Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) by Linda Lovely
Authors: Linda Lovely
conversation seemed sparse. I wasn’t
married and didn’t golf in a couples’ league. Never had a facial or a pedicure.
My skill at Texas Hold ’Em didn’t translate to bridge. I wouldn’t know a
two-club bid if it clubbed me. I was a decade younger. Never had a child.
While living in the D.C. area was no picnic, I missed the
buddies left behind. Women who’d been officers like me. Civilian contractors
for the military. Wives of the men who’d served with Jeff and me. Our chatter
would have been alien to my new friends. Talk of Army posts, PX sales, VA
hospitals, military strategies—a different frame of reference.
Was moving to Dear a mistake? My sister had invited me to
settle in her new hometown. But I knew no one there. Maryanne had her own life,
thirty years of homesteading. I’d be a squatter.
When we were five miles from home, the radio announcer broke
in with a news bulletin. “The Dear Island Bridge is closed to both vehicle and
pedestrian traffic. At approximately three o’clock, people near the bridge
heard a thunderous roar. Occupants in the sole car traveling the bridge at the
time felt their rear tires drop as a hundred-foot span of the suspended roadbed
sank six inches below the adjoining concrete segments. Authorities say the
bridge will remain closed until engineers can inspect the damage.”
“That’s just great,” Rita huffed. “What in blazes are we
supposed to do? Book a room at some high-priced B-and-B like visiting movie
stars? I have chicken breasts thawing and a husband laid up from hip surgery. I
have to do everything but hold his peewee for him.”
“You think there’s a chance the bridge’ll collapse?” Donna
wondered. “I bet it’ll take months to repair the blasted thing.”
“Who has a cell phone?” I asked. “I’ll call security. Maybe
I can get some answers.”
Julie handed over her cellular toy and I punched in the main
security number. I got a steady busy signal. No surprise. I tapped in the
chief’s unpublished mobile number.
When Dixon heard my voice and location, he tossed off a
string of curses and gave me my marching orders. He hung up before I could get
a word in edgewise. I hoped the man didn’t pop an artery, what with Stew’s
murder, his granddaughter’s hijinks, and an honest-to-God island crisis. Good
thing Dear has a helipad for medical emergencies .
“Well, ladies, here’s the deal. The powerboat squadron is
organizing a ferry service. We’re to leave our car near the bridge, roll up our
knickers and wade to the end of the boat ramp. The first pleasure boat that comes
our way will give us a ride.”
Julie’s stricken face telegraphed her horror. “Heavens to
Murgatroyd. Not me. I can’t swim, and just look at the water.”
Our vantage point from the bridge connecting the mainland to
Wilderness Point Park offered a scary view of the roiling bay. The park’s
flag lanyard snapped rhythmically against its pole. Though the sky was crystal
clear, winds had to be gusting at thirty to forty miles per hour. Our ferry
ride would be raucous.
“Look,” I said, “we must be on the edge of a front. The
weather could get worse. It’s a short hop. I want to get to the island while
the getting’s good. Soon the water’ll be too choppy for any boat. If you want
to turn around, fine, but will you drop me first?
“The chief needs extra hands. He’s trying to reach off-duty
officers, but some won’t make it over in time. Rita, I’ll look in on your
husband if you stay in Beaufort.”
“No, I’m coming.” Rita sighed. “I’ll never hear the end of
it if you go across and I don’t.”
***
At the boat ramp, nearly a dozen islanders awaited portage.
The owner of E. T. Grits, Dear’s convenience store, was among the marooned.
She’d been on a Beaufort supply run and her Expedition SUV was loaded with
provisions. Hollis County snuggled up against Beaufort County, and the town of Beaufort
offered the nearest shopping.
“You’ll make
married and didn’t golf in a couples’ league. Never had a facial or a pedicure.
My skill at Texas Hold ’Em didn’t translate to bridge. I wouldn’t know a
two-club bid if it clubbed me. I was a decade younger. Never had a child.
While living in the D.C. area was no picnic, I missed the
buddies left behind. Women who’d been officers like me. Civilian contractors
for the military. Wives of the men who’d served with Jeff and me. Our chatter
would have been alien to my new friends. Talk of Army posts, PX sales, VA
hospitals, military strategies—a different frame of reference.
Was moving to Dear a mistake? My sister had invited me to
settle in her new hometown. But I knew no one there. Maryanne had her own life,
thirty years of homesteading. I’d be a squatter.
When we were five miles from home, the radio announcer broke
in with a news bulletin. “The Dear Island Bridge is closed to both vehicle and
pedestrian traffic. At approximately three o’clock, people near the bridge
heard a thunderous roar. Occupants in the sole car traveling the bridge at the
time felt their rear tires drop as a hundred-foot span of the suspended roadbed
sank six inches below the adjoining concrete segments. Authorities say the
bridge will remain closed until engineers can inspect the damage.”
“That’s just great,” Rita huffed. “What in blazes are we
supposed to do? Book a room at some high-priced B-and-B like visiting movie
stars? I have chicken breasts thawing and a husband laid up from hip surgery. I
have to do everything but hold his peewee for him.”
“You think there’s a chance the bridge’ll collapse?” Donna
wondered. “I bet it’ll take months to repair the blasted thing.”
“Who has a cell phone?” I asked. “I’ll call security. Maybe
I can get some answers.”
Julie handed over her cellular toy and I punched in the main
security number. I got a steady busy signal. No surprise. I tapped in the
chief’s unpublished mobile number.
When Dixon heard my voice and location, he tossed off a
string of curses and gave me my marching orders. He hung up before I could get
a word in edgewise. I hoped the man didn’t pop an artery, what with Stew’s
murder, his granddaughter’s hijinks, and an honest-to-God island crisis. Good
thing Dear has a helipad for medical emergencies .
“Well, ladies, here’s the deal. The powerboat squadron is
organizing a ferry service. We’re to leave our car near the bridge, roll up our
knickers and wade to the end of the boat ramp. The first pleasure boat that comes
our way will give us a ride.”
Julie’s stricken face telegraphed her horror. “Heavens to
Murgatroyd. Not me. I can’t swim, and just look at the water.”
Our vantage point from the bridge connecting the mainland to
Wilderness Point Park offered a scary view of the roiling bay. The park’s
flag lanyard snapped rhythmically against its pole. Though the sky was crystal
clear, winds had to be gusting at thirty to forty miles per hour. Our ferry
ride would be raucous.
“Look,” I said, “we must be on the edge of a front. The
weather could get worse. It’s a short hop. I want to get to the island while
the getting’s good. Soon the water’ll be too choppy for any boat. If you want
to turn around, fine, but will you drop me first?
“The chief needs extra hands. He’s trying to reach off-duty
officers, but some won’t make it over in time. Rita, I’ll look in on your
husband if you stay in Beaufort.”
“No, I’m coming.” Rita sighed. “I’ll never hear the end of
it if you go across and I don’t.”
***
At the boat ramp, nearly a dozen islanders awaited portage.
The owner of E. T. Grits, Dear’s convenience store, was among the marooned.
She’d been on a Beaufort supply run and her Expedition SUV was loaded with
provisions. Hollis County snuggled up against Beaufort County, and the town of Beaufort
offered the nearest shopping.
“You’ll make