Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (13 page)

She straightened, swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “We
sort of backed into it. I didn’t want Julie’s final memory of her dad to be as
a cheater, so I asked Duncan to forego mentioning Sheila’s affair in his
divorce. He agreed.

“The girls think Mike and Sheila got together to plan a
surprise birthday party for them—their birthdays are five days apart. Sheila
realized it was in her best interests to play along.”

I frowned. Darlene’s story still didn’t explain the need to
prevaricate. “Sorry, but I still don’t see any reason for you to lie about your
relationship.”

“Duncan and I became quite close just not in a romantic way.
When I moved to Spirit Lake, I encouraged him to move, too. He felt
strait-jacketed in Ames. Neither of us wanted to talk about our past. We
figured if we said we were old friends, people would pump me for information
about his ex and his divorce. And they’d ask him about my husband’s car
accident. You know how it is in a small town. It just seemed easier to pretend
ignorance.

“There was never, ever anything romantic between us,” she
finished, “though we talked a lot our first years here. We were hurt and
lonely. Professing ignorance of each other’s pasts didn’t hurt anyone. Our
girls thought we were daft, but they shrugged it off. Neither lived in Spirit Lake. They didn’t care.”

Curiosity prompted my next question—one that was none of my
business. “Did Jake know you and Duncan were close?”

Darlene shook her head. “No. When Jake first introduced us,
I feigned surprise at meeting an Ames transplant. Never had the nerve to
backtrack. I was afraid I’d look like a deceitful jerk. I never told Jake about
Mike’s betrayal either. Duncan’s the only one who knows the whole story.”
Darlene’s eyes met mine, her look questioning. “Are we okay? Do you understand
how I got sucked in?”

I nodded. “I guess.”

In my opinion, she’d owed Jake the truth. I couldn’t see how
an initial white lie would have tarnished her image in Jake’s eyes. And it
seemed downright wrong for her to encourage her husband to hire Duncan as his attorney under the circumstances. However, I’d made enough mistakes to know
I wasn’t qualified to second-guess someone else’s conscience.

Darlene reached over and took my hand. “We’re still friends
then?”

“Yes.” I squeezed her hand. “We’re still friends.”

A thought struck me from out of the blue. Perhaps Jake
wasn’t ignorant of his wife’s relationship with Duncan. If Thrasos did
extensive background checks on new hires, wouldn’t the firm have dug into the
background of his potential mate? And his new attorney?

“Darlene, you need to tell the FBI what you’ve told me.
Casually mention you’ve known Duncan for years. I’d bet anything Quentin
Hamilton had his minions dig into your past before your marriage. If I’m right,
he’ll spoon-feed the info to someone as soon as there’s some way he can make it
look damning. The man has a hard-on about incriminating you and your daughter.”

Darlene’s eyes widened. “Jake would never have asked Thrasos
to investigate me.”

“Maybe not. But Kyle and Hamilton are buddies, right? Kyle
isn’t a pauper. He could have paid for the background check, or asked Hamilton to bury his spying in Jolbiogen’s corporate bill.”

“Goddamn. I hate the idea of that arrogant jerk dissecting
me like an insect,” she said. “Thrasos International will be off this estate by
the end of the day.”

“Don’t forget about damage control with the FBI,” I urged.

“I won’t.” Darlene stood. “Let’s go back in the house. I
still need help with the funeral arrangements.”

In the sunroom, Darlene waved me to a seat before walking
over to a large paisley-covered ottoman. Raising the cushion that served as its
lid, she extracted a half-finished knitting project and a new skein of yarn.

“I’m making this for cousin Tina’s first grandchild.” She
held up the start of a baby afghan. “Mind if I knit while we talk? It relaxes
me. If I don’t do something to keep my hands busy, I’m liable to start smoking
again—and it’s been twenty years since I quit.”

The afghan captured a rainbow of hues. “It’s beautiful. Wish
I had the patience.”

“Did you see Jake’s obituary in the morning paper?” Darlene
asked.

“Yes. Very nice. But I was a bit surprised to see you’re
holding the Tuesday visitation at Larsson’s Funeral Home. Weren’t you planning
to have it here?”

“The sheriff and FBI vetoed that. Security reasons.” Her
knitting needles clicked. “Frisking anyone kind enough to pay a sympathy call
seemed a little tacky. Guess the authorities figure there’s still a slim chance
Julie and I might be victims rather than killers. Delaney doesn’t want to be
responsible if more people die.”

Made sense. I nodded. “Good decision. Larsson’s is big and
set up to handle a crowd.”

“Yep, it’s also neutral territory. We can stake out one
corner, and Kyle, Olivia and Eric can take the opposite one. That’ll leave a
demilitarized zone between us for noncombatants.”

Darlene’s industrious fingers flew.

“Still might be a good idea to pat down Jake’s relatives for
weapons,” I said. “I had a run-in with Olivia today. What a donnybrook. Seems
she shares Kyle’s rather dim view of you and your friends—me in particular.”

Darlene glanced up from her knitting. “Where on earth did
you see Olivia? She normally avoids any place she might encounter—how shall I
put it?—riffraff like you.”

Figuring my tale of department store intrigue would cheer
Darlene, I recounted how I’d stalked Olivia after I heard her voice. My friend
shared my merriment right up to the moment I described Olivia’s reaction to my
dig about Kyle’s mother being in residence.

“What did you say?” Darlene dropped her knitting and clamped
onto my arm, her grip a vice. “Nancy is living with Kyle?”

“Yes.” I’d assumed Darlene knew. Obviously I was wrong.
“When Anna Huiskamp cleaned May’s house today, she mentioned that Nancy had moved in with Olivia and Kyle.”

“Dammit! Jake detested that gold-digger. Said the woman
lacked any maternal instinct or sense of decency. He kept little Kyle because
he didn’t think any child should be raised by an uncaring slut. Jake loved the
boy, even though he knew Kyle wasn’t his.”

Darlene blushed scarlet and squeezed my arm with a
wrestler’s fervor. “Marley,” she pleaded. “Promise you’ll never repeat that.
Jake wanted that secret buried with him. He raised Kyle, loved him as a son. He
never wanted Kyle to learn he wasn’t his flesh-and-blood. Jake figured Nancy would never tell the boy differently.”

“Of course I won’t tell.”

My mind reeled. Perhaps a scorecard would help me keep track
of all the secrets tumbling around in my brain.

Darlene sighed, picked up her yarn and searched for a loose
starter strand to unravel the new skein. “How odd.” She tugged on a slip of
tightly folded white paper stuffed into the yarn. Her eyebrows shot upward.
“It’s Jake’s handwriting.”

A series of indecipherable emotions flickered across her
face as she scanned the note. “What the hell? Here, read it.” She thrust the
paper with its big, loopy handwriting toward me.

Dear Darlene – If you’re reading this, our marriage was too
damn short. I didn’t want to involve you. Unfortunately, there’s no one else I
can count on. I need you to hand deliver a package to Sherry Weaver—she’s an
FBI agent—one you can trust. Don’t tell anyone about this note until you have
the package. And don’t try to retrieve it if you think you might be followed.
Lord help me, I don’t want to put you at risk.

The location of the package is our final Spirit Lake treasure hunt: Though far from the San Andreas fault, the floors rattle and roll.
At the top, cars whiz past your head yet spell no danger.

I tucked the parcel in a gutter—fitting. Please be careful.

Have a wonderful life, my love. Jake

I couldn’t freakin’ believe it. Ye gods. Another damn
riddle? Two months earlier, a psychotic killer forced me to help decipher a
brainteaser to retrieve his missing property. Eyes closed, I shook my head. I
wanted no part of another riddle chase.

“Why the hell didn’t Jake just tell you where to find the
damn package?”

My outburst sounded like a rebuke. The idea of a riddle tied
to more murders angered me. I struggled to tone down my ire. The game wasn’t
Darlene’s idea. “Why didn’t Jake hand the evidence over to the FBI when he hid
the package? Maybe then he’d still be alive.”

“Damned if I know.” Darlene raked a hand through her short
hair. “Weaver told me Jake called her the day before he died. Hinted he’d tell
her everything after our party. He must have had his reasons. As far as the
riddle goes, Jake must have decided it would be tough for anyone else to
decipher his note. An insurance policy if someone found the note before I did.”

I stood, expecting Darlene to follow suit. “You and Julie
finally caught a break. This note could lead the FBI right to Jake’s killer.
You’re going to call Weaver, right?”

My friend picked her knitting back up. “I don’t plan to tell
a soul.”

Her vehement tone shocked me.

“One, I haven’t the foggiest where Jake stashed the damn
package. Two, I’m not about to call the FBI until I see what’s inside.
Someone’s trying to frame Julie and me. For all I know, the FBI’s in bed with
them. They’re certainly cozy with Hamilton.”

“Don’t be crazy—”

“Crazy! Who’s to say the real killer hasn’t beat me to
Jake’s hiding place? Maybe he’s swapped Jake’s evidence for manufactured crap
that makes Julie or me look even more guilty. I’ll be damned if I’ll give the
FBI more reasons to waltz us off to jail.”

I held my hands up, palms out. “Whoa. Don’t let paranoia
overwhelm common sense. Granted someone is trying to distract the FBI, but even
Jake trusted Weaver.”

“I’ll call her—eventually.” Darlene’s eyes met mine. “But
not until I know what’s what—until I see what’s inside that package with my own
eyes.”

How to reason with her? “What if you never figure out Jake’s
hiding place?”

“Oh, it’ll come to me,” Darlene muttered. “It’s somewhere we
went together. Jake wouldn’t hand me a puzzle I couldn’t solve. Not when it’s
so important. The clue makes it sound as if the building’s set close to a
roadway—cars whiz by. My first thought was an overpass. Too bad Spirit Lake doesn’t have one.”

“Hey, there’s one collection of buildings that almost
fits—the shops near the Emporium. They sit on a sloped side street. The
rooflines of the shops are almost level with the road behind them.”

Darlene’s puzzled look prompted me to press on.

“We used to stop at a coffee house near Arnolds Park. You know, our generation’s version of a karaoke hangout.”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” A fleeting smile crossed her face.
“But that’s not Jake’s hiding place. We played this game often enough to learn
each other’s idiosyncrasies. He’s pointing me toward a landmark, not a group of
buildings. It’ll come. I just hope it’s soon.”

I bit my lip, thinking. “Well, if it’s an historic building
Ross can help. Is it okay to give him a clue? He and Eunice are coming to Aunt
May’s for dinner tonight.”

Darlene nodded. “Ross knows Spirit Lake better than anyone
and he knew Jake. But how could you get his take without telling him about the
note. Don’t forget, Jake’s dead—and so are the Glastons. I don’t want someone
else winding up with toe tags because of me.”

I wholeheartedly agreed.

“I’ll tell Ross about the riddle game you played with Jake
and mention you found a clue he’d saved for your next outing. If Ross unravels
the riddle, we can decide what comes next.”

On the drive home, I considered how much Jake had trusted
Darlene. You didn’t confide a lifelong secret like Kyle’s bastard paternity on
a whim. Nor did you reach out from the grave with clues about a murderer unless
you had absolute faith in the recipient.

Both acts increased my confidence. I’d done the right thing
asking for an explanation about her relationship with Duncan. She’d renewed my
trust in our friendship.

As I opened Aunt May’s front door, a cloud of inviting
aromas enveloped me. A foundation fragrance of chicken divan underpinned a
mouth-watering perfume of apples and cinnamon. The homey smells went a long way
toward restoring a sense of normalcy.

My aunt was nowhere in sight. “I’m back,” I sang out.

May’s white perm popped up from behind the kitchen counter.
She’d been bent low, peering in the oven. The stove’s heat painted her cheeks
with blush, and she beamed like a cherubic grandmother—though she’d bop me if I
said so.

“Look out, Marley, here I come,” May exclaimed gleefully.
“I’m nouveaux rich and plan to spread the wealth. My buyers accepted the offer.
That’s the fastest I ever made twenty grand. Oh, and Duncan called. He left a
message earlier, then we chatted when he called a second time. He sounds real
anxious to talk. Why don’t you give him a buzz before Ross and Eunice arrive?”

Great. How was I going to explain my behavior to Duncan? No way would I bring up his ex-wife’s affair with Darlene’s husband. He’d tell me
when and if he ever felt comfortable sharing that hurt. Of course he might feel
entitled to an explanation for my manic behavior.

Duncan answered on the second ring. He sounded pleased to
hear my voice. “I hoped we’d get a chance to talk today,” he said. “Is
everything okay? Or did I commit some unrealized faux pas? You sure left in a
hurry.”

“No faux pas on your part. My apologies. I’m out of dating
practice and these murders make me uneasy. I just lost it. Apparently you handle
stress better than this old retiree.”

“Well, old-timer—” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m
glad we’re still friends, and I hope lovers. You know, lovemaking is supposed
to reduce stress, not add to it.”

“Hey, no complaints.” I laughed. “Maybe I just need another
adjustment. You know chiropractors often need multiple visits to work their
wonders.”

“Ah, now there’s a thought. Should I read up on massage
therapy? If I didn’t have a fundraiser tonight, I’d promise a massage—a very
deep one. How about scheduling a treatment for tomorrow? After we call at the
funeral home, we’ll both be ready for stiff drinks and—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t finish that sentence on the phone.” I
laughed. “It sounds like we’re on the same therapy page.”

Duncan’s good cheer lightened my mood. “See you tomorrow.”

Ross and Eunice arrived just as I returned to the living
room. Ross started talking before we finished the prerequisite round of hugs.

“Set the table. No lollygagging,” May ordered. “I’m so
hungry I could eat a horse.”

“You may have to if Marley cooked,” Ross joked.

Eunice and I responded with simultaneous noogies to my
cousin’s biceps.

He grinned. “Hey, don’t hurt yourselves.”

Our dinner conversation stayed lighthearted. First, May
regaled us with how she’d sweet-talked her buyers into beefing up their
contract offer, then persuaded her clients, the owners, into making an
attractive counter in a single afternoon.

Next Ross entertained with an update on his latest research
project. “‘The Iowan’ asked me to write a piece about the Iowa Great Lakes during our golden era—you know the late 1800s. So I got to rummaging around in
our archives and found this incredible eyewitness account.”

Ross pulled drugstore reading glasses from his shirt pocket
to quote directly from a scrap of yellowed newsprint. “This fellow talks about
‘empty champagne bottles being piled like cordwood’ and an
eighty-dollar-a-plate banquet. Remember, this is more than a century ago, I’ll
bet that would mean eight-thousand-a-plate today. The author says yacht owners
hauled their boats in from around the world just to race here. And he claims
there were ‘fish so plentiful they were caught for sport and buried by the
boatload.’”

“Good grief, Ross.” Eunice rolled her eyes. “You’re frantic
with the antique boat show, I can’t believe you’re off on a new crusade. Can’t
you finish one project before you start the next? Does sleep fit anywhere in
your schedule?”

“Sleep is for winter.” My cousin grinned. “Have to make hay
while the sun shines—and while I have the ear of my good buddies who own
antique boats. I talked a doctor from Estherville into putting his boat on
display for six months. He said he hoped his wife never found out he paid more
to restore that boat than he did for her facelift, tummy tuck and boob-oplasty.”

Eunice and I played appreciative audience for our two
favorite hams. The laughter wasn’t forced. Finally, a suitable lull over apple
crisp allowed me to casually share Jake’s riddle. I’d barely gotten it out,
when Ross shook his head in mock sorrow. “Marley, Marley,” he crooned. “How you
disappoint me. The answer should have been a slam-dunk. Let’s take a stroll
down memory lane. You’re nine. I’m ten. We’re at Arnolds Park. We press our
greasy noses against Mrs. Nelson’s shop window long enough to hoodwink her into
free samples of saltwater taffy. Now, we’re off on a new adventure. Mirror,
mirror on the wall…”

“…who’s the fattest of them all?” I completed Ross’s
sentence triumphantly. “Of course. The Tipsy House. It fits perfectly. In one
section, the floorboards are on roller-bars and you feel like you’re crossing a
suspended bridge mid-earthquake. Inside some mirrors make you look tall and
skinny, while others make you look squashed and fat. After you wind your way up
through all the crooked rooms and slanted floors, you come out on the roof.
Those roof-level cars Jake mentioned are roller-coaster cars. They zoom right
past on the ride’s last curve. Thanks, Ross, you’re a genius.”