Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (12 page)

The men appeared eager to leave: the sheriff to arrange a
press conference, Braden to pack for an extended stay and return before
sundown, Chief Dixon to meet with Sally.

Janie gave Dixon a pitying look. “She’s gonna go batty if
you fellas don’t offer damage control. Two murders and a busted bridge have
reporters salivating. Tomorrow’s tabloids are gonna shout
Killer Stalks
Marooned Islanders.
Sally’s freaked. We can’t afford to scare off potential
buyers right before Easter.”

Always the politician, the sheriff sugar-coated the PR
nightmare. “I’ll stress the killer
left
Dear and a watch on the marina
will ensure he doesn’t return. We want our perp to think this island’s the last
place we’ll look for him. My spin should make everyone happy.”

Yeah, except for the next poor slob who gets killed
.
Possibly
me.

As the trio exited, the sheriff sketched a salute and
promised deputies would mosey by my house on the half-hour, walk its perimeter
on the hour. He ordered me to stay inside until Braden returned.

The precautions seemed overkill on a sunny afternoon. Our
murderer exhibited a predilection for gloom and had to be as tired as I was—too
pooped to sail over for an après-lunch murder spree.

My keyed up state made napping impossible. I paced beside my
picture window, watching golfers parade from fairway to green. Though
temperatures hovered near sixty, the seniors were girded in Gortex and sported
scarlet ear muffs and blue watch caps. Up north, folks wore shorts when the
mercury crept this high. But who was I to ridicule? I was more than happy to
cower by the fire while the ocean winds sliced and diced.

I picked up a mystery novel but couldn’t concentrate. I
glanced at a picture of Jeff and me hoisting beer mugs in Munich.

Braden’s nothing like Jeff. More serious. Less
irreverent. Braden had dark hair and hazel eyes. Jeff’s hair was blond, his
eyes, milk chocolate.

Oh, stop it. Jeff’s dead. And you weren’t exactly a
virgin bride. You’ve had relationships with other men.

I looked over at Janie, who flipped through back issues of
Southern
Living
.

“Janie, I think I’ll shower before Braden comes back. Okay?”

“Sure, it’s not like you’re Chatty Cathy this afternoon.”

I lingered in the shower, hoping the pelting water would
clear my mind. It didn’t. After toweling off, I rummaged through my vanity
searching for perfume. I dabbed on
Obsession
and immediately felt
guilty. Jeff had given me the perfume. But guilt didn’t stop me from forsaking
my usual Chapstick for creamy, cherry-red lipstick. Opening my underwear
drawer, I pawed past maybe twenty cotton briefs to locate a pair of black lace
panties.

Oh, crimey. Stop this nonsense.
Still, it was the
silky lace I slid up my legs.

When I rejoined Janie, she seemed even more fidgety. Was my
jumpiness infectious?

“Why don’t you go to work?” I suggested. “Braden will be
back in no time—thanks to your manipulation. Don’t think I’m not onto you.”

“Hey, no reason your bodyguard shouldn’t be male, handsome,
and single. Besides you must be blind if you don’t know he’s attracted to you.
Thought I’d choke on the pheromones.”

“Yeah, right.” Nonetheless, curiosity and a smidgeon of hope
prompted me to ask, “Like what?”

“For starters that hungry look every time he glances your
way. He wasn’t craving waffles this morning.” Janie’s smile faded. “But I need
to tell you something before he returns.”

She paused, apparently debating how to start. “Remember how
upset I was when Sally dropped that bombshell about Hogsback Island, now known
as Emerald Cay? Something’s really wrong. I’m scared my tits are gonna be in a
wringer if I don’t find out what’s what.”

“Are you worried about your greedy bosses being
overextended? Even if the Dear Company goes belly up, some other Lowcountry
developer will snap you up. You know the real estate biz. You have contacts up
the wazoo and a treasure map to all of Hollis County’s buried bodies.”

Janie chewed on her lip. “I won’t be such a hot commodity if
I’m wearing a prison jumpsuit. I have this sinking feeling some members of our
glorious ‘sales team’ are engaged in fraud. Yesterday I caught Woody Nickel
sneaking my notary stamp back into my desk drawer. I’m not exactly Miss Goody
Two Shoes. If he felt compelled to go behind my back, it’s bad. The document in
his hand had something to do with Emerald Cay.”

“Did you confront him?”

“Damn straight. Afterward, I stormed into Gator’s office,
demanded he fire the SOB and destroy whatever paperwork the guy dummied with my
stamp. I threatened cops. That made Gator sputter. The boss sweet-talked me.
Said it was a misunderstanding, promised Woody wouldn’t touch my notary stamp
again. Said he’d protect me ‘no matter what happened.’ That ‘no-matter-what’
line scared the crapola out of me. What are they hiding? Will you help? You can
pretend to be a buyer, ask questions I can’t.”

I laughed. “No way. Your officemates would never believe
I’ve developed a sudden hankering for investment property. Plus my own plate is
rather full—you know, acting as bait for a psycho killer.”

Janie sprang from her chair. “Don’t play hard to get,
Marley. I know how your fevered brain works. You’re wondering if there’s a
connection—crooked real estate deals, dead appraiser.”

She stopped her pacing, pleaded with her eyes. “Come on. I
can’t trust anyone else.”

I sighed. “Guess I could say I’m helping my aunt…that she
wants to build near me. Aunt May would play along. She sells real estate in Iowa.”

“Thanks.” Janie grinned. “I’ll fill you in so you don’t
waste time turning over old rocks. But you’ve got to promise—not a word to
Braden or any other law-type person.”

“You trying to make me an accessory to your crimes?” I
asked, only half-joking.

“Oh, don’t be such a Girl Scout. Everything I know—well, up
until Woody forged my signature—is quasi-legal. Ethical? That’s another kettle
of fish.”

For the next half hour, Janie provided an advanced course in
developer shenanigans. Her lecture explained a lot—like why homesites in new
corporate developments always sold for more than larger, equally scenic
“resale” lots.

To extract the greatest profit per inch of oceanfront,
Dear’s newest developer had sliced parcels into skinny, zero-lot-line plots
with house plans tailored to fit the corseted space. The shotgun homes featured
trendy tabby exteriors and Romeo-and-Juliet balconies.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Janie said. “Comparable
value plays a big role in the property appraisals banks insist on these days to
approve a mortgage. So appraisers check to see if other buyers have plunked
down similar wads of cash for neighboring properties.

“Sally and Gator make sure the comps look good. Just before
a grand opening, they whisper to select employees, urging them to buy at
inflated prices. Corporate money’s loaned interest-free so the shills can
manage down payments. Sally and Gator promise to unload the properties once
suitable patsies are found—before the bogus buyers have to make the first loan
payments.”

My mouth hung open. “You’re kidding. I thought bankers wised
up after the last bubble burst.”

“Some did, but institutional memories are short—especially
when early sales are brisk. The shills start a bidding frenzy. Real buyers
decide to snatch up lots before prices shoot higher. Once appraiser comps show
several homesites in the new development have already sold at the high prices,
the market’s set. Bankers rubber-stamp the loans.”

I shook my head. “This is legal?”

Janie rolled her eyes. “Sure. Well, sort of… If all goes
according to Hoyle, who’s gonna complain? Insiders pocket a bonus, and the
ultimate buyers think they’re Donald Trumps since Sally and Gator ratchet
prices higher on each new development. Folks who bought in the last round think
they got a steal.”

I stood and walked to the window. “What happens if real
buyers never materialize? What if the shills have to pony up and pay their
mortgages?”

Janie’s face, reflected in the window, frowned. “Things get
nasty. Foreclosures for sure.”

Outside, a golfer jumped, arms raised as his long putt found
a home.

“I can’t believe buyers are this stupid. Any research would
tell them they’re paying ridiculous sums for dirt that costs half as much on an
older wedge of the island.”

Janie smiled. “Real estate agents get a bonus, on top of
regular commissions, for selling corporate dirt. Don’t forget, agents work for
sellers not buyers. Why should they wise folks up about cheaper deals? It would
cost them.

“Fortunately for the Dear Company—and me—buyers who’ve spent
sixty winters in Ohio and are sick of snow don’t crunch numbers. They tool down
I-95, stopping here and there. Compared to many islands, even our high-priced
lots look reasonable.”

“If this fleecing’s legal and works so well, why the hell
isn’t the Dear Company rolling in dough?”

“Kaboom.” Janie imitated the sound of an explosion. “Simple
collision of ego and greed. Sally and Gator wanted to be Dixie land barons. Six
months ago, they formed another company, a real estate investment
trust—R.E.I.T.—and bought a bunch of foreclosed properties for pennies on the
dollar…”

The doorbell rang. Janie jumped, breaking off her discourse
mid-sentence. She mimed a zipper sealing her lips. “Remember, no tales out of
school. Make an appointment with Woody to talk about buying in Emerald Cay. I
can play sleuth, too. I’ll call April tonight and see if my sister’s heard of
your Polish émigré. It’s amazing what the owner of a gentlemen’s club picks up
through the grapevine.”

Janie flung my front door open. “Hi and bye,” she said
cheerily as she brushed past Braden. “You’d better not let anything happen to Marley.”

“Come in,” I said. “Ignore the reception committee.”

I heard the quake in my voice. Seeing Braden arrive with
suitcase and groceries worked like a defibrillator, kick-starting my heart.

His vintage Samsonite suitcase featured a skin of stamped
vinyl veneer and those hinged snaps that let you wedge in forgotten items at
the price of pinched skin. He precariously balanced three bags of groceries.
Six-packs bulged in bas-relief through one of the thin plastic sacks. I
relieved Braden of one bag of provisions. He set the others on the kitchen
island.

“Why don’t you put your suitcase in the bedroom while I put
away the groceries? Your room awaits, unchanged. Hasn’t gotten any cleaner
since you left.”

A crash prompted me to run to the bedroom. Braden was on his
knees, picking up big chunks of Jeff’s Oktoberfest mug. The engraved silver lid
with its thumbed lift clung tenaciously to the mug’s broken handle.

Braden looked up. “I’m so sorry. I knocked the nightstand
with my suitcase.”

A fist of sorrow cut off my breath. I couldn’t force words
to exit my mouth though I made a noise. So few mementos remained. We didn’t
take pictures. Didn’t collect trinkets. I’d bought Jeff that mug in Munich the
month we met. Now one more tie was gone.

Braden put the pottery pieces on the nightstand and walked
toward me. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

Stop it. Don’t lose it, not over a freaking two-bit mug.
You could buy a thousand identical mugs on Ebay.

“What have I done?” Braden asked. “That wasn’t just a beer
mug.”

I managed to choke out three words, “It…was…Jeff’s.”

The dam broke. I turned to leave, to take my grief private.
Braden pulled me against his chest. He defeated my attempt to wriggle away.
Holding me tight, he stroked my hair as I cried. Again and again, he repeated,
“I’m sorry.”

Once I managed to turn off the waterworks, embarrassment
tied my tongue. Anger figured into the equation, too. Not at Braden—at myself.
My breakdown had to make him feel like a jerk, as if he’d committed high
treason.

I straightened and pulled back. “I’m the one who’s sorry…and
ashamed. Please, accept my apologies. It was an accident. The mug was a silly
souvenir. I don’t know what possessed me. Just…give me a few minutes.”

I walked down the hall to the powder room, closed the door.
I soaked a washcloth and pressed the cold compress against my eyes. Sitting on
the commode, I sucked in a series of deep breaths. I felt drained. But drained
was an improvement. For over a year, thoughts of Jeff left me either numb or
angry. Unable to feel anything else. Now, to my surprise, I felt a niggling of
hope, a wedge of curiosity about what might come next.

I smiled when I realized my mind had already turned to food.
Back in the kitchen, I put away the rest of the groceries. When Braden joined
me, I spoke before he could rehash what I’d already dubbed my mad mug lunacy.

“You didn’t need to bring groceries.” Would a smile
telegraph my desire to move on? Let him know I was fine, that I wasn’t winding
up for a new crying jag?

Braden picked up on my manic clue. “It’s the least I could
do. Plus I figured E.T. Grits might be out of beer by now.”

I grinned. “From the sounds of the partying last night,
you’re probably right.” I found space for the last of three Old Milwaukee
six-packs. What had I expected? Neither of us were the wine spritzer type.

“I’ll cook tonight,” he added. “But I have a limited
repertoire.”

“What are the chef’s specialties?”

“Steak, hamburgers, and scrambled eggs. I bought all of ’em.
Steaks for tonight. There’s also a salad mix, pre-sliced garlic bread and
frozen key-lime pie.”

“Sounds great. But if I’m going to eat pie, I need to run
first. Listen, make yourself at home. It’s only four-thirty. I’ll be back in an
hour—before dark.”

I needed a run to regain my equilibrium.