Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (3 page)

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“Ready for another rum and Coke?”

Darlene’s return startled me. I hadn’t heard her footsteps.

“Sure.” I took the offered glass.

As my fingers slipped round the icy refill, a shiver ran up
my spine. Winds barreling out of Canada were hastening the mercury down its
evening scale.

Darlene sat beside me. She tilted her head back, closed her
eyes, and traced circles around the rim of the glass. She’d exchanged Donna
Karan silks for roomy, well-worn sweats. Except for the paint splotches on my
sweatshirt, we almost matched. She’d scrubbed away all traces of makeup, too.
Stress etched delicate lines at the corners of her eyes. Up close, she looked
haggard, almost our age.

“Julie says she’ll be here by ten.” Darlene’s feet pushed
against patio pavers to restart our swing’s gentle rock. “I’m worried about
her. Earlier, when I phoned to tell her Jake had died, I sensed she’d been
crying before I broke the news. That’s not like my daughter. I pressed her and
got nowhere.”

She turned toward me. “I forced myself to call Kyle and
Gina—Jake’s son and daughter—too.”

“How are they holding up?”

“They may be half siblings but they both inherited a cold
fish gene.” Bitterness laced her tone. “Can’t wait to bury him and cash in.”

A vein pulsed at the side of her temple. “Kyle informed me
he’d make the funeral arrangements. Said I was ‘ignorant’ of how to handle a
funeral for someone in his father’s social strata. I might have conceded except
Jake gave me written instructions. He was determined not to lie in state and
have Jolbiogen employees file by like peons at Stalin’s tomb.

“He donated his body to the Mayo Clinic and prearranged a
simple memorial with our minister. I told Kyle to check with Jake’s attorney,
Duncan James, if he didn’t believe me. That’s when I got what Jake called his
son’s dry-ice anger—so cold it burns.”

Crap. I knew Jake’s Mayo bequest was a no-go. I’d checked
the donation criteria for my mother. Bodies couldn’t be emaciated, obese or
autopsied. Autopsy saws were a certainty for Jake.

I groped my way to the heart of the matter as diplomatically
as possible.

“Oh, Lord,” Darlene moaned. “Can’t Jake even have the final
say about his body? Money and power don’t mean shit when it comes to what
matters. His kids never showed him affection. But they always walked the
tightrope—spiteful but never quite nasty enough to endanger their precious
inheritance.”

Darlene stood. “Guess I’d better find Jake’s letter. Are you
still comfortable here or do you want to come inside?”

“I’ll wait here.”

I set my drink down and hugged myself, trying to ward off a
chill as I visually inventoried the lakeside enclave. Paved paths connected the
main house and the two houses that flanked it to the shared patios, swimming
pool and a dock that stabled every manner of big-boy float toy from jet skis to
a sleek, high-speed cruiser.

A flicker of light drew my eye. Jake’s adjoining lots
occupied a cove, and the curving geography brought the rough-hewn cabin on the
estate’s edge into clear view. I could swear firelight danced inside the
deserted cabin. Probably a mirage—the sinking sun reflecting on the wavy
antique windows.

Darlene’s return interrupted my speculation.

“Here’s Jake’s letter.” She handed me a sheet of textured
linen paper, her husband’s signature scrawled at the bottom. “He had a fallback
plan. See what you think.”

I scanned the notarized document. Should anything nix his
Mayo bequest, Jake wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered without
benefit of a graveside service.

He didn’t mince words: No funeral. One simple memorial
service in Spirit Lake, which has given me a sense of belonging and peace.

I looked up at Darlene. “Sounds straightforward.”

“I think so, too.” She took a ragged breath. Her hands
trembled.

“You’re exhausted. Why don’t you lie down?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

I was glad her daughter would be here by morning. I just
hoped Julie didn’t arrive with more troubles in her backpack.

My friend stared off into space. I knew that faraway look.
She’d escaped into memory. “Julie’s father died two years before I started
seeing Jake,” she said after a while. “You never met Mike. In college, he was
two years ahead of me—a forestry major—but he signed on as a firefighter after
graduation to stay near till I got my degree. That was supposed to be
temporary. When I got pregnant, it became permanent. I worried about Mike every
time I heard a fire engine. Then one day he died in a freaking car accident.

“I felt so angry. Julie was finishing grad school and shared
an apartment with friends, and the memories were suffocating. I’d inherited
Mom’s old clapboard on Big Spirit so coming here seemed a logical choice.
That’s when I started the catering business.”

“A good move?” I asked.

A smile flickered. “Yep, I called on Jake hoping for a share
of his catering business. He used to throw quite the parties. Never imagined
we’d end up together.”

“What was he like?” I probed.

She sighed. “A real sweetheart. Jake treated me like the
heroine in a romance novel. We’d fly to Paris for the weekend, or he’d whisk me
to Rio for carnival. His kids never understood what he saw in me. I don’t
hobnob with the right crowd or have a standing appointment for Botox. Hell, I
even chew my nails. But we laughed a lot.”

“Laughter is one of your special gifts, Darlene.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Another fairytale screeches to a
halt.”

When she turned to me, she sported the wicked grin I
remembered as a staple from our college days. “Actually it’s been a hoot to be
cast as an evil, gold-digging bimbo. When you’re past fifty, it’s kind of
flattering to be ‘the hussy.’ Kyle and Gina thought I’d cast a sexual spell
over their father, when he dropped out of the party circuit.”

“And did you?” I grinned.

“Of course. Handcuffs and whipped cream all the way.” She
smiled, then shook her head. “Jake was bored with the social scene. He
preferred to stay home. We’d read, putter around the kitchen, watch old movies,
go for a boat ride. Today’s party was a special occasion. Jake felt obliged to
appear in public with his new bride to keep the tabloids from starting rumors
about us.” Darlene flinched. “Dammit.”

“What?” I followed her gaze to a young man charging our way
from the house to our left.

“It’s Eric—Jake’s grandson. Dammit, I’m not ready to face
him.”

The kid—I guessed early twenties—bulled within shouting
range. In other circumstances, I might have labeled him handsome. Jet black
hair. Irises a remote china blue, just like his granddad’s. Pale skin that
would turn lobster pink after an hour on the water. At the moment, he reminded
me of a vicious dog, bristling with hostility.

“You stinking bitch,” he yelled. “What made you decide to
kill him? That ten-carat diamond wasn’t enough? You won’t get away with
murder.”

Eric gulped air to fuel his tirade. I could almost feel his
hot breath abrading Darlene’s face. His hands balled into tight red fists, the
exposed white knuckles looked ready to abuse. Fearing he’d escalate from verbal
pummeling to physical assault, I slid sideways and stood. Edging behind him, I
considered my options should matters deteriorate.

Darlene’s face turned white as flour, bleached by fear. But
her eyes flashed with anger. Past experience warned me she was about to blow.
“I loved Jake, you little shit.” Her clipped tone vibrated with controlled
fury. “More than you. Jesus, your grandfather’s body isn’t cold and you’re
ranting about your inheritance.”

Eric sneered. “What bullshit. You love money, period. I’ll
see you in hell before you steal more.”

Time to interrupt. “You need to leave—now.” I used my best
up-yours, military command voice.

The surround sound surprised Eric. He hadn’t noticed I’d
scooted behind him.

He swiveled. “Who the hell are you? Another over-aged
whore?”

This boy was not winning brownie points.

When he grabbed my arm, it made anything I did self-defense.
I captured his forearm with my free hand. My thumb found the spot just below
his elbow and dug in. His face went from pallid to pasty. Silently I thanked
the sergeant who’d schooled me in pressure points and practical defense.

Eric tried to free his arm. While I didn’t release him, I
eased up on the pressure. “Are you ready to leave?”

He stared daggers at me and spat at Darlene’s feet. “Guess
you’re hiring freakin’ lesbo guards now. Well, she won’t always be around.
We’re not finished.”

I eased up more and he jerked free. The scene was so over
the top I felt like giggling. Was he for real?

As we watched the irate man-child stalk away, neither of us
uttered a word. When he disappeared from sight, Darlene sighed. “Eric thinks he
inhabits a soap opera.” She shook her head. “He’s convinced life’s dealt him a
cruel blow. With Gina as his mother, there’s some justification. But lots of
folks have it worse. Poor Eric’s twenty years old and can’t touch a
fifty-million trust fund till he’s thirty. He’s flunked out of four colleges, majoring
in recreational drug use. This spring Jake tried to interest his grandson in
Jolbiogen, brought him in as a lab tech. He lasted three months. Thought the
job beneath him. Jake worried about the boy, but knew throwing money at him
wasn’t a cure.”

“Your husband sounds like a gem,” I said. “But I don’t envy
you his family.”

“Jake told them he planned to write a new will. They’re all
sure I goaded him into it. Truth is, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass if I’m in
Jake’s will. Hell, I could sell this diamond and be set for life.”

The value of expletives is often underrated. Letting loose
with a few swear words seemed to help Darlene vent her frustration. Her
shoulders straightened. Her eyes flashed.

A strong lady. Good thing. Whatever was—or wasn’t—in Jake’s
will, Darlene faced tough sledding.

I did find her nonchalance about a billion-dollar estate
hard to swallow. Darlene was a rare bird if she didn’t covet a chunk of change
for her daughter, if not for herself.

I jumped when a hand gripped my shoulder. “Ms. Clark, we
need to talk.”

Sheriff Delaney’s shoe-leather face hovered above me. His
gray eyes looked anything but friendly. Darlene started to get up. He held up
his palm in a stop motion. “This is official. If you’ll come with me, Ms.
Clark, I’d prefer we do the interview in private.”

Little hairs on the back of my neck saluted. Holy crap. If
the sheriff’s squinty eyes were any sign, I’d joined the suspect list.

A popular Army acronym sprang to mind—FUBAR.

I followed Delaney back to the Olsen house where Harvey
ushered us into a small study and shut the door. I headed for the red leather
couch, automatically pulling one of the decorative throw pillows onto my lap.

The sheriff claimed a club chair next to the couch and took
out a pen, a notepad, and a digital recorder. “Mind if I record this?” he asked
as he set it on the end table between us.

“That’s fine,” I answered, trying to keep my voice from
warbling. My throat felt parched and my nervous fingers toyed with the fringe
on the pillow. I told myself I had no reason to be nervous; I’d done nothing
wrong. But sweat glands and nerves seldom respond to logic. I knew that well
enough from being on the questioning side of an interrogation.

“Can we begin with why you were on the Queen this
afternoon?” Delaney asked. “According to my notes, you live in South Carolina.”

I took a steadying breath. At least the first answer was
easy. I explained I was on vacation, visiting May and Ross Carr, my aunt and
cousin. I’d agreed to waitress last minute as a favor to Ross.

The sheriff scribbled a note, then pinned me with a cold
stare. “Why weren’t you on the guest list for the party?”

Huh? Where did that question come from?

“I’d met Jake Olsen once at the Maritime Museum. We weren’t
friends. He had no reason to invite me.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, but I’m told you and
Mrs. Olsen are long-time friends. Why didn’t she invite you?”

“Friends who hadn’t seen each other in literally decades. I
had no idea she’d married Jake Olsen, and Darlene didn’t know I was in town.”

The sheriff tapped his pen on his notepad. “Okay, let’s talk
about your actions on the Queen. Did you serve any food or beverages to Mr.
Olsen?”

The man was getting my Irish up. I felt my cheeks flame—an
early-warning sign I’m angry. Was the sheriff suggesting I’d poisoned my
friend’s husband?

“Yes, I brought a tray of champagne flutes to a group that
included Darlene and her husband. Mr. Olsen helped himself to a glass of the
bubbly. Darlene took a glass from that same tray. As far as I know, no one else
who drank the champagne fell over dead.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Delaney’s mouth,
pleased he’d ruffled me. Probably figured I’d say something stupid and confess
in a fit of pique. I willed myself to calm down and smiled. I could play that
game, too.

“According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Olsen finished the champagne
you provided just before his collapse,” Delaney said.

“How interesting.” I looked directly into the sheriff’s cold
gray eyes.

“Yes, it is.” My return stare didn’t coax the sheriff to
blink. “Now, tell me how you came to leap into the water just seconds after Mr.
Olsen fell overboard.”

“I was headed down the stairs to the galley when I saw a
body fall from the top deck. I recently found a drowning victim—a friend. I
couldn’t bear the thought of someone else dying that way without making an
effort to save him.”

The sheriff kept his gaze locked on mine. “Save him, huh? At
least two eyewitnesses seem to think your ‘lifesaving’ efforts pushed Mr.
Olsen’s head under water.”

My fingers squeezed the pillow I longed to throw in
Delaney’s face. “Nonsense. The man was floating facedown when I reached him. I
flipped him over and held his head above water until the lifeboat reached us.
Unfortunately he was dead when I reached him.”

Delaney looked up from his scribbling with a raised eyebrow.
“What makes you so certain? Care to venture a guess on what killed him? Poison,
maybe?”

“I haven’t the faintest, Sheriff. Is that all? If you’re
going to play bad cop, can we do it later? I have a friend who just lost a
husband. She needs me.”

Delaney snapped his notebook shut and picked up the
recorder. “Fine. I hope you don’t plan to leave town.”

“Not for two weeks. I’m staying with my aunt, May Carr. You
can contact me there after tonight.”

I stood and walked out without a backward glance. How did
the sheriff come up with the notion I had a nefarious motive for my dive into
the lake? Talk about ridiculous.

A possibility dawned. Not how, who.

Quentin Hamilton. He’d be all too happy to seize innuendo
and make me a suspect.

I rejoined Darlene on the patio. We talked and watched the
lake until darkness drove us indoors. I didn’t share the sheriff’s insulting
questions. No need to upset my friend more. Jake was dead before I reached him.
That meant no one could pin a drowning on me. And, even if he’d been poisoned,
I couldn’t buy that someone played champagne roulette to deliver the coup de
grace.

Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the great room’s ocean of
marble tile. The caterers had long since departed. Harvey Krantz offered to
linger, but Darlene shooed the butler home, insisting we’d be fine.

The stale, cold air made me shiver. Had Harvey lowered the
thermostat earlier, anticipating a coven of sweaty celebrants?

“Can I fix you something to eat?” Darlene asked. “I’m not
hungry.”

I touched her shoulder. “I can fend for myself, just keep me
company. I don’t like playing mother, but you should eat a little something.”

The kitchen boasted more appliances than an entire home
economics lab—a doublewide refrigerator, a freezer, a Jenn-Air grill, two
cooktops, twin ovens, a rotisserie that looked big enough to roast a large
turkey, a warming drawer and a quartet of sinks anchored in acres of granite.

“Holy smokes.” I chuckled. “Chef Rudy would shit his
britches if he saw this layout. Well, maybe not. He’d miss his battery of
deep-fat fryers.”

While our old boss at Spirit Resort possessed a reasonable
culinary range, his Sunday-feed-the-masses specialty was deep-fried chicken.

I rubbed my hands together. “Based on your kitchen toys,
raiding your larder should be fun. Is this the pantry?”

Darlene nodded, and I opened a door to a walk-in treasure
trove. Amidst stocked delicacies like artichokes and truffles, I found an
abundance of mundane canned goods. “Ah ha, you rich folks do eat something
besides caviar.”

My kidding coaxed a smile from Darlene. After retrieving a
can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, I added milk, and nuked two cups in the
microwave. Then I scavenged cheese, sawing off a few hunks of sharp cheddar to
munch with some crackers. I set a mug of soup in front of Darlene and joined
her at the kitchen table. The steaming soup warmed my hands. My friend cradled
her mug against her cheek.

She smiled. “Remember that Republican Women’s Club meeting,
when Rudy banished us to the freezer to carve an elephant out of ice? Thinking
about it still gives me goose pimples.”

“I seem to recall you made one of the elephant’s appendages
larger than his trunk. It was downright cruel how Rudy whacked it off.”

My friend tilted her head. “I still say Jumbo was
anatomically correct. You know those old ladies would have loved it. Maybe
behind closed doors, but they would’ve giggled. But listen to me, calling them
old ladies. We’re their age now.”

Darlene sipped her soup. “When we were twenty, I sort of
figured old people—you know, fifty and up—didn’t do it anymore. I never
imagined we’d be fitting sex in between hot flashes.” Her index finger traced
the Iowa State logo on the red mug. “The first time I felt horny after Mike
died, it came tinged with shame. But grief doesn’t kill desire.”

Amen to that. This spring, two years after Jeff’s death, I
received my own libido wake-up call. Nothing like a handsome forty-year-old
homicide detective to rekindle banked embers.

“Think you’ll stay in Spirit Lake?”

Darlene shook her head. “I don’t know. I sold my catering
business, and I can’t imagine moping around this place with nothing to do.”

“There’s plenty of time to decide.”

I didn’t add that moping would require a fat bankroll. If
she inherited this mansion, she’d better hope Jake left cash for taxes and
upkeep—no mean feat on a multi-million dollar spread.

Chimes sounded, and Darlene jumped. “What the hell? Those
security bozos weren’t supposed to let anyone through the gates.”

She walked to a kitchen intercom. “Who is it?”

“Quentin Hamilton.”

She hesitated. “What do you want?” Her hand trembled. “Can’t
it wait till morning?”

“No. I need to speak to you now.” His booming reply vibrated
the intercom grid. He sounded peeved.

“Just a minute.” She released the button. “Now I’m doubly
glad you’re here.”

“It might be best if I hang in the kitchen. I don’t exactly
have a calming effect on the man. If Hamilton sees me, he’ll become even
testier.”

“You know him?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Afraid so. I’ll explain after he leaves.”

“Okay, but please listen in, and if I call out, charge in
like the cavalry.”

As Darlene ushered her unwanted guest into the great room, I
skulked a few feet away, my ear plastered to the kitchen door. Hamilton didn’t
waste time on condolences.

“My men will be here first thing tomorrow to secure Jake’s
papers. You need to show them every place your husband kept important
documents. And I need a complete guest list for your party.”

Darlene jumped in. “That’s not going to happen.” Her tone
suggested gritted teeth. “I will not let a bunch of strangers paw through
Jake’s personal things on your say-so. If I happen to find any Jolbiogen
documents, I’ll let Tom Brooks know.

“And why do you need a guest list, Mr. Hamilton? I don’t
want you harassing Jake’s friends. Frankly, I can’t see how any of this is your
business. The sheriff’s investigating the accident. I had to put up with your
pompous ass when Jake was alive. I don’t now. Get out of my house.”

“As the grieving widow, I thought you’d be happy to
cooperate.” Hamilton’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Since you’ve refused, it’s
my duty to share my impressions with the sheriff regarding you and your
daughter.”

“Marley, would you join us, please?” Darlene raised her
voice. “I want Mr. Hamilton to see I have a witness in case he makes more
threats.”

I stormed in like a thunderclap, the kitchen door swinging
wildly in my wake. I wanted to deck him.

Hamilton’s jaw quivered. “Stay out of this, Colonel Clark. I
don’t know how you’re involved, but I’m going to find out. Maybe you helped
your friend cook up this little sendoff for her husband.”

“Get out.” Darlene made her demand in a controlled voice.
“Now.”

He marched to the front door and slammed it as a punctuation
point. For a moment, we stood dumbstruck.

“Well, that went well,” I said.

Darlene turned to me in surprise and then laughed. A second
later, I joined her. Our laughter grew until tears rolled down our cheeks.

Steam escaping from the day’s pressure cooker.

In Darlene’s cheerful kitchen, our laughter ebbed and a
feeling of gloom descended.

“I can’t believe his nerve,” she muttered. “Jake retired
three months ago. What papers could possibly justify Hamilton coming on like a
storm trooper? And why bring my daughter—and you—into this?”

She shook her head. “Hamilton’s never disguised his opinion
of me. Thought Jake was slumming. I cooked for a living and graduated from Iowa
State, not Haa-vuud.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “So tell me. You’ve apparently
crossed swords with the butthead. Should I be plain mad or worried?”

I offered a brief synopsis of my encounters with Hamilton.

Darlene raked a hand through her pixie-cut hair. “There’s no
way Tom Brooks authorized Hamilton to pull this.”

“You mentioned him before. Who is he?”

“Jolbiogen’s president. He’s worked with Jake forever,
almost from day one.”

“Call him,” I suggested. “Ask him to put a choke chain on
Hamilton.”

I gave Darlene more detail on Thrasos International.
Hamilton knew he needed big names in his stable to dazzle corporate America. He
used family clout to recruit retired Army generals, FBI and Interpol
specialists, computer and technology gurus. The firm not only offered
protection for bigwigs, it built a reputation for making problems disappear—the
kind of problems companies and governments don’t want public.

Darlene’s fingers fastened on a saltshaker. She twirled it
back and forth. “What kind of problems?”

“A foreign official trying to extract a bribe in exchange
for a mega-bucks contract. A CFO suspected of insider trading. A security
breach inside a DoD contractor’s organization. ”

I paused to consider the types of secrets Jake’s firm might
hire Thrasos to hush up. “Jolbiogen’s a pharmaceutical firm, right?”

Darlene nodded.

“That opens other possibilities. Maybe some gang in Chechnya
is counterfeiting pills and selling them as genuine Jolbiogen cures. Patients
swallowing harmful fakes isn’t good for business. Or maybe someone’s selling
trade secrets.”

My friend frowned. “I know Jolbiogen has a big military
research contract. Jake said the project made him nervous because something
horrific could happen if the research fell into the wrong hands. He never
talked specifics, but it had something to do with DNA sequences.”

Darlene’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose that’s it? That Jake
kept documents about that research here, and that’s why Hamilton’s being such a
bastard?”