Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (10 page)

I laughed. “He’s certifiable, all right.”

My cousin ignored me. “Reverend Ross—it has a certain ring
to it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop already. I have enough fits with May
milking me for details.”

“Okay, you’re off the hook.” Ross stood. “We have displays
to build. Eunice, didn’t you want Marley’s opinion on an exhibit?”

The exhibit turned out to be a collection of old-fashioned
beach toys. A donor had offered the museum an antique sand shovel painted with
a likeness of the original Queen and a century-old tin pail embossed to give a
busty mermaid perky size-D cups. Though Eunice asked my advice on placing the
acquisitions, it was only a polite gesture. She had an artist’s eye. I have
trouble matching my socks.

While fussing with the display, Eunice made a few lame
attempts to ferret out my level of interest in the eligible attorney before we
settled into our usual routine, swapping stories about May’s rambunctiousness.

Crossing my fingers for luck, I voiced my hope I’d be
equally ornery at age eighty.

I left a message on Darlene’s cell. She returned my call in
a flash.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I feel like a prisoner. When I go to the toilet, a deputy
leans on the doorjamb. He can report every fart if he’s so inclined. I’ve a
notion to cook beans. I’m in my bath with the exhaust fan cranked to warp speed
for a little privacy. I want the deputies for Julie’s sake, but having minders
gives me indigestion.”

“Has Hamilton pestered you again?”

“Nope. Duncan, bless him, waylaid the dipwad and fibbed that
I’d taken to bed due to exhaustion. He stressed that as far as Olsen security
was concerned, I was his new boss. That pissed Hamilton off, but what could the
blowhard say?”

“Hooray for Duncan.” I wanted to kiss him. “You need to
start shopping for a new security service and nudge Jolbiogen’s president to do
the same. The Thrasos track record doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

I wished I could mention the firm’s failure to safeguard
military secrets on Jolbiogen’s turf.

She sighed. “I’d love to fire Hamilton. But that would just
escalate the conflict with my stepson, Kyle. He’d scream that I was playing
fast and loose with his family’s safety—especially after his sister’s murder.”

“Any other new developments?” I asked.

Darlene said she’d entertained plenty of visitors, including
FBI agents and a toxicology team from Atlanta’s Center for Disease Control.
“The sheriff admitted he’s out of his league,” she said. “It looks as if the
FBI will claim jurisdiction. Something about a serial killer.”

Son-of-a-Glock, the FBI had stepped out of the shadows even
though the military had yet to stand up and be counted. Too bad the
jurisdictional shift didn’t promise to make Darlene’s life easier.

“The CDC took samples of residue on Gina’s respirator,” she
continued, “and swept the estate looking for other contaminants.”

“So they think Gina was poisoned when she used her
respirator?”

“It sounded like it. I overheard one guy describe a toxin
that’s lethal in almost any form—inhaled, swallowed or absorbed through the
skin. Victims die within a few hours of exposure. Based on that tidbit, Julie
suspects the murderer used a mushroom toxin. She keeps one in her lab.”

Uh-oh. Another finger pointed in the young researcher’s direction.

“Julie tags the stuff—think she called it phalloidin—with a
red or green fluorescent molecule. She says if authorities test samples from
Gina’s liver under a special light, they’ll know for sure if someone used a
tagged phalloidin. The cells would glow.”

“How long will the tests take?”

A sigh punctuated Darlene’s silence. “I warned Julie to keep
her mouth shut. I can’t shake this heebie-jeebie feeling someone’s trying to
pin these murders on us. Why help them? What if tests prove the stuff came from
Julie’s lab?”

I frowned. Darlene wasn’t thinking straight. “If your
daughter suggests the tests, it won’t look like she’s trying to hide a
connection to her lab. Sooner or later, the authorities will discover Julie
uses the stuff—if, indeed, that’s what killed the woman.”

A chill raced up my spine. Had we blabbed too much? Could Hamilton be eavesdropping on Darlene’s calls? He had the technology and zero ethics. Not
wanting to hand the snake more ammunition, I didn’t mention the safe room. I
wouldn’t put it past Hamilton to plant evidence if he gained access before the
FBI.

“Can you come over for supper?” Darlene asked.

“Sorry, no. I already made other plans.”

I didn’t mention Duncan, even though my reticence mystified
me. Years ago Darlene and I had shared intimate details about our love lives.
Why did I sense my budding relationship with her attorney might prove
sensitive?

Leaving the museum, I turned May’s Buick toward Big Spirit,
a vast, shallow lake capable of summoning up tsunami-sized waves whenever stiff
winds blew north to south. Just beyond the Gingham Inn Restaurant, I made a
mental note to take the right fork next time I ventured north. I wanted to see
how many baby fish now swam in the Spirit Lake Fish Hatchery’s raceway
incubators.

Ross and I visited the hatchery during the spring spawning
season. In the musky, cave-like sanctuary we’d watched guys dressed in slickers
milk sperm and strip eggs from strapping specimens. Outside we strolled beside
the spillway connecting Big Spirit and East Okoboji. Fattened by Minnesota snowmelt, a torrent of water rushed full force through the narrows.

Walleye—a fish that thinks like a salmon but lacks its death
wish—choked the passageway. They numbered in the hundreds, twenty- to
fifty-pounders valiantly attempting to leap up the cascade. Never again would I
doubt Okoboji fish stories.

The wistful faces of anglers, banned from fishing in the
vicinity, amused us. Had any of those spectators slipped back in the dead of
night to gaff a trophy fish? Was there a parallel with Jake’s murder? Perhaps
the killer had seen the billionaire and the Glastons as fat fish flashing their
silver and wriggling out of reach? Maybe money, not bioterrorism, was the
motive.

Beyond Spirit Resort’s stone entry pillars, few touchstones
hinted at the property’s one-time glamour. Pilings that once supported a dance
pavilion cantilevered over the water, and cracked concrete stairs led to a
shallow beach. I spotted no other remnants.

Even in Darlene’s and my day, Spirit Resort had begun its descent
into seedy. Built in the 1800s, when castle-like resorts were the rage, the
stuccoed walls, mullioned windows and clay roof tiles looked majestic. I’d seen
Ross’s collection of photos.

Unfortunately, the fortress-like walls repelled most
renovation efforts—from enlarging the size of guest rooms to introducing
twentieth-century plumbing. Over time, the dark interior became an incubator
for mold, and hallways oozed a musty perfume.

While several developers floated ambitious schemes to transform
the sizeable acreage, none materialized. The buildings were razed and the state
bought the grounds, even though its location off the beaten tourist path
hindered its popularity.

Fine by me. I had Spirit Resort all to myself.

I made a beeline for the beach. As cooks, we prepped food
for all three meals in the morning, which freed our afternoons to soak up sun
and splash in the lake. I discarded my tennis shoes and waded into the cool
water. Smooth, rounded pebbles massaged my soles. Eyes closed, I could almost
hear the squeals of delighted kids splashing in the cove.

To plump my summer earnings, I taught swimming. The venture
afforded mad money I spent guilt-free on junk food, Arnolds Park rides, putt-putt golf, and other teen lures—if we weren’t lucky enough to have dates pick
up the tab. Yes, we were feminist hypocrites. What can I say? My consciousness
hadn’t been fully raised.

An unpleasant memory niggled. Darlene and I double-dated
with two Ivy Leaguers. During the matinee portion of our outing, the college
boys were funny. After dark, they guzzled beer like soda pop. My date suggested
a stroll. Intending to move from first-base to home plate, he pinned me against
a tree. I didn’t fret. I’d handled drunks before.

Then I heard the scream. Darlene.

I pulled free. A keening sound followed a hiss like air
escaping a punctured tire. I spotted Darlene. Her chest heaved. Blood ran from
her nose. Her college date writhed on the ground, knees to chest.

She grabbed my hand. “We’re out of here.”

We plunged through a thin strip of woods. Angry shouts
trailed us. We stumbled onto the lake road and hitched a ride with an elderly
couple.

Back in our dorm, Darlene rattled out a story in machinegun
bursts of rage.

“The son-of-a-bitch tried to rape me. Called me a cock
tease. Said I’d signaled all night that I’d put out. I told him he had his
signals crossed. When he punched me, I slapped him. He hit me—harder. So I
rammed my knee in his nuts, tried to shove ’em up through his nostrils. Wish
I’d killed the bastard.”

Her dagger-like stare dared me to disagree. “I’m not
kidding. Any man who hurts a woman like that deserves to die.”

I discounted her outburst as hyperbole. Did my friend have
the flinty core it took to kill? What could make her feel someone deserved to
die? A threat to her daughter?

I waded toward shore. A loud pop. A geyser erupted to my
right. Another pop. Water exploded on my left. Holy crap, someone was shooting
at me.

I glanced toward the embankment, saw sun glinting on metal.
A rifle. A third pop. Water rose two feet in front of me.

Damn, damn, damn.

I dove. Held my breath. My kneecaps scraped sand. Too
shallow.

My belly flop gained me nada. I now resembled a half-drowned
ostrich, instead of a sitting duck. Still a juicy target. I staggered to my
feet, slogged forward. A chunk of concrete, left behind when the cantilevered
pavilion collapsed, promised shelter.

I splashed into place, hunkered down. A scan of the ridge
revealed no sign of a shooter. A bird twittered. His song and my heavy
breathing the only sounds.

Was the gunman waiting for me to abandon cover?

My teeth chattered. Long minutes crawled by. Should I shiver
in the water until dark? Then, what? Would nightfall make things better—or
worse?

A deep, calming breath. Okay, think. If the shooter meant to
kill me, he was one piss-poor assassin. Maybe the potshots were meant to scare
not kill. Keep a good thought.

I scrabbled up the bluff. Barefoot. Another pair of shoes
sacrificed. Dirt attached to my sopping clothes like iron to a magnet. Mud’s
good camouflage, right?

My head popped above the edge of the embankment. A tan car
idled alongside mine. It shot forward, flinging gravel, hell-bent for the main
road. Mud conveniently cloaked the license plate. I plopped on the grass.

Now what? I could get to a phone, call Sheriff Delaney. And
tell him what?

The lake swallowed the bullets. Recovery unlikely. And why
would Delaney bother searching? The only thing hurt was my dignity. He had
bigger problems. Plus I was a suspect. I scuffled along the bank area,
searching yards in every direction from the shooter’s perch. No shell casings.
Nothing. Footprints erased by a piece of brush.

Was it the same car I’d spotted at the cemetery? I couldn’t
fathom why anyone would want to kill me. I wasn’t one of Jake’s heirs. I knew
next to nothing about the bioterrorism threat.

Quentin Hamilton? Though I hated the man, his M.O. was
innuendo and character assassination, not spilling real blood.

Maybe Agent Weaver would have some clue why I’d been
nominated as a shooting target. She could pass the news along to General
Irvine, too.

I squeezed water from my shirt and the hem of my shorts,
opened the car trunk for a beach towel, and dried off as best I could, eager to
get while the gettin’ was good.

Being alone on Spirit’s isolated bluff no longer seemed a
bright idea. I hadn’t brought a gun on vacation—only carried when I worked as a
security officer. Thanks to Eric, I knew my cell phone stun gun worked. Was the
pepper-spray atomizer a winner as well?

I pulled it from my bag. Pressed the trigger. A few drops
dribbled out. I fiddled with the nozzle, checked the wind direction, and
sprayed again. Incapacitating mist. Great, but only if my would-be shooter
decided to get up close and personal and stood downwind.

With eyes peeled for the tan car, I folded the towel on
May’s car seat to keep it as dry as possible. Should I beg off Duncan’s dinner invitation?

Damn, my vacation was getting complicated.

Ensconced in dry clothes, I fetched May from her open house,
showing my aunt more teeth than a Desperate Housewife hiding a cabana boy in
the closet. Luckily, she hardly glanced my way. Too busy making notes about
prospect follow-ups. Her intuition hadn’t penetrated my fake cheer. Good. No
need to worry her.

I was worried enough for both of us. Still several notches
down from hysterical. I’d talked to Weaver, who had no additional insights.
After we ran through a few scenarios, she agreed the shots were meant to warn
not maim or kill. Someone wanted to scare me off from helping Darlene.

Unable to manufacture a single reason why the shooter would
object to my eating chocolate with a handsome attorney, I showered, dabbed
perfume in spots that had suffered an extended cologne drought, and slipped
into a silky red blouse and slinky black slacks.

In the sexy underwear department, the best I could muster
was black as the color du jour for my briefs and Barely There bra. At least my
pull-on, pull-off knit bra offered no hook-like obstacles, though haste could
result in unsightly tangles, a sort of squashed, single-breasted pirate look.

Okay, I confess. I hoped chocolate and a few beers might
make my clothes fall off. I lusted for a little heavy breathing not inspired by
gunfire or dead bodies.

Though I looked forward to the evening, I was prepared to
cancel if there was even the slightest chance someone was following me. I
drove around Spirit Lake for half an hour, dodging down alleys and making
U-turns. I even pulled into a grocery store parking lot, walked to the store
and peered out from behind a pillar to see if a tan car with dark windows
lurked anywhere in my vicinity. The spy craft made me feel a bit foolish, but
it convinced me I didn’t have a tail. Still, I parked in the golf club’s
parking lot and hoofed it the last block and a half to Duncan’s front door. Not
a single car in sight. If someone spotted May’s car, I hoped they’d decide I
was getting a bite at Bud’s Pub inside the golf club.

Balancing a bowl filled with my Death by Chocolate trifle
against my hip, I freed a hand to ring his doorbell. A second later, he seized
control of my dessert and my lips. I think he set the trifle on a table. I know
he quickly freed both hands. Perhaps getting shot at whetted my appetite. I was
hungry for whatever the barrister planned to serve. Like tongue.

Duncan’s hands slid up and down my arms. He pushed back.
“Welcome.”

I laughed. “Think I got that.”

He looked past me to the street. “Where’s your car?”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s a long story.”

“Well, you can tell me over dinner,” he said. “It’s almost
ready. I’ll slip your dessert in the fridge.”

I declined wine, noting my allergies to both red and white
varieties. After handing me my requested alternate—a beer—he opened a bottle
for himself.

“I may not be directly in the line of fire, but I can still
use a drink,” he said. “Darlene’s problems get uglier with each passing day.”

“Amen to that.” Since we’d met, twenty-four hours had yet to
elapse without the discovery of a dead body—or two. “Since you mentioned being
in the line of fire, I need to tell you about my afternoon. You may want me to
disappear.”

Duncan’s forehead creased as he listened to my Spirit Resort
tale of a hidden gunman taking potshots at me, and how I’d tried to ensure no
one followed me to his house.

“Hopefully if they spot the car, they’ll think I’m at the
bar at the golf course.”

“It sounds like someone just wanted to put a scare in you.
But I understand your caution. I’m not worried though. Let’s enjoy our evening.
Take a break from tragedy. No mention of gunman, murder or death through the
main course.”

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

He took my hand and led me to a walled patio where a dozen
citronella torches flickered. I figured they were as much for mosquito
protection as ambience. Duncan seated me then brought out a large bowl of
Caesar salad. My muscles gradually unknotted as we sipped our beers and nibbled
greens.

We chatted about everything and nothing. I learned his
twenty-six-year-old daughter Kelly, an only child, worked as a landscape
architect in Austin, Texas, and was engaged to a podiatrist. “She was away at
college when my wife and I separated.” Duncan glossed over the details of his
marriage breakup. “I should have become suspicious when my wife suddenly
started buying slinky underwear.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

When he didn’t elaborate, I changed the subject, reminiscing
about my first visits to Spirit Lake to see Aunt May and Uncle John. From there
we segued into genealogy, and I discovered his mother, like my own, was Irish
and traced her relatives to County Cork. “Hey, maybe we’re long lost cousins,”
I said.

His hand snaked across the table, and his fingers trailed
along my arm. “Okay by me so long as it’s the kissing variety.”

My pulse took a hop, skip and jump. I felt pretty certain
we’d soon see each other’s birthday suits.

My nervousness made no sense—more like a teenager than a
middle-aged female who’d read “The Joy of Sex” in bed with her husband and
experimented with a variety of positions. Before we settled into our
comfortable long-term routines, Jeff and I had been game to try most everything
that did not mandate pretzel-like contortions. The purposely-shocking addition
of ice cubes had been tested only once.

Duncan stood to clear the dishes. “How about a boat ride?
Then we can arm ourselves with spoons and attack your dessert. It looks
delicious.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea—being out in the open like
that. What if I’m a target? I don’t want someone to miss me and hit you.”

He laughed, but there was no twinkle in his eyes. Duncan understood I was serious. “Hey, you may be in more danger in my presence than I am
in yours. If someone wants to cut Darlene off from her support, I’m a target,
too.” Duncan draped a loaned windbreaker around my shoulders. “Let’s head down
to the dock. Sit a spell. If there are no boats in sight, I think we can assume
no one’s stalking either of us.”

Lingering sunlight didn’t stop a sharp temperature drop. At
the community docks, Duncan surprised me when he stepped onto what he called
his “geezer craft”—an eighteen-foot pontoon boat with a sensible, no-wake,
no-hurry fifty-horse motor.

“Had you figured for a sporty deck boat.” I chuckled. “You
know the wind-in-your-hair, plane at mach speed variety. Waterskiing on
weekends. A buxom babe bouncing on the fore deck.”

“You have me all wrong.” He rapidly blinked his eyes in mock
innocence. “As far as speed and water skiing goes, I’ve been there, done
that—before arthroscopic surgery on my knees. Now I enjoy puttering around on
the water, hoisting the occasional cold one, and actually hearing what my
guests have to say.”

Given his retort did not refute bouncing babes, I wondered
how many girlfriends he’d wooed aboard his “geezer craft.” I’d wager a harem.
Who cared? At the moment, I had his undivided attention.

We sat on the pontoon boat as it gently bobbed in place.
After fifteen minutes without a single boat scouting Duncan’s cove, he
convinced me we could shove off. After steering toward the Arnolds Park pier, he pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees to give us grandstand seats for
the sinking sun. The shimmering lake mirrored every nuance of the kaleidoscope
sky. Rich hues of red and gold seeped into the depths of the lake and became
one with the fluid weave.

The sun made its final pirouette, and the sky deepened to
indigo. Stars winked like fireflies across the heavens. Since the moon had yet
to make its appearance, only stars and twinkling shore lights pierced the
lake’s shadowy cloak. Our low-wattage running lights did nothing to pollute the
peaceful scene. Duncan notched up our cruising speed.

“Not sure I’d feel safe piloting at night,” I said. “Come
sun up, I know the landmarks to dodge shallows and rock piles, like that nasty
one off Pocahontas Point. At night, it’s harder to get my bearings. Arnolds Park’s lighted roller coaster gives a faithful point of reference, but it’s hard to
judge distances away from the Park.”

“Good thing I’m driving.” He smiled. “I love the lake at
night. So quiet. Not many pesky wave-runners. Know where we are?”

I squinted toward shore. Colored lights danced over a
miniature waterfall. “Just outside the Olsen cove. I recognize the waterfall.”

He nodded. “Sure doesn’t look like a crime scene, does it?”

My gaze meandered along the shoreline. “You said opportunity
is one reason Darlene and Julie are suspects. Sure it would be hard for an
outsider to access the estate on land, but I could swim ashore easily.”

“True. But what happens once you’re on shore? You still have
to neutralize house alarms and slip past guards on patrol. How do you know the
Olsens or Glastons won’t catch you fiddling with their Visine bottles or
respirators? Sorry, but at the very least our killer has inside help.”

My shoulders slumped. “Guess a SEAL-style assault is a
little far-fetched.”

I meant it. Unless the killer used the Glaston safe room as
a comfy hideaway. Though tempted to ask Duncan if he knew about the room, I
felt queasy betraying the second-hand secret. Jake had gone to great lengths to
keep locals ignorant. I had no business spouting off until I spoke with the FBI
and Darlene.

While we’d avoided murder as dinner conversation, our visit
to the cove reopened the topic. “What happened after you got rid of Hamilton?”

“I had about two hours to myself before Darlene called with
a new emergency. Wanted me to sit in on an interview with an FBI agent.”

I held my tongue. Didn’t ask, “How’s Sherry?”

“I checked the Fed out,” he added. “Her name’s Sherry
Weaver. Though young, she’s built one hell of a reputation. Credited with
catching a scientist who smuggled nuclear secrets out of Los Alamos. Seems to
have her head screwed on straight.”

“How’d the interview go?”

“The agent asked Julie about her research and quizzed her
about some mushroom toxin the FBI suspects killed Gina. Julie handled herself
well. Very matter-of-fact. Her lab uses the toxin. She even suggested an
autopsy routine to pinpoint the source of the toxin.”

My shoulder muscles relaxed. I was glad Duncan had subjected
Weaver to a background check. Boy, was I slipping. That should have been my
first action.

“Julie was smart to cooperate,” I observed. “Darlene told me
about the toxin. Any word as to what might have killed Dr. Glaston?”

Duncan guided his boat into his assigned slip. “Glaston took
pills for a heart condition. Once again, Jolbiogen expedited some lab work.
Blood work showed a mega dose of Viagra. Triggered a massive heart attack.
Doctors don’t prescribe that stuff to people with bad tickers, so it’s doubtful
he self-medicated. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s also tough to
imagine Dr. Glaston wanting to pump up his penis to schtupp Gina.”

My mental picture of the Glastons en flagrante was the
opposite of erotic.

Duncan killed the engine. I stepped off and tied the ropes
on my side to cleats fore and aft as he secured his bumpers.

“So did Weaver have a theory about how the killer tricked
Glaston into taking Viagra?”

“Yep. Pills were ground up and dissolved in the bottle
Glaston used to pour his nightcaps. The agent didn’t bother to quiz Darlene or
Julie about access to Viagra. Too easy to get an Internet prescription or steal
pills from a friend’s medicine cabinet.”

He met me on the dock’s center aisle and slipped an arm
around my shoulders. When his fingertips skimmed my shoulder, my brain almost
abandoned the Olsen puzzle. Yet I didn’t feel I was eligible for recess until
I’d finished my homework. Maybe Duncan could offer some plausible motives that
I could pass along to Weaver.

“Have you come up with any motive beyond greed?”

“Money’s always a safe bet. Guess I’ll stick with it. But
the who eludes me. Even if I weren’t Darlene’s attorney, I’d rule her out. She
and Jake seemed genuinely happy. Had she wanted to dispose of her husband,
she’s smart enough to plan a less public and splashy—pardon the pun—demise. And
Darlene only stood to gain a few million extra by killing the Glastons. Not
much in the scheme of things. I’m convinced all three murders are related. As
to Julie—she’d never do anything to hurt her mom.”

I glanced at Duncan. “If inheritance is the motive, how
about Eric or Kyle? Eric was mad as a hatter that his grandfather refused to
back some harebrained music scheme, and I understand Kyle’s relationship with
his dad was strained.”

Duncan chewed his lip. “Eric’s too impulsive to intricately
plot three murders. Kyle? Now he’s the archetypical schemer. But why kill his
own dad? He’s not the type to commit a crime of passion, and he’s not hurting
for money. He has millions. If he waits a few years and Jake dies of natural
causes, more millions fall from the sky. No way would Jake disinherit his only
son.”

Duncan shook his head as he opened the gate to his condo’s
fenced patio. “Patricide is very rare. No, I can’t see it.”

His assessment made sense. “Guess you’re right. Where’s the
motive for Kyle to murder the Glastons? Gina’s his half-sister, and her husband
inherits nothing—even if Gina dies. No earthly reason to kill his sister and
brother-in-law.”

With appetites renewed by the chill air, we demolished
generous servings of my rich trifle. Then Duncan circled the table and pulled
back my chair. I stood. His palms cupped my face. He tilted my head, and our
lips met. A hint of sweet chocolate. A promise of something sweeter with a
touch of spice.

He backed me into the kitchen cabinets. While one of his
hands migrated lower, the other fumbled inside a kitchen drawer. He pulled out
an apron.