Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) by Linda Lovely Read Free Book Online

evenings in a white shroud.
    “Let’s take my golf cart,” Janie suggested. “We won’t be
moving as fast if we hit something.”
    “Yeah, and we won’t have seat belts either.”
    Like many islanders, Janie put more miles on her golf cart
than her car. Not me. I was able-bodied enough to walk anywhere on the island
in daylight and less than keen about after-dark golf cart rambles. I always
fretted that the SUV riding my bumper would squash me like one of the island’s
million-plus palmetto bugs— cockroaches to a native Iowan.
    “It’ll be easier to find parking,” she persisted.
    “You’ve just forgotten how to parallel park your Caddy,” I
accused.
    Resigned, I followed her to a golf cart that boasted a
Mercedes-style hood ornament and—to my Yankee consternation—a horn that blared
the opening bars of “Dixie.”
    As we doddered down the curbless roads, ocean breezes
crocheted the mist, yielding startling black holes that defined the fog’s
lacework. The result seemed both fragile and menacing. We inched ahead in the
amber cocoon created by our headlights. Mist dampened the normal April symphony
of tiny tree frogs, each one smaller than a thumbnail.
    A deep-throated roar penetrated the gloom—the primeval
mating call of a bull alligator.
    “You hear that?” I shuddered. As temperatures warmed, so did
the blood and appetites of alligators, creatures that abstained from sex as
well as food during winter. Come spring they were horny and voracious.
    “Yeah, I heard an alligator provided a floor show for that
law enforcement hunk you squired around today.” She tented an eyebrow. “Of
course, I’ve always suspected you see the alligators as a help in enforcing
leash laws.”
    “Hey, I’m not that callous,” I objected, shuddering as I
imagined the terror Mrs. Barnwell’s poodle felt when it was hauled beneath the
green ooze.
    It was unfair to label me as anti-pooch. I reserved my ire
for owners who let their petite Fidos or jumbo Plutos poop on sand dunes, stick
wet noses in my crotch, or make a growling charge at me with teeth bared. Twice
canines sank teeth into my ankles while I ran on the beach.
    “If only people would keep dogs on leashes at the beach.
Maybe we should advertise that alligators sometimes lurk in the surf.”
    My first sighting of an alligator out for an ocean dip
shocked me. I’d thought the prehistoric reptiles confined themselves to fresh
water. I even asked a ranger at Wilderness Point Park if I’d hallucinated. He
said alligators aren’t crazy about saltwater and have no salt glands for
prolonged stays, but will take the plunge to shed parasites, heal wounds, or
simply travel from point A to point B.
    “Great, Marley, spread tales about surfing gators and I’ll
never retire. This is paradise. We don’t mention alligators, flesh-eating
no-see-ums or palmetto bugs big enough to saddle.”
    “Don’t lecture me, friend. You started this with your crack
about a gator floor show.”
    “Okay, we’re here. I’ll behave if you will.”
    Here was the entrance to the Dear Club, a thirty-year-old
edifice. The latest island developer had spent four hundred thousand dollars on
a facelift, but the major surgery yielded disappointing results. The cosmetic
tucks and stitches remained obvious. Rain wept through ill-fitting windows and
pooled in carpeted sinkholes, breeding oases for mold spores. However, if you
kept your eyes on the intricate crown moldings, starched white linens and
swanky delicacies served at soirées, the Dear Club made a passing stab at
elegance.
    I spied Jack Bride’s golf cart blocking the entrance. With
shoulders hunched, the avid gardener busily shoveled material from a wooden
cargo bed fastened in the space typically reserved for ferrying golf clubs.
    “Oh crap,” I muttered, knowing I’d precisely summed up the
problem. “Let me out. I’ll try to cajole Dr. Bride into going home before
someone calls security.”
    I approached the angry