Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (3 page)

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 plague. 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 reached 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.”

“Mind if I come along? I’d like to see your security setup.”

“Not at all, but there’s not much to see. It’s all form, no
function. Something tangible to foster a private island cachet. Mom used to say
we had a one-butt kitchen. Our guardhouse qualifies as a two-butt affair.”

Braden laughed. I opened a side door facing the
exit-the-island lane and spoke to the young guard on duty as we squeezed
inside. “Hey, Joey. Don’t mind us.”

Joey stood facing incoming traffic, the top half of his
Dutch door open to dole out visitor passes.