Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Read Online Free

didn’t try to hide. His brush cut looked
surprisingly good. Hey, spend enough time in the Army and men with long hair
look a bit prissy. Jude Law excepted.
    Once we reached the scene of last night’s murder, I parked
directly in front of the Dolphin entrance, disregarding the diminutive parking lines
that decreed I was hogging two golf cart slots. While I pulled out keys to open
the decorative wrought-iron grill that served as an admission gate, Braden read
the posted hours.
    “Is this the only way in?” he asked.
    “No. It would be easy to slip in from the beach at low tide
though we’re talking pluff mud rather than sand for maybe three hundred feet.
That muck can suck the paint right off your toenails. So Stew and the killer
probably entered this way. The gate was open when I arrived.
    “The young lady scheduled to lock up thought she’d
done so. No guarantee there. Facilities are left unlocked all the time. Then
again someone could have opened the gate later. Lots of people have keys.”
    “Including Stew?”
    “No, but he knew plenty of folks who did. The fire station
has a complete set of keys and another set hangs at the real estate office so
agents can show off club facilities if they’re closed. Dozens of club employees
and all the security guards have keys, too. Helpful, huh? A list of the keyless
might be shorter.”
    In the sparkling sunlight, the Dolphin, with its cheerful Caribbean
face paint of banana yellow and hibiscus pink, looked an unlikely spot for
murder. An open breezeway bisected the first floor of the two-story clubhouse,
pulling visitors through to a smashing view of Mad Inlet and the Atlantic
beyond. Sunrise Island lay to the right, its sugar-white beaches accessorized
with the bleached bones of storm-felled trees. With the sensuous beauty of
driftwood, the giant oak carcasses guarded the lush subtropical greenery to
their back.
    “What a view. Anyone live over there?” Braden nodded at Sunrise.
    “No. It’s uninhabited. The University of South Carolina owns
it and uses it primarily for sea turtle research. Sunrise was part of Dear Island
before it broke in two.”
    “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