Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (12 page)

“You’re sure it was Nancy?” May piped up.

“Yeah, Kyle introduced her to Reverend Schmidt, when he paid
a sympathy call. Came to console Eric. Real Christian, seeing as how Kyle’s and
Gina’s families never once warmed a church pew in Spirit Lake. Kyle told the
reverend Eric was sedated, not up to any visitors.”

“Anna, you’re a fount of information.” May beamed with
proprietary pride.

“I have an unrelated question about the Glaston house,” I
interrupted. “You’ve spent lots of time inside, Anna. Ever notice anything odd
about the rooms or layout?”

“Odd how?” She arched her eyebrows. “It’s odd to me when
someone pays a million bucks for a mansion and visits once in a blue moon.”

“Never mind.” I shrugged. Didn’t want to give the
housekeeper—or my aunt—too many clues. With their well-honed powers of
deduction, I feared one of them would figure out my inquiry had to do with a
hidden chamber. “I met an architect who mentioned that house had a few design
eccentricities, that’s all.”

May’s sharp look radiated skepticism, but she didn’t dispute
my claim.

Anna chuckled. “The Glastons put in an elevator a few years
back. Mighty strange in a two-story house. As my mother liked to say, ‘Just
cause you’ve got a hole in your arse, don’t make you a cripple.’ Walking up a
flight of stairs puts a little apple in your cheeks. That addition ate up a lot
of space. One second-floor bedroom shrank to the size of a postage-stamp. Guess
they needed room for all the mechanical what’s-a-whozits to run the lift.”

Bingo. Sounded as if the Glastons could take their elevator
to a very private space. I’d relay that tidbit to Weaver.

Anna glanced at her watch. “Have to run.” The housekeeper
gave my aunt a parting hug. “Now remember, May, I’m giving you a free cleaning
the week you turn eighty. My birthday gift. We’ll have this place spic-and-span
for your well-wishers.”

Anna bussed May’s cheek, while my aunt pressed folded bills
into her housekeeper’s hand.

“You girls behave now,” Anna called as she left.

Once the door closed, May remembered I’d departed with an
FBI agent, been AWOL for over two hours, and had not reported my conversation.
“Now, let’s hear why the FBI wants to chat up my niece.” May claimed her easy
chair and expected me to issue a full report.

“Just a background check,” I fibbed. “The FBI is talking with
everyone and anyone who happens to be friendly with the Olsens.”

May didn’t believe me. I could tell. However, even Midwest matriarchs understand there are some restrictions on their need to know.

May regarded the ringing phone with dread. Phone calls of
late had not delivered cheery tidings. On the third ring, she snatched up her
cordless, answering with what I recognized as forced jollity. “Carr Residence.”

A pause, followed by a genuine smile. “Well, of course, you
want to see the house again. No one in their right mind is going to pay
three-quarters of a million without a little tire kicking. Yes, yes, I’m sure
there’s room for haggling. The sellers are motivated. Eager to move south. Want
to be nearer the grandkids. Un-huh. Un-huh.”

Pause.

“Well, I can’t tell you what to offer, but they won’t let
you steal their home either. They’re sitting on a true Okoboji gem. What with
the way property values are skyrocketing in Pocahontas Point, I’ll bet someone
snatches this honey up before week’s end.” In full schmooze press, May started
reeling in the live one on her line. She ended the call and chuckled. “Looks
like you’re on your own for a bit.”

She kept talking as she walked toward her bedroom, expecting
me to follow in her wake. “I’m meeting a couple from Minneapolis. They’re
smitten. What do you plan to do today?” She frowned. “I supposed you’ll make
your daily pilgrimage to the Olsens? Oh, incidentally, Anna told me there’s a
sale at Evans. You know the store on main. You really ought to buy a nice dress
for Jake’s visitation.”

My aunt’s version of a subtle hint.

“Okay, I’ll buy a new dress.”

I sighed as I leaned against the doorframe. Unless an
unrelated male invaded her territory, May never closed the door or gave a nod
to modesty—hers, mine or anyone else’s. Maybe she feared she’d forget what was
on her mind if she waited politely for guests to vacate a shower or exit a
bedroom before she spoke her piece. More likely, Nurse May had seen enough bare
hineys that clothing seemed optional when she was in conversation mode.

May perched precariously on the edge of her high four-poster
bed, with only nylon panties and a bra anchored in place. She rolled up
knee-highs as we talked. For all the world, she looked like a pudgy soccer
player, standing arms akimbo before a stuffed closet, trying to settle on a
lucky color for today’s pants suit.

Since turning seventy, May wore pants everywhere except
church and funeral parlors. My mother, who never wore slacks prior to my teen
years, curtailed her skirt wear about the same time. That’s when the two women
went on a trouser-buying binge. Mom bought slacks of any color so long as they
were navy. Aunt May’s selection could shame a peacock.

“Say, pick me up a bra at Evans, will you?” May asked. “You
know the Playtex 24-hour one I like with the wide straps.”

“What size, May?”

“I’m thinking a 36 long.” May laughed at my look. “I’ll
settle for a 36 C though.”

I laughed appreciatively. “Believe me, there’s no way I’ll
ask your panty size. Hey, why don’t I invite Eunice and Ross for dinner
tonight? We’ve got all the ingredients to make chicken divan. I’ll whip up the
casserole and set the oven to turn on at five if neither of us is home.”

“Oh, I’ll be back. Either I’ll have a sales contract
buttoned up by three, or I’ve landed another wishy-washy buyer who’s afraid to
pull his wallet out of his pants.”

“Good luck,” I said. “I’m off to Evans. See you later.”

“Thanks, kid,” May called as I waved good-bye.

***

Downtown Spirit Lake is a five-minute hike from May’s condo.
Though clothes boutiques had sprouted like mushrooms along the network of
highways connecting Okoboji region lakes, Evans Department Store clung to life
in a compact downtown that featured a vintage movie theater, bakery, drugstore,
bank, the county courthouse, and a smattering of the inevitable law offices.
Was Duncan’s office downtown?

Inside, Evans looked much as it had when I was a girl,
except now the dummies were decked out in clothes designed to appeal to
residents climbing the upper peaks of the fifty divide.

“That’s very becoming, Mrs. Olsen.” The saleswoman’s
flattery floated out from behind a rack of clothes. I hurried to see the
recipient of the compliment.

An anorexic mouse preened before a mirror, smoothing the
black sheath’s bust-line tucks against molehill bosoms. The prospective buyer’s
hair was the distressed brown of a molting squirrel and featured the same
bristly texture. Her eyes blinked rapidly behind expensive, but unflattering,
designer frames. The avant-garde glasses made the woman’s small eyes seem to
recede into her head, like objects seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

Had to be Olivia Olsen, Kyle’s beanpole wife. From what I’d
heard, she’d be loathe to set foot in a Spirit Lake store that catered to
commoners. Must be desperate to find black duds for the gauntlet of funerals.
Conservative black outfits aren’t easy to locate in a summer resort and, what
with the need to bury three in-laws, Olivia had plenty of wearing
opportunities.

The saleswoman was Faith Iverson, Eunice’s antiquing Questers
friend. Faith smiled when she recognized me. “Oh, hi Marley, I’ll be right with
you.”

The greeting snapped Olivia to attention. Kyle’s better half
gave me the same horrified look she’d give a cockroach audacious enough to
scamper across her polished floor. With my anonymity shot, I thought, “what the
hell,” introduced myself and offered condolences.

“Thank you,” Olivia muttered. She whipped her head away so
quickly I thought her twig-like neck might snap. Not eager to banter about
weather or the odd family murder, are we? I wasn’t about to let my treed quarry
escape.

“I hear you’re looking after your nephew. How is Eric?”

“As well as can be expected,” she snapped, “considering he
just lost his mother, grandfather and stepfather, and some idiot attacked him
with a stun gun.”

Touché. We both knew the identity of the aforementioned
idiot.

“I understand you have more company,” I purred. “How nice
that Kyle’s mother could join you.”

Olivia recoiled as if I’d doused her with ice water. In
fact, she let out a “yip” before covering her faux pas with a snippy “yes.” The
physical response communicated real data—Nancy’s presence was a personal
affront she’d hoped to keep secret. Before I could fire another round of verbal
artillery, Olivia bolted for the safety of the dressing room.

I glanced over at the flummoxed saleslady, sorry to have
nixed a commissioned sale for the hardworking bystander. Nonetheless, I
congratulated myself on my bravado.

I’d confirmed Anna’s observations: One, Nancy had moved in
with Kyle. Two, Kyle’s wife wasn’t happy. Three, Eric remained in residence
with the Olsens. And, four—well, that point really needed no confirmation—I
would not win a popularity contest with that branch of the Olsen clan.

Olivia’s fifty-yard dash from the dressing room to Spirit Lake’s main street impressed me. Figuring Miss Olivia might press assault charges if
I tried to speak to her again, I pretended interest in a ragtag group of
half-priced garments.

To make up for Faith’ lost commission, I bought a staid navy
suit and a gray print skirt and blouse that I could pair with the black jacket
always tucked in my suitcase. Of course, I also purchased May’s bra, 36 long.

Fresh from my downtown adventures, I rewarded myself with a
little sin—twin chocolate cookies with icing smooshed in between—and iced tea,
invited Ross and Eunice to dinner, and switched on the radio for company while
I cooked. With the volume jacked up for May, the blaring newscast almost bowled
me over.

This just in—a new development in Spirit Lake’s billionaire murder spree. Sources close to the investigation say Jake Olsen, former CEO
of Jolbiogen, his daughter and son-in-law may have been killed because they
discovered the identity of a master thief stealing biological research
commissioned by the military.

A week before Olsen’s death, the Department of Defense
called in the FBI to help investigate the theft of research materials from
Jolbiogen—research that could be used by terrorists to launch a targeted
biological attack. Dr. Robert Glaston, Jake Olsen’s son-in-law, oversaw the lab
conducting the military research.

Dr. Glaston and his wife were killed within forty-eight
hours of Jolbiogen’s billionaire founder. They were murdered in the Glastons’
second home in the family’s secluded compound on West Okoboji. Exotic toxins
were used to poison the victims.

The FBI is questioning Olsen’s stepdaughter, Julie Nauer, a
Jolbiogen employee, about the theft and subsequent murders. Olsen married the
researcher’s mother, Darlene Nauer, less than a week before he was killed.

We’ll bring you more breaking news as this story continues
to unfold.

My heart pounded. I slammed my fist onto the kitchen counter
with enough force to rattle May’s spice set. I dialed Darlene’s cell. Busy
signal. Crap.

May’s phone rang. I picked up. “You heard?” Darlene snapped.
Then she let loose with a string of curses, hurling them at everyone she could
think of—local reporters, Quentin Hamilton, Thrasos International, the FBI, and
Sheriff Delaney. I wondered how she could go so long without taking in air.

When she sucked in a breath, I jumped in. “Where are you?
What’s happening now?”

“I’m holed up in my bedroom, waiting for two FBI agents to
finish interrogating Julie. They wouldn’t let me stay with her.” Darlene
sobbed. “Those morons can’t believe Julie would help bioterrorists. Why would
she? She loves this country—and her job. You wouldn’t believe how often she’s
told me so. And we’re certainly not desperate for money. Even before Jake came
along, we were doing okay. Please come over. I need to vent in person.”

Darlene’s tirade stepped up my pulse rate one more notch.
“Give me an hour.”

By the time a taxi dropped me at the Olsens, my emotions had
seesawed into a queasy equilibrium. I was cool and collected—well, collected
anyway. I understood Darlene’s distress over Julie and her desperate need for a
friend. My shoulder was available. But I also promised myself to ask—straight
out—why Darlene had lied about her relationship with Duncan. I damn sure felt
entitled to an explanation.

Harvey was ushering Reverend Schmidt out when I arrived. As
I exchanged “nice to see you” pleasantries with the pastor, I wondered if he’d
trot across the lawn to the junior Olsen residence for his next sympathy call.
If so, Olivia and Eric would surely give him an earful about my devilish
proclivities.

Julie sat alone in the great room. My tongue glued itself to
the roof of my mouth. I had no idea what to say.

“Marley, come on in. Mom will be down in a minute. She’s on
the phone with Larsson’s Funeral Home. Or maybe you don’t want to be left alone
in a room with an alleged serial killer. Hell, I’m right up there with Lizzie
Borden, except I’ve found tidier ways to kill. That’s why I spent four years in
grad school—so I wouldn’t get blood on my axe.”

Her scrunched up face and tight fists telegraphed her battle
to fight tears.

“I’m sure the FBI will try to put a stop to such groundless
speculation.”

Julie slumped, head in her hands. “Don’t count on it. I’m
sure the next newscast will tell everyone how I’m a sexual degenerate who
sleeps with old men. I’m capable of anything. Even helping terrorists kill
thousands of people without firing a shot.” Her chest heaved. “I’m a real
virtuoso—a one-woman crime wave.”

“You’re obviously upset. Do you want me to leave?”

“No, no. It’s nice to see someone willing to look me in the
eye. The poor reverend tried but couldn’t quite hang in there. You could see
the questions in his mind: Did she really kill her stepfather? Am I talking to
a monster?”

I sat next to her on the couch, put my arm around her
shoulder. “Well, you’re here and not in custody. That wouldn’t be the case if
there were evidence to back up the media innuendoes.”

Julie’s shoulder shook. A sob escaped before she
straightened. “Actually, there is incriminating evidence—just not enough to
cart me away in handcuffs. At the rate someone’s manufacturing stuff to frame
me, I’ll hang in no time. Hey, they almost have me convinced I’m guilty.”

With her fist extended, Julie freed one finger each time she
ticked off a potential nail in her coffin. The young woman began by admitting a
brief graduate school affair with Dr. Derek Valberg, a fifty-two-year-old
professor. “Dad had just died. I went a little crazy. He was married, with a
daughter older than me. Not my proudest moment. I bailed out as soon as I
learned how far he leaned to the left.”

Julie was adamant she’d had no contact with Valberg since
he’d left Iowa State University and signed on as a consultant with some
European research outfit. “The emails on my PC. I can’t explain them. I never
sent them. Whoever wrote them knew enough about me to make them sound
convincing. How did they do that? How could they access my hard drive? There’s
even a UPS record showing I shipped a package to Gertrude Valberg—Derek’s
daughter, who lives in LA.”

“Did the FBI talk with the professor and his daughter?”

“Yes, Derek supports my no-email claim, and his daughter
insists no package was delivered. Of course, that’s what the FBI would expect
them to say—guilty or innocent. My bet is the Feds may even find traces of the
fabricated correspondence on Derek’s computer, once they jump through all the
international hoops to gain access.”

“You really believe this is an international conspiracy?” I
tried to keep skepticism out of my tone.

“That’s exactly what I believe,” she snapped. “And they’re
very, very good. Jolbiogen has tested the phalloidin used to kill Gina. It came
from my research stash. And the FBI dug up a pair of phalloidin-dusted gloves
with my fingerprints inside buried beside the old cottage.”

She shuddered. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to set me
up. My guess is they took a pair of gloves I’d discarded at Jolbiogen and
buried them there. The UPS package listing me as ‘Sender’ was shipped two weeks
ago, well before Jake’s murder.”

My lord. Julie was in a shitload of trouble. “Who do you
think is behind this? And why? Do you have any ideas?”

“If Dr. Glaston weren’t one of my alleged victims, his name
would zoom to the top of my list. He hated Mom and me. Didn’t try to disguise it.
Plus he regularly visited my lab. But I’m relatively sure Glaston didn’t kill
his father-in-law and wife just so he could dose himself into oblivion and lay
the blame on me.”

“No other candidates?” I asked.

Julie sprang up from her seat and paced. “Once I rule him
out, I have no clue. It’s someone clever. Someone who has it in for me—or Mom.
But I can’t think of a single enemy at Jolbiogen. Maybe I’m just an unlucky
patsy with all the right qualifications.”

“What about Kyle or Eric? No love lost for your mom and they
both work at Jolbiogen, right?”

She walked to the window, pressed a palm against her glass
cage. “Kyle and Eric despise Mom and me. So, yes, they’re possibles. Eric
briefly worked as a Jolbiogen lab tech, but I doubt his old badge would let him
in the building. Kyle never descends from his ivory tower to see what the peons
are up to. I doubt he could find my lab, let alone know how to lay his hands on
those toxins.”

An alternate theory occurred to me. “Perhaps the FBI has it
half right. Maybe the thief works in your lab, and Jake figured out his
identity. After the thief killed Jake, Dr. Glaston tumbled onto him so he had
to kill again. If that’s what happened, framing you might not be personal—maybe
you are just a convenient pawn.”

Julie turned back from the window. “But the set up began
before Jake was killed. It wasn’t an afterthought. Besides, how did this evil
colleague make his way onto the estate—or know where to go and what to do once
he got here?” She crossed to the couch and collapsed. “I don’t think anyone
from our lab—except yours truly—has ever driven through the Olsen gates. The
FBI is checking alibis for every person with lab access, but so far only my
alibi sucks. I was here for the Glaston murders, and Mom was present when Jake
died.”

“I don’t think I like where this conversation is headed.”

Julie and I both jumped at the sound of Darlene’s voice.
“Sounds like we’re back to the ‘mother and daughter had opportunity and motive’
nonsense Quentin Hamilton’s pushing. That lead FBI agent—Sherry Weaver—admitted
he’s the one pointing a finger our way.” Darlene crossed the great room and
took a chair across from us. “I’d like to give him the finger and then some.
The creep’s been pocketing our money to protect us, and simultaneously knifing
us in the back. He’s getting his walking papers today.”

Despite newly added strain, Darlene looked spiffier. Perhaps
she had one good night’s sleep between yesterday’s five a.m. body bag count and today’s finger-pointing newscast. Wearing hip-hugging peach Capri pants—pedal
pushers to anyone my age—and a short matching top, the widow looked wired, not
tired. Each gesture that raised her top showed off her trim, evenly tanned
midriff. Darlene’s short cap of platinum hair glistened in the afternoon sun.

Julie stood. “I’m exhausted. Think I’ll lie down for a
while.”

Lethargy seemed to have sapped the young woman’s energy. Her
retreat up the winding staircase almost looked like a slow-mo replay.

Julie’s need for solitude was understandable. While family
bonds give us the strength to pull through periods of grief and peril, constant
togetherness stifles.

Who doesn’t need a personal timeout to preserve sanity?

Alone, I expected Darlene to hash over the murder scenarios
or hurl more scatological insults at her enemies. She surprised me with an
immediate plea to help her review plans for Jake’s visitation and memorial. A
phone call from Larsson’s Funeral Home had left her uneasy.

“They’re expecting hundreds of people. I have so many balls
in the air; I know they’ll crash on my head any minute. Just talk me through
the funeral arrangements. Tell me if I’ve overlooked anything.”

I chewed my lip. Nope, couldn’t do it. I was incapable of
acting as Darlene’s sounding board while this big black cloud hovered over our
friendship. There was no good way to bring it up, and delay wouldn’t help. I
needed to admit my prying and ask for an explanation.

“Let’s go outside. I’d like a breath of fresh air.” For this
conversation, I didn’t want to risk eavesdroppers—even Harvey, a presumed
pillar of discretion.

Darlene tilted her face to the afternoon sun as it peeked
from behind scudding white clouds. “This feels wonderful; I’ve been cooped up
too long.”

The breeze was light, its scent tangy. We sank into cushy
poolside seats on side-by-side chaises. Apparently, the absence of suitable
sound-bite activity coupled with high boat-rental fees had prompted the news
hounds to sniff for leads on terra firma. The departure of the floating news
armada returned the aquamarine lake to gentle tranquility.

“Darlene, I don’t know where to start, but there’s something
I have to ask.”

“Well, damn, Marley, spit it out. You needn’t stand on
ceremony with me. You look like you’re going to tell me someone else died. For
once, I’m pretty sure everyone’s accounted for.”

“It’s about Duncan—”

“You’re lovers, right?” She laughed at my startled
expression. “Hell, I didn’t need a crystal ball to predict that. Not with the
smoldering looks between you two. I saw the chemistry, just couldn’t forecast
the reaction time.”

Darlene’s grin looked genuine. “You’re okay with that?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’re single. So is Duncan. I like
both of you. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

I licked my lips and limped on. “Both you and Duncan misled
me. At his house last night I saw photos of his daughter Kelly and your
Julie—photos that spanned a decade. They were best friends for years. You and
Duncan had to be more than nodding acquaintances in Ames.”

“Did you ask Duncan to explain?”

“No, I just mumbled my excuses and ran.”

She sighed. “You’re right, we have some history but not the
kind you’re picturing. The four of us—Mike and me, Duncan and Sheila—were
friends. Since our girls went everywhere together, we saw each other
regularly.”

Darlene stared at her hands and twisted her wedding ring
back and forth. “When Mike died, police came to my bakery to deliver the news.
Mike had the day off, told me he’d be golfing. When the cops said Sheila was a
passenger, I was confused. What were the two of them doing out in the country
on his golf day? I thought maybe one of the girls had a problem and they took a
drive to discuss it.”

“But that wasn’t what happened?” I prodded.

“No.” Tears leaked from my friend’s emerald eyes. “That car
accident killed Mike and my illusions. When I cleaned out his locker at the
firehouse, I found love letters and hotel receipts. I still don’t know why Mike
was stinking drunk when he cracked up the car. Worse, I don’t know why he
stopped loving me.”

Darlene gave into full-scale, body-racking sobs. I felt
miserable reviving this old torment when she had so many fresh ones. Yet I
needed to finish, to cauterize my suspicions. “So why did you lie? If you and
Duncan were innocent bystanders, why not admit you knew each other in Ames?”