look. “God, it looks like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. My kids eat
enough of them. D’you suppose the killer gave her candy? Or maybe she popped it
in her mouth right before she got zapped.”
I groaned. “Bea was allergic to peanuts. The candy was
insurance—just in case her allergy to fire ants didn’t provoke a fatal attack.”
The chief produced a sound between a retch and a cough.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.”
We established a perimeter around Bea’s corpse though I
seriously doubted the forensic whiz kids could uncover usable evidence. The
lane we’d traveled provided the only motor access to Beach West. Since noon,
probably thirty trucks, SUVs, and cars had boogied in and out, carrying surveyors,
DHEC inspectors, workers, gung-ho real estate agents and curious islanders. In
high spots, traffic pulverized the sandy soil into shifting dunes, while the
muddy low spots boasted more elasticity than Play-Doh. The ooze reclaimed even
a heavy vehicle’s tire tread in minutes.
The fire ant mound sat atop a hillock, which rose above a
bog-like depression bordering the dirt road. An exceptionally high spring tide
had already liquefied the impressions my shoes made when I approached Bea and
retreated. If the murderer left prints, they’d long since vanished. Bea might
as well have been beamed to the spot.
As we waited for Braden to finish his call to the sheriff, Dixon
kept muttering. “Dammit all to hell. Pluck a dang duck. How in tarnation did
someone coax Bea here in the middle of the night? I sure as hell don’t want to
be around when Gator learns some sicko offed his wife. Unless, of course, he
did it himself.”
My jaw dropped. Gator’s name didn’t appear on my
most-admired list, but this was beyond the pale. “Jesus, you can’t seriously
think Gator could have done this?”
The chief hawked up some phlegm and walked a few paces away
before pulling the eject button. “Never know. If it weren’t for the murder
method and smart-ass note, he’d be suspect number one. I’ve never struck a
woman, but if Bea’d been my old lady, I’d have been sorely tempted. ’Course I
hear Bea was a regular Jekyll and Heidi—lovey-dovey and sweeter than molasses
at home but a bitch on wheels out of Gator’s sight.”
Braden ended his call and pocketed the cell phone. “Since
the winds are down, the sheriff is going to helicopter over with the coroner
and land at the marina helipad. Want me to pick them up?”
Dixon sighed. “No, I’ll roust one of the security officers
sleeping at the fire station.”
In the half hour since my grisly discovery, the water level
had crept higher and higher. Soon the marshy off-road area where we stood would
be submerged. The encroaching tide would rinse away the murderer’s “TO BEA OR
NOT TO BE” calling card and any other meager evidence. A nightmare vision of
the eddying water lifting Bea’s limbs and reanimating her corpse fired goose
bumps up my arms.
“Chief, the tide’s going to inundate this area—it might even
float the body.” I glanced at my watch. “The tide tables predicted ten point
two feet in Mad Inlet an hour from now. Want me to get my camera and take a few
shots?”
“You better,” Dixon agreed. “Dammit. If she starts to float
before the coroner gets here, we’ll just have to grab her.”
Braden’s frown knit his thick brows into a furry question
mark. “Jeez, if the water gets that high, won’t it flood the island?” He stood
next to me. I ignored my impulse to grab his arm, lean into his body.
“They don’t call this the Lowcountry for nothing,” I
answered. “Dear Drive will have patches of standing water. It’ll be up to our
hubcaps in the DOA parking lot. With just the right conditions, acres of land
you see every day—even at high tide—are swallowed whole. Makes you think about
building an ark.”
I retrieved the camera stored in the patrol car to document
run-of-the-mill problems—like raccoons strewing garbage
enough of them. D’you suppose the killer gave her candy? Or maybe she popped it
in her mouth right before she got zapped.”
I groaned. “Bea was allergic to peanuts. The candy was
insurance—just in case her allergy to fire ants didn’t provoke a fatal attack.”
The chief produced a sound between a retch and a cough.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.”
We established a perimeter around Bea’s corpse though I
seriously doubted the forensic whiz kids could uncover usable evidence. The
lane we’d traveled provided the only motor access to Beach West. Since noon,
probably thirty trucks, SUVs, and cars had boogied in and out, carrying surveyors,
DHEC inspectors, workers, gung-ho real estate agents and curious islanders. In
high spots, traffic pulverized the sandy soil into shifting dunes, while the
muddy low spots boasted more elasticity than Play-Doh. The ooze reclaimed even
a heavy vehicle’s tire tread in minutes.
The fire ant mound sat atop a hillock, which rose above a
bog-like depression bordering the dirt road. An exceptionally high spring tide
had already liquefied the impressions my shoes made when I approached Bea and
retreated. If the murderer left prints, they’d long since vanished. Bea might
as well have been beamed to the spot.
As we waited for Braden to finish his call to the sheriff, Dixon
kept muttering. “Dammit all to hell. Pluck a dang duck. How in tarnation did
someone coax Bea here in the middle of the night? I sure as hell don’t want to
be around when Gator learns some sicko offed his wife. Unless, of course, he
did it himself.”
My jaw dropped. Gator’s name didn’t appear on my
most-admired list, but this was beyond the pale. “Jesus, you can’t seriously
think Gator could have done this?”
The chief hawked up some phlegm and walked a few paces away
before pulling the eject button. “Never know. If it weren’t for the murder
method and smart-ass note, he’d be suspect number one. I’ve never struck a
woman, but if Bea’d been my old lady, I’d have been sorely tempted. ’Course I
hear Bea was a regular Jekyll and Heidi—lovey-dovey and sweeter than molasses
at home but a bitch on wheels out of Gator’s sight.”
Braden ended his call and pocketed the cell phone. “Since
the winds are down, the sheriff is going to helicopter over with the coroner
and land at the marina helipad. Want me to pick them up?”
Dixon sighed. “No, I’ll roust one of the security officers
sleeping at the fire station.”
In the half hour since my grisly discovery, the water level
had crept higher and higher. Soon the marshy off-road area where we stood would
be submerged. The encroaching tide would rinse away the murderer’s “TO BEA OR
NOT TO BE” calling card and any other meager evidence. A nightmare vision of
the eddying water lifting Bea’s limbs and reanimating her corpse fired goose
bumps up my arms.
“Chief, the tide’s going to inundate this area—it might even
float the body.” I glanced at my watch. “The tide tables predicted ten point
two feet in Mad Inlet an hour from now. Want me to get my camera and take a few
shots?”
“You better,” Dixon agreed. “Dammit. If she starts to float
before the coroner gets here, we’ll just have to grab her.”
Braden’s frown knit his thick brows into a furry question
mark. “Jeez, if the water gets that high, won’t it flood the island?” He stood
next to me. I ignored my impulse to grab his arm, lean into his body.
“They don’t call this the Lowcountry for nothing,” I
answered. “Dear Drive will have patches of standing water. It’ll be up to our
hubcaps in the DOA parking lot. With just the right conditions, acres of land
you see every day—even at high tide—are swallowed whole. Makes you think about
building an ark.”
I retrieved the camera stored in the patrol car to document
run-of-the-mill problems—like raccoons strewing garbage
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