not very flattering. Are you deliberately
changing the subject?”

“No, it’s relevant. I think the artist loved those women.
Sure their thighs are dimpled with cellulite, but it doesn’t stop them from
sallying forth in bathing suits. Look at that lady on the right, her rump is so
plump it’s stretched her suit to near transparency. Do any of them give a hoot?
No. They’re merrily collecting shells and laughing. Content inside their own
skins.”

I stopped and kissed Braden’s fingertips. “So am I. Most of
the time anyway. I’m a poor candidate for Botox and unlikely to care if my
neighbors approve my sleeping arrangements. But we have a sizable age gap and
we didn’t really plan this…arrangement. I’m not looking for a commitment. In
fact, I think another commitment is tearing you up.”

Braden interrupted. “What are you talking about? There’s no
one else.”

“Sure there is. Your sons. Your boys are calling you back to
Atlanta. I saw your wallet lying open at the hospital. You’d been studying
their faces, right? If you want to be part of their lives, don’t take no for an
answer.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Brady
and Duncan. I keep hearing the Cuthbert twins, how they believed their dad
didn’t love them. I want my sons to know I’m crazy about them. I want them to
come to me if they’re ever in trouble or just troubled.”

“Sounds like you’ve made a decision,” I said.

“Yeah, about my involvement in their lives, not about where
I’ll live. Who’s to say I can’t be a good dad and live on Dear Island? And what
happens to us if I leave?”

I tried to keep my tone light. “We’re fine. You’re kind and
brave—not to mention tender and sexy. For the past year, I’ve been
sleepwalking. You’ve been a wonderful wake-up call. I don’t want to say goodbye.
But I don’t want you to stay out of inertia. If you think you can handle
long-distance parenting, we should be able to juggle a long-distance romance.
It’s something to think about.”

“Okay,” Braden answered. “But I sure as hell don’t want this
to end.”

We had both avoided the “love” word. Was I in love? Or
just grateful to be back among the living?

***

Braden slipped his arms around my waist as I turned an
omelet for a final browning. “If you think I’m moving out of this
bed-and-breakfast any time soon, you’re nuts.” He kissed the back of my neck.
Then he poured us coffee, and retrieved a Diet Coke from the fridge to set
beside my placemat. Already the man had adjusted to one of my idiosyncrasies.

I forked a generous mouthful of eggs, and my gaze snagged on
a cooler collecting dust in a kitchen corner. “Remember that blue-and-white
cooler the twins watched Hugh haul from Kain’s Sunset Island drop to Dear? Was
it ever found?”

“Nope, and deputies searched every inch of the Cuthbert
mansion as well as Gator’s and Sally’s houses. They also looked in likely
cubbyholes on company property—restaurants, clubhouses, resort and real estate
offices.”

“Well, wherever it is, I bet it’s still flush with cash,” I
said. “Gator and Sally had no time to launder anything—money or undies—between
Kain’s order for fifty thousand clean bills and their arrest. So where do you
suppose Hugh hid it?”

Braden’s fork wavered mid-air. “A rental property? Kain must
have told Hugh not to foul his own nest. With the boys snooping around, Hugh
needed a neutral hidey-hole.”

“Well, it wouldn’t take long to check out active rentals,” I
said, “especially ones rented for a month or more. I doubt Hugh would be the
renter-of-record though.”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I doubt a judge would give me a
warrant to search a couple dozen rental properties based on a hunch.”

I smiled. “No warrants needed. Every Dear rental agreement
includes a waiver giving island housekeeping, security guards, firemen and
emergency personnel the right to enter the premises at any time for any reason.
And, guess what, yours truly is a security guard.”

After breakfast, we called Chief Dixon to get his okay for
our treasure hunt. He grunted a “yes” so long as I didn’t bill my hours. “Hey,
my budget’s toast with all the freaking overtime. I think you’re on a wild
goose chase, but who cares if I’m not in range of the buckshot.”

Dixon’s foul mood probably related to his employment
picture. While he worked for DOA and not the developers, the Dear Company paid
fifty percent of security salaries. Given the financial morass bequeathed to
creditors by Gator and Sally, the new regime might arrive swinging a broad
budget axe.

I assured the chief my efforts were gratis. “Okay,” he said.
“I don’t have you down for any shifts this week. Pressure’s off. Relax a
little. Lord help us, I think the excitement’s past.”

The consensus was that all the bad guys—with one horrible
exception—were dead or behind bars. A charter pilot had identified a photo of
Kain, confirming his Saturday night flight to Miami. By now the mystery man
could be anywhere. Braden’s bet was in one of the “stans” in what was once the USSR.

I got goose bumps thinking about the man creeping back and
trying to extract a pound of flesh from my hide one sliver at a time. I didn’t want
him at large—anywhere.

With the chief’s nod to enter rental property, Braden and I
suited up for duty, strapping on holsters and guns. As I pocketed my wallet, a
slip of paper fell out. The note held the numbers I’d scribbled the night we
tossed Hugh’s boat.

“You ready?” Braden asked.

“Yeah, let me grab my GPS. Remember that list of numbers
Hugh stashed with marine charts? While we’re cruising around, let’s see if any
of the numbers might be island coordinates.”

***

Eager to help, the Dear Island resort manager showed us how
to work the rental software. In ten minutes, we compiled a list of twenty-four
properties meriting a look-see. All were rented after January 1 for extended
periods, and none of the vacationers were repeat guests. Sue had already culled
the list of Canadians and other snowbirds who returned to Dear year after year.

With a roster and duplicate keys in hand, we headed to the
north end of the island. We decided on a surprise knock-and-search operation.
No advance calls to see who answered. Though all of Kain’s collaborators
appeared to be hospitalized, handcuffed or fugitives, we saw no reason to take
chances.

Our canvass proved time-consuming. Most of the houses sat
empty. It seemed strange for so many renters to be AWOL on a Monday morning,
especially a cold one that felt more like January than April. Yet Dear’s newly
reopened bridge acted as a powerful magnet. Long lines of cars queued to take
turns snaking over the jury-rigged one-lane connector. While some residents
headed to grocery and liquor stores to stock up on staples, others simply
relished the freedom to drive wherever they pleased. The jailer had opened
Dear’s gates.

By late afternoon, we’d crossed eighteen houses off our
list. Rummaging around in thirteen empty houses had brought only one
discovery—tourons leave lots of disgusting stuff strewn about, from plates
smeared with spaghetti goo to soiled boxer shorts.

The people who did answer their bells were clearly not in
Kain’s thrall. Braden’s ID checks didn’t even scare up unpaid traffic tickets.
Still, we searched their haciendas in case Hugh had hoodwinked them.