Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (4 page)

“I honestly don’t know. That man doesn’t need a reason to be
a bastard.” I stood. “We’re not going to solve this tonight. Let’s go to bed.
You have to be exhausted.”

She nodded. “I am tired though I doubt I’ll get much sleep.”

An unwelcome thought popped into my head. “Do we need to
worry about Eric pulling some stunt tonight?”

She hesitated. “I always activate the alarm.”

Sensing a note of depression in her tone, I regretted
mentioning Eric.

She tapped a key on an alarm panel. “If a door even cracks
open, the guards swarm. Don’t roam outdoors once the house is locked. Last
fall, Julie ventured out and found herself facing three drawn guns. Security’s
tight. Unfortunately, that applies to everyone but Hamilton.”

Darlene led me upstairs to an exquisite guest suite. A large
bay window offered a panoramic lake view. An inviting down comforter graced the
elegant four-poster bed.

My casual perusal froze when I spotted my very own suitcase
on the bedside luggage stand.

Darlene followed my gaze. “Oh, Harvey arranged for someone
to run to your aunt’s house and pick it up. I thought you might have
prescriptions or want clean clothes for morning.”

The gesture would have been sweet if she’d asked. Instead it
left me uneasy. I had no plans for an extended stay.

“Thanks.” I forced a smile. “It’s always nice to sleep in my
own PJs.”

“It’s the least I could do. Make yourself at home. You
should find everything you need.”

She flicked on a light in the adjoining bath. Lace-edged
towels hung with military precision, and soaps carved into miniature fish
perfumed the vast marble sanctuary. A far cry from the accommodations I offered
guests. When visitors surprised me, I crossed my fingers they wouldn’t notice
the free-range dust bunnies roaming the floors.

“It’s lovely. If you need me—or my snoring rattles the
walls—shake me awake. I sleep like a log.”

“Goodnight.” Darlene hugged me. “Thanks again. I’d have gone
nuts tonight without your company.”

After she left, I set a bedside alarm for seven a.m. Ross
was due to pick me up at nine, which would get me out before Darlene’s daughter
arrived at ten.

While the bed beckoned, the hypnotizing view drew me to the
bay window. Curled up on the window seat, I drank in the West Okoboji scenery.
A full moon floated on the horizon, painting a pale silver path across the
velvet lake. Pastel in-ground lights transformed trees and bushes into exotic,
disturbing sculptures in the lush landscape.

Was there a glimmer of light in the deserted cabin, or was
my imagination on speed? I didn’t even know if the relic had electricity. Might
be worth checking out tomorrow afternoon when I promised to return and help
with funeral arrangements.

Reluctantly, I abandoned the view. Snuggling beneath the
down comforter, I sighed with pleasure. Tomorrow had to be an improvement.
First I’d take steps to erase my name from the list of murder suspects. Then
I’d see if I could get through the rest of the day without a surprise corpse.

A violent shudder wrenched me awake. My heart pounded as if
some grunt just screamed “incoming.” My fright arrived compliments of a
nightmare—Jake tried to drag me underwater, his walleyed stare strangely at
odds with his grasping hands.

I wrapped myself in a throw and huddled by the window. The
nightmare slowly receded as the crimson sun performed its alchemy, transforming
the leaden lake into liquid gold.

Though it was barely six o’clock, I tiptoed downstairs.
Darlene sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, head in hands. She glanced up,
eyes puffy, and offered freshly brewed coffee. She looked as if she could use a
little space to pull herself together.

“Mind if I go for a short run while the temperatures are
cool?”

“No problem,” Darlene answered. “I’ll call the guards.”

An exercise junky, I get downright cranky if I fail to jog
for several days. My temper shortens and lethargy takes root. Okay, I’m a pain
in the butt. Whenever I reached this stage, my husband, Jeff—a fitness
agnostic—handed me my running shoes and shoved me out the door.

Since my knees now scream for mercy when I mount stairs, I
don’t run as far or as often. But this morning I yearned for the mind-numbing
release of a sweaty run. I stretched half-heartedly and saluted Darlene from
the doorway.

“Be back in under an hour—unless Hamilton instructed the
Thrasos riflemen to use me for target practice.”

Darlene smiled. “They know to expect you. Just head to the
front gate.”

I slipped out the sunroom’s French doors. The guard on the
front gate directed me to an opening in the stone wall. The day had dawned as a
beauty—for anyone who didn’t love Jake Olsen. Freshly cut pines lent an
astringent scent to the wooded landscape. It whisked away my nightmare fog.

I hoofed over side roads to Spirit Lake’s Spine Trail, a
paved stretch of abandoned railroad right-of-way that’s a Mecca for walkers and
bicyclists. The section I chose followed a dry creek bed. Green fields flanked
the path. The chatter of birds and the crackle of last fall’s leaves provided a
soothing soundtrack.

Aunt May introduced me to the trail after her second bypass.
When doctors insisted she exercise, she mapped a two-mile walking route with
McDonalds as a pivot point. May’s strolls included a half-hour McMuffin
layover. I turned toward the Olsen estate with visions of steaming coffee and
breakfast burritos dancing in my head.

The roar of a motor startled me. Was I near a spot where the
path crossed a road? No. The sound grew louder. Wonderful. Some jackass had
decided to race a motorcycle down the footpath. The “no motorized vehicles”
signs at each entry were hard to miss. Another bastard who thinks he’s exempt
from the rules.

I couldn’t see the idiot yet, but the growling engine said
he’d pop into view any second. Better safe than sorry. I stepped off the path
onto a patch of dry brush.

The biker shot around a corner. Twenty yards away. The
asswipe had to see me. Why didn’t he slow?

Instead of swerving away, he seemed to take aim. His wheels
straightened, heading straight toward me. What the hell was he holding—a stick?

I dove farther into the brush. “You imbecile!” I screamed
just as his left arm swung in a looping circle. My shoulder screamed in pain as
his baton landed a glancing blow.

My throat wasn’t injured. I fired a stream of cusswords at
the biker’s broad back.

My heartbeat slowed. Bastard. I’d call in a report for what
it was worth. Not much the sheriff could do. The bike had no plates, and the
psycho wore a full helmet. Dressed head to toe in black leather, only a thin strip
of his twenty-inch white neck revealed itself. Hardly enough for an I.D.

I picked myself up. Felt my shoulder. Bruised, no breaks, no
dislocations. A few bramble scratches on my legs and arms. Permanent damage
zip. No point mentioning the incident to Darlene. Enough shit was raining on
her head.

The guard opened the footpath door without fanfare.
Approaching the house, I shifted from jog to a cool-down walk. As I entered the
sunroom, a male voice put me on alert. A beep ending a recorded message.

“Have a good run?” Darlene asked, her voice husky. She
batted away a tear. “I’ve been listening to answering machine messages. A few
tore me up. Jake’s secretary sobbed.”

I poured coffee and sat beside Darlene, who pushed a plate
of Danish my way. Her cell phone trilled. “This number’s unlisted. It’s
probably Julie.” She snapped it up. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Olsen, this is Dr. Fuerst, the medical examiner.”
Darlene’s cell was on speaker, letting me eavesdrop on the crisp, no-nonsense
voice. “The sheriff gave me your private number. He said you wanted to know as
soon as we finished the preliminary autopsy. You’re free to make funeral
arrangements.”

Darlene squinted at her phone and hastily hit a button.
“Sorry Dr. Fuerst, I accidentally put you on speaker. Was it an aneurysm or a
heart attack?”

My friend frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

I could only hear her side of the conversation, but
Darlene’s white-knuckled grip suggested unwelcome news. “Can’t you just tell me
what you found in the autopsy? Why do I need to talk to the sheriff first?”

A brief pause. “All right. Thank you.”

Darlene lowered the phone. “Oh, God, the M.E. says Jake’s
cause of death is suspicious so she can’t discuss the autopsy without Sheriff
Delaney’s okay. She’d only confirm that Jake didn’t drown.”

She walked to the sink and tossed her coffee down the drain.
“Dr. Fuerst says the sheriff will drop by this morning. What do I do until
then? Sit around and wring my hands? I have to know what happened to Jake. I’m
calling Delaney now.”

Returning to the table, she pulled a business card from her
purse, and dialed. “Sheriff Delaney, please. Darlene Olsen calling.” She closed
her eyes, bit her lip. “No, that’s okay.”

The widow put down the phone and slumped into a chair. “His
office has no idea when he’ll be back. I didn’t bother to leave a message.”

I patted her arm. “According to Aunt May, Sheriff Delaney’s
a take-charge guy. He won’t leave you hanging. Want me to call Ross and tell
him I need to stay longer? I can wait until Julie comes.”

“No.” Darlene sucked in a deep breath. “I’m fine. You’ll be
back this afternoon, right?”

“Right.”

Her smile never reached her eyes. “Since the sheriff seems
in no hurry, my arrest doesn’t appear to be imminent.” Darlene’s dark humor had
a sharp bite. “I’ll be the prime suspect if Jake was murdered. Kyle and Gina
will see to that. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop them.”

No point adding that the sheriff had nominated me as
co-conspirator.

Darlene’s shock at the news seemed genuine. She’d believed
Jake’s death was due to natural causes.

She sighed. “Time to buck up and plan the funeral. I’ll call
Reverend Schmidt first. Today’s Saturday, right?”

Her bravado and relative calm impressed me. “Since Jake’s to
be cremated, I imagine any day this week would work. Would Wednesday give
out-of-towners enough travel time?”

“Sounds fine,” I answered.

As I waited for my ride, our talk turned to funeral
rituals—all those busywork formalities that postpone the nitty-gritty of
grieving until we’re alone. Having buried parents and husbands, we both knew
the process. I helped make a list. Send obits to newspapers. Check. Search old
address books to contact friends. Check. Select guest registers and crematory
urns. Check. Pick hymns and psalms.

“Mom died in the hospital.” Darlene shuddered. “Dad asked me
to take burial clothes to the funeral parlor. After agonizing an hour in front
of her closet, I selected a dress. Then I grabbed a slip in case the dress was
too see-through, you know? The funeral director took my offering and looked at
me like something he wanted to scrape off his shoes. ‘Didn’t you bring
underpants or stockings?’ he asked. ‘And where are her shoes?’

“I was floored. Mom always nagged me about wearing ratty
underwear—‘What if you’re in an accident, dear?’ I wanted to scream that Saint
Peter wasn’t going to inspect Mom’s undies.” Darlene rolled her eyes. “Lord,
I’ve never told another person my deepest, darkest secret—that I buried my mom
without underpants.”

I tried to stifle my laughter, but built-up stress defeated
me. I brayed like a mule, and Darlene joined me in a laughing jag, the kind
that tends to coincide with a loved one’s death. The laughter—often wildly
inappropriate—bubbles up from some deep psychic well we can’t cap. Maybe it
helps us keep our mental balance as we stare death in the face. I simply knew
my sides hurt and hiccups lay right around the bend.

“Oh, Darlene,” I choked out. “I’m lucky Mom willed her body,
and Jeff was cremated. I’d never have thought of underwear. Hey, promise to
leave me braless. If someone digs me up in two thousand years, I want ’em to
think I was uninhibited.”

Walking toward the wall of windows, I sucked in deep breaths
to regain control. The old cabin snagged my attention. “You know I thought I
saw lights in that cabin last night.”

“Probably landscape lights reflected in the windows,”
Darlene replied. “No electricity. Jake told me the cottage intrigues Ross. Take
a peek inside if you like. Though I should warn you it’s full of cobwebs.
Creepy. Jake even claimed it had its own ghost.”

“I may take you up on that later. What time should I come
back?”

“How about four o’clock?”

I jotted down phone numbers for May and Ross so Darlene
could reach me if her plans changed. I remained one of the six people on the
planet who refused to buy a cell phone. After twenty years of being at
everyone’s beck and call 24/7, I refused to be tethered to a phone.

I checked my watch. “Wow. Ross will be here in no time.”

***

Declining help from a Thrasos guard, I wheeled my suitcase
to the same hidden door I exited for my run. Set behind leafy camouflage, the
door allowed foot traffic to pass through the stone perimeter that flanked the
fancy wrought iron gate.

My timing proved perfect. In seconds, Ross’s silver Chevy
Blazer kicked up dust as it turned off the highway and wound down the lane. The
guards motioned my cousin to execute a U-turn as I stepped through the guarded
portal. Wary of lurking reporters, I shoved my suitcase in the back and jumped
in the front seat.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

Ross glanced at me. “No problem, Cuz. You promised
breakfast. How’s your friend holding up?”

I fastened my seatbelt. “Doing okay, given what she’s
facing.” I told Ross the preliminary autopsy suggested homicide.

His eyes didn’t stray from the road, but his jaw tightened.
“I haven’t seen all that many dead folks, but Jake’s eyes sure looked weird.
But how could it be murder? Folks on the upper deck said he started coughing
and excused himself. A minute later, he had some sort of seizure and fell
overboard. Everyone swore Jake was alone.”

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Sheriff Delaney
considers me a suspect.”

“What?”

“He seemed to think I had ample opportunity to doctor the
champagne I served Jake just before his swan dive.”

“Delaney’s off his damn rocker,” Ross huffed. “I’ll phone
the son-of-a-bitch. Hell, you didn’t even know you’d be serving drinks until an
hour before we left port. This is preposterous.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Agreed. Maybe I’m paranoid,
but I suspect Quentin Hamilton added my name to Delaney’s Most Wanted list.” I
opened the window a crack for a breath of air. “Oh, and the sheriff claimed a
couple of eyewitnesses said I held Jake’s head underwater. Guess the theory is
I drugged him, then dove in to make sure he wasn’t breathing when your crew
fished him out.”

Ross stood on the brakes. My body shot forward, tightening
my seatbelt like a corset. My cousin’s face turned scarlet. “Are you kidding?
That’s insane.”

“I’m more angry than worried. Even if Hamilton’s whispering
in Delaney’s ear, his innuendoes won’t hold up.”

My cousin loosened his stranglehold on the wheel and we
rolled forward again. “Who was with Jake when you served that champagne?”

Closing my eyes, I scrolled through my memory bank. “Darlene
and that tele-evangelist Reverend Eliot. Another woman, too, with permed hair a
weird orangey shade. I flashed on Orphan Annie when I saw her.”

“Vivian Riley.” Ross didn’t think twice about his I.D.
“She’s a friend of Jake’s son, Kyle, and his missus. Vivian was in Eunice’s
high school class. According to my wife, the woman’s an airhead.”

Ross slid into a parking slot on Main Street. As we walked
to the Family Diner, he jingled the keys in his pocket. A frown made his
eyebrows practically shake hands. I quit jabbering to give him think-time.

While I’m always happy to spend time with Ross, his company
this morning was especially welcome. During our formative years, the two of
us—the babies of our respective families—ranked below spit in our siblings’
worldview.

Over the years, our childhood survival alliance strengthened
despite distance and divergent lifestyles. I loved Ross like a brother. Sure,
we teased the hell out of one another. Yet if he’d told me he’d murdered
someone, I’d bring a spade and ask what size hole. We had each other’s backs.

Waves of knee-buckling aromas assaulted me inside the Family
Diner. The aroma of sizzling sausages and cinnamon buns ambushed my fragile
resolution regarding sensible caloric intake.

Ross punched my arm. “You’re not going to order something
wimpy like a poached egg, are you?”

His attempt to lighten my mood worked. “No way, I could eat
a whole cowboy.”

He waggled his bushy eyebrows, though he knew the object of
my lust was a pile of hash browns topped with a cheese omelet and smothered
with lumpy country gravy—every lump concealing a spicy sausage nugget.