Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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