Bad Hair Day 2 - Hair Raiser (18 page)

*Chapter Eighteen*
Marla's stunned mind attempted to assimilate the news about Shark. Stefano's son! Did that mean Stefano was to blame for their mishaps? Could it be that he was Popeye's heir? _Perhaps so, but don't jump to conclusions,_ she warned herself. A few loose ends needed to be tied off before she could target the man.
"Look what else I discovered," Cynthia said, gesturing for Marla to follow her inside the house. In a room designated as the library, she pointed to a faded photograph in a tarnished silver frame that sat on a dusty bookshelf. "It's a picture of Popeye Boodles."
"Who's that woman?" Marla peered at the youthful couple standing under a cluster of palms on a sandy beach. Barefooted, they wore carefree grins on their tanned faces. "I thought Popeye never married."
"That's his sister. I'd forgotten all about her."
"Really? What happened to the girl?" Here she'd been thinking Popeye's heir was some distant cousin, but he could be a closer relation.
"I believe she's deceased. Bruce's family lost touch with her, but I'll ask him if he can get more information. What should I do about Annie? Shark has been using her, and I don't want him around here anymore."
"Tell her the truth. Maybe it's time to assert some parental authority, cuz. He's a danger to us, especially if Stefano is behind everything."
She couldn't confront him until she eliminated certain other possibilities. The next day, she ran out on her lunch hour to waylay Dr. Taylor at his office. The surgeon strolled in looking his usual debonair self, hair fluffed with mousse, conservative navy suit with a striped tie. His glowering expression told her he wasn't pleased by her visit.
"What is it, Marla? You're disrupting my routine."
"You hate it when things get out of control, don't you?" she mused, surveying the neatly arrayed writing instruments on his desktop.
"Look, I have a busy schedule. Patients don't like to be kept waiting. Get to the point, will you?"
Whipping the photos from her purse, Marla shoved them at him. "See this? Someone's been dumping medical waste in our mangrove preserve. I was wondering if you might have any idea who's responsible. Your expertise could help us identify these items and perhaps the culprit."
He gave her a shrewd glance. "Is that why you were here the last time? You thought it was me?"
Pausing, she ran her fingers lightly across a bookshelf surface. No dust. He must have a meticulous housekeeping staff.
"The notion had crossed my mind," she replied, "especially when it was brought to my attention that your clinic was having financial difficulties."
He faced her directly, staring her down. "I don't see the connection."
"There was always the possibility you were dumping waste to avoid paying the disposal company. That would make sense if you're trying to save money. Let's say, for example, your clinic isn't doing well and you need funding for some private expense that your practice alone can't meet."
His brows drew together like angry thunderclouds. "Who's been talking to you?"
She smiled coyly. "I've spoken to lots of people, but I never believe gossip. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"
Pacing the room, he threw her an annoyed glance. "I suppose you found out about Andrew. Well, I'm not ashamed of him. The institution can take better care of him than me and my wife. Our daughter requires our full attention if she's to be successful. There's no use wasting time on Andrew."
Marla hadn't been expecting this turn to the conversation. "Andrew is your son?"
Dr. Taylor stopped. "You'd never know it, would you? A blithering idiot, and there's nothing I can do. Of course, I tried. We consulted the best specialists, but their advice was the same. Put him away, unless you're willing to spend your life in his service."
Something in his expression, maybe the twinge of pain in his eyes, gave away the depth of his feelings. "You couldn't fix him, could you?" Marla asked, comprehending. "Broken bones, slipped discs you can repair, but you couldn't fix your own son. He remains a symbol of your own imperfections, which you'd rather deny. No wonder you're so obsessed with order. It must have really irked you when Ben screwed you on an investment prospect."
Dr. Taylor's gray eyes grew leaden. "Now I see where this is going." He jabbed a finger in the air. "I'm not polluting the mangrove preserve, nor am I a killer. You're wasting my time as well as your own if that's what you think."
"It's more logical that Popeye's heir is contaminating the land to void the provisions of Popeye's trust."
"Oh, so you think it's me?" His nostrils flared. "First you accuse me of polluting the preserve to save money. Now I'm fouling the land because I hope to inherit Popeye's estate. Which is it, Marla?"
"Neither. I'm just eliminating possibilities, but I really came to you for help." She pointed to the pictures. "Where else could this stuff be originating? If not a medical office or hospital, veterinarian or dentist, what other place would generate medical waste?"
The surgeon sent her a piercing gaze, as though deciding if he'd assist her. "Laboratories, nursing homes, diagnostic facilities. I don't see how you're going to track down the source."
"Thanks, you've opened up some other avenues even if I can't see how they're related. I'll show these to the guy at the biomedical waste company. It was his idea to get the photos."
"I'm sure Cynthia appreciates your efforts," Dr. Taylor said gruffly. "We all want Taste of the World to succeed."
Marla hesitated. She might have pushed him too far and didn't want to leave on a confrontational note. "I'm sorry if I offended you or brought up painful topics. Your patients and staff admire you greatly, so I wouldn't be concerned about what they'd think regarding Andrew. I believe you really do care about your son, and your anger is directed more at yourself than him. It makes you overly defensive. Now please forgive me if I've been too blunt."
He smiled wearily. "You've hit upon touchy subjects, but I understand your motivation. You're trying to do what's best for Ocean Guard. Just be careful whom you interview next. The cops seem to think Ben's killer is one of us."
His parting words lingered in her mind. Since she was driving by the vicinity, she decided to stop in at the police station to see Lieutenant Vail. It had been a while since they'd compared notes, and she wanted to tell him about Shark.
Vail, surrounded by paperwork, glanced up from his desk when Marla strolled into his office, a visitor's badge pinned to her camel blazer. Instead of the delighted grin she'd expected, a frown of annoyance crossed his brow.
"Hi, Marla. What's up?"
_You look like hell, pal. Been keeping some late nights?_ "I was wondering how your case is progressing." Smiling coyly, she dropped into the seat opposite his desk and crossed her legs. "I miss your impromptu visits to the salon. When do you expect to snag Ben's killer? We'll have more time to be together after you wrap things up."
Giving a weary sigh, Vail leaned back in his swivel chair. "Why do I feel you've learned something I don't know? You've been interviewing murder suspects again, haven't you?" Her guilty flush made his frown deepen. "I don't have time for this, Marla. I told you not to interfere."
"I can help, Dalton. Listen to me."
"No, you listen," he said, pointing a finger at her. "I've assigned another detective to the case. We have accreditation this week, and I have too many other duties keeping me occupied." Scratching his jaw, he studied her a moment, evidently reaching a decision. "We're getting close to nailing the perp, but we still need final proof. What have you got?"
Marla glowed inwardly that he'd decided to trust her, however minutely. "Shark is Stefano Barletti's son. I think he's been spying on Cynthia and me. That makes his father my prime suspect as Popeye's heir. Although," she muttered, "that would make Stefano the guy who attacked me in the swamp."
"What?" Vail's brows drew together. "Shit, Marla, didn't I warn you to be careful? What happened now?"
Marla described her adventure. "David saved me, despite what you think about him."
"You're not safe from anyone until the perp is behind bars."
"What's Darren Shapiro's connection? The murder weapon came from his collection. His neighbor is concerned that something fishy is going on at his house."
"Take my word for it, Shapiro isn't your man."
"Who is it, then? You must have a strong lead."
Shaking his head, Vail leveraged his large body from the chair. "My department doesn't leak information. Stay out of harm's way, Marla. We'll catch the guy soon enough. Now unless you have something more to add, you can go. I have a lot of work to do." He softened his words by rounding the corner of his desk, pulling her into his arms, and planting a light kiss on her mouth.
* * * *

Marla finished the workday, her mind distracted by Vail's words of warning and the lingering taste of his lips on hers. She managed to get through conversations with friends while part of her processed what he'd said. Unable to deny her curiosity any longer, she drove to Darren's house after dinner.

Ringing the doorbell, she was dismayed when his wife answered the door. "He's not home," the woman said in response to her inquiry.
"Will I find him at the Polynesian Revue?"
A startled glance met her innocently wide gaze. "Perhaps. I don't think he'd be too happy if you showed up there."
_I should've waited to eat dinner,_ Marla thought, giving her car to the valet at the popular restaurant in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Passing through the entrance, she admired the tropical decor enhanced by subdued lighting and lush greenery. Strains of Hawaiian music floated in the air.
"I'm looking for Darren Shapiro," she said when the hostess approached. "He works in a bank. Maybe he's a financial consultant?" She still didn't have a clue as to his association with the place.
"Oh, no." The sarong-skirted woman smiled. "He has a different, quite important, role here. I believe you'll see him best by being seated up front."
"But I didn't come here to eat. I -- "
"This way, ma'am."
Helplessly, Marla followed the hostess to a long table perpendicular to the stage. She was seated alone and handed a menu while other diners filed into the room. Ordering a bushwacker and a pupu platter, she settled into her seat for what appeared to be the first show of the evening.
Marla was mesmerized by the swaying Hula dancers, energized by the hip-gyrating Tahitian girls, and stunned by the male Samoan fire knife dancers who twirled flaming batonlike knives to a ferocious drumbeat.
_Hey, wait a minute._ That dark-haired hunk was staring directly at her. It couldn't be.
Yes, it was. Darren Shapiro, dressed in a loincloth, his muscular body oiled, a grass crown on his head. A warrior cry tore from his throat as he flung the blazing knife high into the air, caught it, and daringly put the flames to his lips. Stretching his mouth into a menacing sneer, he sank to the floor, balancing the fiery knife on his bare feet while he spun like a break-dancer. Springing upright, he shrieked a war whoop while he tossed the knife, its blazing ends smoking the air. Transfixed, Marla couldn't move through his terrifying act, glad at last when he extinguished the flames and took his bows.
Right after the finale, a girl in a sarong with a hibiscus flower behind her ear approached Marla to invite her backstage.
"Bless my bones, I couldn't believe that was you!" Marla said, watching Darren rub down with a towel.
He mopped his forehead, then paused. "Why do you think I don't tell anyone? I'm afraid I'll lose my job at the bank if they find out. This is my passion, but it doesn't exactly fit the conservative image required during the day."
Fascinated, Marla watched the bustle of the other performers backstage. "How did you ever get interested in this?"
He shrugged his brawny shoulders, normally hidden beneath the sedate suits he wore. "When I was younger, my sister took hula lessons. I wanted to do something like that because it looked like fun, so my dad found a guy to teach me Samoan fire knife dancing. He gave me my stage name, Chief Pauahi. I love entertaining people, but I can't give up my day job. That's what puts bread on the table, you know?"
Picking up a shell lei, he hung it on his thick neck. "Anyway, why are you here? Somehow I can't believe you wanted to see my act."
She blushed under his frank stare. "The murder weapon. It was one of these knives?" Their shapes were similar to the items she'd seen on his cocktail table at home.
He nodded at the objects laid out on the floor. "They're Samoan fire knives," he explained, lifting the two-foot-long handle wrapped in vinyl tape. "You can get them in different lengths. The Samoans used to hang skulls on this hook."
The knife was heavy, but she was able to heft it when he offered it to her. Its curved stainless-steel blade easily added another foot to the measurements. A good weapon with which to bash someone's head, Marla reasoned.
"Before my act, I bond asbestos to both ends, then soak the cloth in lighter fluid and ignite them so each side is flaming," Darren said, grinning with pride. "It's an impressive sight. Fire knife dancing is a modern interpretation of ancient warrior dances performed by Samoans. It's supposed to be very aggressive and warlike. I work on speed, twirling, and back tosses. My neighbors can probably hear me practicing at home in our fenced backyard."
"So that's what your yelling is all about. You're practicing war whoops."
The grin erased itself from his face. "Somebody used one of these for real. I'm not a detective, so you might want to tell your friend Lieutenant Vail that Stefano Barletti came in the bank today asking for a loan. His business is struggling, thanks to competition by the big chain funeral homes. But that's not the point. Stefano said he had collateral to back the loan. It's an inheritance he expects to gain early next year."
_The final nails are being put in your coffin, Stefano,_ Marla thought during her drive home. She needed to make one more visit before confirming her opinion, however. Unfortunately, her work schedule didn't permit any deviations until Friday, when she ran out the door during lunch break.
The man at the biomedical waste facility was as cooperative as before. He took one look at the photos, and his expression brightened.
"You see all this stained clothing? Funeral homes are the most likely source. They dispose of bloody clothes from accidents. Sometimes you can tell from the formaldehyde smell, but I don't suppose being out in the swamp like this, you could sniff much."
Marla wrinkled her nose. "Don't nursing homes throw out clothing as well?"
"Relatives would probably take those items home. Sometimes we'll get clothes from the sheriff's office, evidence that has been released."
"I see." Marla took back the photos from his proffered hand. "Well, you've been exceedingly helpful. Thanks so much."
* * * *