Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (28 page)

Chief Dixon swaggered over to greet Sheriff Winston Conroy
and engaged in a ritual good ol’ boy greeting.

“Hey, Chief, hear you got something a tad more interesting
than the usual heart attack,” said Sheriff Conroy. “Gives me a chance to show
your raggedy-ass island to our new officer. Meet Deputy Braden Mann.”

The newcomer deputy appeared to be in his thirties. Old for
a Lowcountry recruit. The lean, angular planes of his face were a bit
weather-beaten, yet his limber physique spoke of resilient muscles and youthful
energy. A straight back and commanding presence suggested he was used to giving
the orders.

“Braden was a homicide cop in Atlanta,” said the sheriff.
“Likes to fish and hunt though, so he can’t be all bad.” He motioned toward the
road. “Coroner should pull in any minute. He was right behind us over the
bridge. So what we got?”

As Dixon elaborated, the sheriff’s face clouded. “Well, I’ll
be. How’d you find the body?”

Dixon nodded my way. “Marley here noticed the front gate
unlocked and saw lights were out. Came round to investigate.”

The sheriff stole a sideways glance at me. His quizzical
look took in my uniform and age—twenty-five years senior to Dear Island’s only other female officer, who was currently on maternity leave.

“Who do we have here, Chief, another city slicker in hiding?
Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, ma’am.”

“Marley Clark. I work part-time for Chief Dixon.” We shook
hands.

“Marley comes to us from the Pentagon, a colonel in Army
Intelligence, no less.” The chief sounded as if he wanted to one-up the
sheriff.

“Just a lieutenant colonel,” I corrected, not coveting a
bogus promotion.

Dixon continued as though I hadn’t uttered a peep. “I told
Marley she was too dang young to play retiree. Besides I like having someone my
own age to talk to.”

The sheriff laughed. “Marley looks at least two decades
younger than you, Dixon. Going to Clemson University did you in. You’ve aged
like that bleu cheese the Ag school peddles.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dixon harrumphed. “Let’s get on with it.”

The sheriff’s sole CSI practitioner and the coroner went to
work. I stood off to the side, huddled beside a lifeguard stand. The sharpened
wind knifed through my soggy shirt. Massaging my arms to knead in warmth, I
tried to recall my last conversation with Stew. When hands grazed my neck, I
whirled, startled.

“It’s Marley, right?” the deputy asked. “I’m Braden.” He’d
draped a jacket around my shoulders. My jitters knocked it to the ground.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He smiled. “You look like you’re freezing.”

Before I could respond, he retrieved the jacket and wrapped
me in it. “Thanks, but I can’t take your coat.”

“Nonsense. I’m not wet—and bleeding. How bad are those
cuts?” He motioned toward my bloody knees.

“It’s nothing.” I was surprised he’d noticed. In all the
hubbub, no one else had. “A little alcohol and a few Band-aids and I’ll be
fine.”

“Sit down and I’ll fetch a first-aid kit.” He vanished
before I could object.

I’m not used to being fussed over, especially by a stranger.
But arguing required too much energy. Besides, until the coroner finished,
Braden and I had little to do beyond shivering. A poolside lounge chair
beckoned, its cushions cold and wet with dew. I was too weary to be
persnickety.

In a minute, Braden returned. He knelt and rolled up the
legs of my trousers. Thankfully, I’d shaved my legs, a hit or miss proposition
for a woman living alone. He bit open a wet gauze pack and daubed at the cuts
with a square of white cotton. The alcohol stung, but his hands felt warm, his
fingers gentle. Despite the pain and cold, I began to relax. By the time he
pressed down the last bandage I almost wished there were more cuts for him to
doctor.

Braden snapped the first-aid kit closed and stood.

“Thanks again.” I looked up and noticed Chief Dixon
hovering. He dipped his chin toward Braden. “Sheriff wants you.”

Then Dixon inclined his head in the direction of several
bathrobe-clad residents clustered at the clubhouse entrance. He shooed me their
way. “Marley, go deal with ’em, will ya?”

I slipped my arms into the deputy’s loaner jacket and walked
toward the residents. Recognizing the ringleader—Joe Reddick—I groaned
inwardly. Recently elected to the board of the Dear Owners’ Association, the
former schoolteacher was puffed up with self-importance. He’d retired early
after a “pain-and-suffering” lawsuit yielded a hefty insurance settlement. My
hunch was the little Napoleon had been unable to control his classroom and
still itched to prove he could be boss.

“It’s four a.m. I demand to know what’s going on,” Reddick
blustered, grandstanding for the gathered throng.

“There’s been a drowning.” My tone straddled the territory
between icy and polite. “We don’t know what happened yet.”

Reddick stuck out his lower jaw and crossed his arms over a
protruding gut. “Well, I plan to find out. That’s the sheriff, isn’t it? You
can’t keep us in the dark. We’re entitled to hear what’s what. I’m going to
talk to him.”

I stepped directly in the fifty-year-old’s path and tried
reason. “This is police business. The coroner is here, and the area’s
off-limits.”

“We’ll see.” Reddick attempted to dart around me.

My reaction was instantaneous and calamitous—for Reddick,
that is. To counter his feint, I raised my arm like a traffic cop. He ran
straight into it. His own momentum undid him. He stumbled and fell in a heap,
clutching his throat as if he’d been garroted.

“Sorry,” I muttered and offered a hand up. He wheezed and
waved me off.

“Did you see her?” he stammered, showboating for his
pajama-clad cohorts. “There’s no room on our security force for thugs.” His
dentures lost their grip, and his attempts to click them back into place
failed. “I’ll p-p-press charges.”

My initial chagrin at accidentally decking the guy turned to
disgust. I thought of poor Stew lying dead and this jerk hoping to capitalize
on the drama.

“That’s right, you’re the lawsuit king. Well, other folks
work for a living, and that means the sheriff’s still too busy to talk to you.”

Reddick’s performance must have convinced the rest of the
rabble-rousers I was a deadly Kung Fu master. Quaking, they backed away like Chihuahuas facing a pit bull.

“The excitement’s over for tonight. Go back to bed. That
would help the authorities most.”

God knows we need all the help we can get
.

***

A native of Iowa, Linda has
called the South home for more than thirty years. She lives with her husband
beside a peaceful South Carolina lake, where she regularly perturbs the geese
and one honking big turtle by jumping off her dock for a swim or pedaling (yes,
pedaling not paddling) her kayak. Linda is a member of Romance Writers of
America (RWA), Sisters in Crime, and the South Carolina Writers Workshop. She
feels quite lucky to have found both close friends and exceptional critique
partners—snarky, funny, talented and generous—through these organizations.

Linda can’t imagine going to bed
at night without a book in hand. Thankfully her husband shares her passion for
reading so she doesn’t have to use a miner’s light to indulge her nocturnal
habits.

DEAR KILLER was selected as a
finalist in the Golden Quill competition for best novels published in 2011. Her
manuscripts have made the finals in 15 other contests, including RWA’s
prestigious Golden Heart® and Daphne du Maurier competitions and mystery
contests such as Deadly Ink, Murder in the Grove and Malice Domestic. Her
stories dish up a main course of suspense, action and adventure with a generous
side of romance.

For more information about the
author, visit her website:
www.lindalovely.com
.