Free Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) by Linda Lovely

boat must
have motored down Flying Fish Creek. Just prior to bankruptcy, Dear’s first
developers dredged a tidal creek to create dockable homesites. Grace had
purchased a vacant lot cattycorner from her oceanfront estate to conveniently
moor boats.
    Maybe a check of her dock was in order? No. Wouldn’t help.
Without knowing the size of her fleet, it would be impossible to determine if a
boat was missing.
    Water lapped at the top of the riprap that served as the
creek’s retaining wall. The tide was near its crest. That meant the mystery
boat could have launched from any of two-dozen creekside docks or even the
marina. At high tide small boats could navigate the full length of the crooked
fissure. The waterway ran from the mouth of Mad Inlet to the middle of the
island, where it narrowed and meandered due west to the marina.
    A glance at my watch provided unwelcome news. Two hours to
go. My eyes itched. I poured coffee from my thermos while I stared out to sea.
In a blink, the tiny craft disappeared.
    What do you think, Jeff? Am I letting my imagination run
wild?

FIVE
    “What?”
    My head snapped back from its full-doze, chin-on-chest
position. My mouth felt like the Sahara during a sandstorm.
    “We’re here,” Donna announced. Her head, with its dense crop
of gray curls, swiveled toward the backseat. “Ready to pop open a can of balls
and inhale the aroma of fresh rubber? Come on. Up and at ’em.”
    “I snored, didn’t I?”
    “So that’s what you call it?” Rita offered from the front
passenger seat. “We thought you were imitating a leaf blower.”
    “Hey, I’m the one who deserves sympathy,” Julie put in. “I
had to share the back with Sleeping Beauty.”
    “You sure you want to go through with this?” I asked. “I’ll
buy lunch if you’ll let Donna and me forfeit.” I snuggled deeper into my seat.
    “No way, Jose,” Julie scolded as she reached over and
unlatched my seatbelt. “You gotta suffer with the rest of us.”
    Though not a regular competitor on Dear’s senior—over
fifty—tennis team, I owed Donna, the captain, big time. Three days ago, she’d extracted
my promise to sub in the Hilton Head match. Had I known about my midnight to six a.m. shift, I’d have declined in a heartbeat. By the time Dixon switched
my schedule, it was too late to find a replacement, and I couldn’t disappoint
Donna.
    She was a gem. The first to befriend me after I moved into
the house on Dear. My mother-in-law, Esther, willed the house to Jeff. Had she
dreamed her son would die so young and leave the abode to me, she’d have set
matches to the timbers. Her ashes were undoubtedly still a-whirl at my
occupancy.
    Esther’s contempt for me poured as freely as vinegar. My
hair was too short; my running obsessive. I talked too much; my voice was too
loud. My failure to procreate was an affront to womanhood.
    My first day as a bona fide island resident, Donna welcomed
me with a plate of warm brownies. “I know we’ll be friends,” she chuckled. “I
belonged to Esther’s bridge club. Anyone who could aggravate that woman as much
as you did must be good company.”
    When the tennis match was over, it wasn’t clear I’d done
Donna a favor. We lost: 6-1, 6-1. Too many of my potential overhead smashes
found the net. Despite the doubles loss, our team won, which put my companions
in a celebratory mood.
    “I just love it when we tromp those Sea Watch snobs,” Julie
crowed. “Let’s eat at Chez Azure, talk trash, and hope someone’s listening.”
    About one, we claimed a patio table with a smashing view of
Calibogue Sound. I was salivating. The trendy bistro served the best shrimp
salad in the Lowcountry.
    “Don’t forget, we have to leave by two-thirty,” I said. “I
promised Chief Dixon I’d be back for a conference, and I can’t show up in
sweaty tennis duds.”
    My friends assumed the meeting had to do with Stew’s death,
and I didn’t contradict them. The Cuthbert family reunion wouldn’t