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

here for the afternoon.” I
didn’t offer my name. Exchanging Christmas cards with the man wasn’t on my
agenda.
    “How unfortunate. Who knows, maybe we’ll meet again? It’s
nice to encounter an American who’s made an effort to learn another language. I
hope you and your friends enjoy lunch. Good day.”
    Boss Man and Underling retreated with double-time dispatch.
    I sank back in my chair with relief.
    “I can’t believe you turned down a date,” Rita said. “He’s
very handsome, quite suave.”
    “Not my type.”
    “Boy are you picky,” Donna complained. “It’s time you
started dating, you know?”
    Rita interrupted. “You speak Polish? Wow. Was it your
college major? How’d you get from Northwestern to the Army?”
    How to answer? What had possessed me to join the Army? Life
insurance, that’s what.
    On that fateful day, I reached my quota of slammed doors. I
got to ten and quit. I knew eleven insulting rebuffs would send me over the
edge. Especially in my hometown, Keokuk, Iowa, where selling meant pestering my
mom’s hairdresser and my old homeroom teacher. Turndowns from strangers were
easier to handle.
    I headed to the Chuckwagon to sip a Coke and feel sorry for
myself in air-conditioned comfort. En route, I peered at the posters in the
window of an Army recruiting station, a storefront that hadn’t been there the
week before. A soldier dressed in crisp khakis walked outside and stood beside
me.
    Half an hour later, the papers were signed. He’d promised me
a year at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey. What can I say? My
defenses were lowered. I’d never seen the Pacific Ocean.
    Now I sat beside another ocean. I grinned at my audience,
parsed the story, and skimmed over my transition from linguist to MI—military
intelligence.
    “When I finally figured out that working in intelligence
might be reducing my I.Q., I retired,” I quipped. “Actually I’m joking. I
enjoyed my work, if not the bureaucracy.”
    “Your work on Dear is undoubtedly duller, but you look dead
on your feet,” Donna commented. “We’d better get you home so you can go to bed.
I hope you have the night off.”
    As the ladies calculated tips, I excused myself, letting my
friends assume the restroom was my destination. Instead I hustled to the
bistro’s entry foyer.
    “Excuse me.” I touched the maître d’s sleeve. “The two gentlemen
who sat next to us—do you know their names?”
    The maître  d’ laughed. “I should collect matchmaker fees.
Mr. Dzandrek, the tall, distinguished looking fellow, asked if I knew your name. Even asked which car you came in. Want to leave a card? I can pass it
along. He eats here two, three times a week.”
    “No, thanks.” I mustered a coy smile to mask my discomfort.
“What’s his full name? Do you know how to spell it? Maybe we have mutual
friends who could introduce us.”
    I tried to be discreet as I slipped the man a twenty.
    He palmed the bill with aplomb. “I’ve seen the spelling on
his charge slip. The first name’s Kain—spelled with a K not a C—and Dzandrek
starts with a D. Fooled me, I was sure it started with a Z. He just bought that
baby blue mansion, the first one on the water after you enter our gate.”
    The matchmaker paused and winked. “He’s loaded, lady. Sure
you don’t want to leave a card?”
    Dead certain. I shuddered.
    The ladies joined me at the entrance, and we walked to Donna’s
car. As we approached, sun sparkled on the windshield, spotlighting the
distinctive Dear Island decal.
    Had Kain Dzandrek seen it?
    ***
    While Dear and Hilton Head are maybe fifteen minutes apart
in a fast boat, the land route is eighty miles plus and can take two hours.
Long fingers of water curling inland dictate the serpentine route. In the
Lowcountry, it’s nigh impossible to get from point A to point B without taking
two steps back to cross bridge C.
    Awake for our return ride, I enjoyed my car mates’ easy
banter though my contributions to the