Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

quite vocal
about Dear’s developers being ecology scumbags and crooks.”
    “Is he dangerous?”
    “No. He’s actually quite sweet.”
    Braden smiled. “You’re a softie. Is there anything to his
accusations?”
    “No comment. I’ve heard Gator boast that any developer worth
his salt has gone bankrupt at least three times. And his background is salty
enough to advertise himself as a country ham. I don’t know whether he achieved
bankruptcy the old-fashioned way—stupidity and greed—or if some illegal scam
caught up with him.”
    I turned the car onto Blue Heron. The street runs parallel
to several holes on the golf course’s back nine. We’d almost reached my own
driveway when a chubby, gray-haired lady darted through an opening in the pines
on a vacant lot.
    “Help me. Help me,” she screamed as she ran into the road.
    Braden jumped out of the car before the Mustang shuddered to
a stop.
    “What’s wrong?” he yelled as he ran toward a disheveled Mrs.
Barnwell.
    “An alligator…it’s eating my baby.” She was hysterical. “Oh
my poor Candi. Please help. Hurry.”
    I abandoned the car and blew by the woman. I’d closed on
Braden’s heels when he drew his gun. “Braden, you can’t shoot. Alligators are
protected.”
    “Are you crazy,” he fired back at me. “It’s killing a
child.”
    “Candi’s her poodle,” I wheezed.
    As we neared the edge of the lagoon, there was a pitiful
squeal and a fluffy patch of white sank out of sight. In an instant, all signs
of life—alligator and poodle—disappeared. A thick carpet of duckweed slime
resealed itself above the opening where we’d witnessed Candi’s last gasp. The
brackish water went still. No ripples to indicate movement below.
    “Jesus Christ.” Braden holstered his gun and stared at a
little six-foot gator sunning itself a few feet away. This reptile clearly
wasn’t the culprit. “Did her poodle fall in the water? Surely these things can’t
chase down a dog.”
    “Don’t bet on it. They’ve been clocked at thirty-five miles
an hour for short bursts. Come on. Let’s collect Mrs. Barnwell and take her
home.”
    Since I was driving, Braden assumed the role of grief
counselor, bundling the elderly woman into the back seat and patting her hand
on the ride to her condo. He talked so softly I couldn’t distinguish his words,
but whatever he said soothed her. A nice guy. When we reached Mrs. Barnwell’s
condo, he sat with her while I knocked on doors to find a neighbor willing to
assume our comforting duties.
    As we watched the ladies mount the front steps, Braden shook
his head. “I’ve been on Dear Island—what?—three hours tops, and I’ve gone for
my gun twice. Unbelievable. In Atlanta’s worst neighborhoods, I could go months
without touching my piece.”
    I chuckled. “You just haven’t figured out all our
idiosyncrasies.”
    “Hard to believe. Not a car in sight. It’s quiet as a tomb.
Yet we’ve got a weirdo murder, vampire teens and alligator attacks. I heard Hollywood
sometimes uses Dear Island as a movie set. Sure they’re not making Curse of
the Voodoo and forgot to tell you?”
    I started the car. “Have to admit this is more excitement
than usual.”
    “How many people live here full time?” he asked.
    “Under a thousand. The island’s sparsely populated in
spring. Except for Easter. The holiday bumps the population up to three
thousand with tourists and second homeowners. We don’t see Hilton Head’s
traffic, but we get our share in summer. Upwards of ten thousand over the
Fourth of July. It’s a wonder the island doesn’t sink. That’s when most
residents flee north.”
    I headed the car toward the front gate.
    “Residents are mostly Yankees?” Braden asked, unconsciously
seasoning his “Yankee” pronunciation with a dash of bitters.
    “Are you asking about damn Yankees ?” I teased,
eyebrows lifted.
    “Hey, I didn’t say that. I married a New Yorker.”
    “My apologies.” Really . Why