Free Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) by Linda Lovely Page A

be the high
point of my day.
    The spring sunshine felt deliciously warm. While my
teammates nattered on about reaching the regional finals, I floated in that
drowsy zone where you hear every word of a conversation, yet the syllables
cascade by as a lulling waterfall of gibberish. Then, male voices poked through
the wool in my head. The men spoke Polish. The baritone conversationalists
occupied an adjacent table; our chairs less than a submarine sandwich apart.
    Opportunities to use the language skills gained courtesy of
Uncle Sam are rare—not many Poles immigrate to Dear Island—so I deliberately
eavesdropped. I picked up random phrases and profanities—curses memorized in
the field from sheer repetition. While the gentleman seated at a forty-five degree
angle talked, his companion grunted replies. It was clearly a boss-underling
relationship. Boss Man barked murder her —well maybe he said s he’s
murdering me, then something, something swindle, and later his
money goes up his nose. In the next breath, he said cops are so stupid .
    Was the man hashing over some made-for-TV movie plot?
    Then Boss Man mentioned Hogsback Island. Unable to check the
impulse, I swiveled my head in the speaker’s direction. Our eyes locked. His
stare penetrated. It was anything but friendly.
    I smiled briefly, plunged my fork into my salad, and focused
full attention on my greens. Something told me my best move would be to play
dumb. I shivered.
    Did this guy sell Gator and Sally the island they planned
to market as Emerald Cay? Before last night’s real estate banquet, I’d
never heard the Hogsback moniker. I didn’t even know Dear’s tiny island
neighbor had a name.
    I continued to listen, albeit more discreetly. A sentence or
two later, the Pole declared that’s Hugh’s problem . Chairs scraped on
the patio’s stone pavers. Though dying of curiosity, I ordered myself to keep
my head down.
    A hand rested lightly on my shoulder. I jumped as if shocked
by a live wire.
    “Excuse me, miss,” Boss Man said in Polish. The broad smile
didn’t reach his eyes.
    “Yes?” I replied in English, trying to sound pleasant but
confused by a foreign language.
    He switched to English. “Sorry. I had the impression you
understood Polish. I simply wanted to introduce myself.”
    Blue eyes searched my face. They were simultaneously cold
and hot, like frostbite. Blond streaks, expertly applied, shot through his
thick brown hair. A Roman nose and chiseled chin defined his strong face,
making his small rosebud mouth look misplaced.
    “Oh Marley, here’s a chance to practice your Polish,” Donna
piped up before I had a chance to avow ignorance. “She once worked as a Polish
linguist.”
    Crap .
    I spoke in purposely halting Polish.“I apologize for
my half-forgotten Polish—it’s been twenty years. My skills are quite rusty. You
speak much faster than I can process.”
    Boss Man’s laser eyes skewered me. He was perhaps forty.
Big, well over six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, muscular. He wore an
expensive silk shirt and carried the sort of leather satchel European men
favor. He held the silence a moment, tempting me to blather.
    “I’m sure you shortchange your skills.” He switched back to
perfect English. “Where did you say you learned Polish?”
    “Oh, in school,” I answered, not about to tell him the
school was the Army’s Defense Language Institute.
    My fake smile faltered when my gaze flitted to Underling. A
prizefighter? He looked like someone had used Silly Putty to push his features
into temporary lumps, then tired of the face-making game and quit. His
complexion had a grayish cast as if the dough hadn’t been fired. The man was
about my height, five-nine, though he must have outweighed me by a hundred
pounds. Not someone I’d care to bump into on Dear’s dark roads at night.
    “Are you vacationing on Hilton Head?” Boss Man asked.
“Perhaps you might join me for dinner?”
    “You’re very kind, but I’m only