Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (14 page)

“Always nice to be recognized.” Ross dipped his head in
statesmanlike acceptance.

“But, isn’t The Tipsy House closed?” I frowned at my sudden
recollection. I’d seen the workers repairing it on my last stroll through Arnolds Park.

Ross nodded “Yeah. Jake must have planned this treasure hunt
for July. The Tipsy House was supposed to reopen Memorial Day. But the
carpenters ran into unexpected wood rot. The manager hopes the attraction will
open for the Fourth of July holiday crowd. He asked me to brainstorm
promotional ideas.”

“Is it locked up or could I get inside?” I asked.

“Are you planning a little B-and-E just to reminisce? The
Tipsy House wasn’t even your favorite. You always dragged me to that House of
Horror, where the stupid little train chugged around and skeletons and headless
corpses popped out on every bend. For some reason, you loved to have the
bejeebbers scared out of you.”

“Not any more.” I laughed. “It’s a lot more fun to scare the
bejeebbers out of others.”

“Tell you what,” Ross said. “I want to stop by the museum on
my way home, and Eunice will be fussing at me the whole time to hurry so she
can walk our girls before their little Sheltie bladders explode. How about we
let Eunice motor straight home to walk the dogs, and you drive us to Arnolds Park? A new batch of antique boats came in today. They’re temporarily parked in our
shipping and receiving area, I want to do a little inventory. Should take me
less than an hour. Then, if The Tipsy House is unlocked, we can go visit. Maybe
you can help me come up with a humdinger of a reopening theme.”

May stood to start clearing dishes. “Now don’t the both of
you go prancing around in the dark and pratfall on some rust-caked construction
debris. I’m not in the business of stitching you two up any more.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Ross rubbed his hands together with glee.
“Marley can bring her night-vision goggles, give ’em a real field test. Always
wanted to see how those things work.”

“I suckled an idjit,” May grumped. “Eunice, your dogs have
more sense than these nitwits.”

I was fairly confident May had a point. However, I had no intention
of lassoing Ross into a nighttime excursion that could be dangerous. On our way
there, I’d keep my eyes peeled for a tail. Then, once Ross was engrossed in his
pet project back of the museum, I’d sneak out and reconnoiter on my own. If he
said it would take an hour, it probably meant two—he always lost track of time
when he was in his element.

Should I call Darlene? No it was stupid to blab about my
plan on an open phone line. As long as I could make sure Ross and I weren’t
followed, the dead of night really was the ideal time for me to take a gander
with no one being the wiser.

That’s one good thing about spur-of-the-moment decisions.
They’re impossible to predict. My paranoia retreated. No one had tailed me to Duncan’s house. No one had followed his boat.

Soon I’d be able to tell Darlene whether or not Jake had
actually hidden anything at The Tipsy House.

On the drive, I regularly checked the rearview mirror for
headlights. At one point, when I thought a car followed us too long, I pulled
off into a strip mall.

“What are you doing, Marley?” Ross asked. “Uh, this isn’t
the museum.”

“Just had an itch I had to scratch.” I fumbled behind my
back and scoured my shoulder blade with my fingernails. Ross rolled his eyes.

The suspect car sped by, its radio blaring rap music. A
tattooed arm hung out the open passenger-side window. Not a likely candidate as
a stealth tail. I pulled back onto the road. No cars at all behind us.

Beyond the lighted entry, Arnolds Park lay in shadows. Until
the tourist season jumps into full gear in mid-June, the rides and attractions
close at eight p.m. The exodus transforms the space. An echoing emptiness
supplants the laughter of children giving the darkened space the feel of a
“Twilight Zone” episode where all the townspeople vanish while the heroine
sleeps.

Ross waved at the guard on duty as we parked May’s
distinctive Buick in the greenish light pooled beneath a towering streetlamp.
Since Arnolds Park clean-up crews don’t report for duty until six a. m., one
lonely security officer rules the night.

“Does he have a set patrol schedule?” My part-time work as a
security guard piqued my curiosity.

“Doubt it,” Ross answered. “Think his whereabouts are controlled
by coffee consumption and his need to pee. Not much action.”

“Is he armed?”

Ross chuckled. “No. Our guards don’t encounter many hardened
criminals. Not much to steal. Primarily they battle graffiti artists and
college kids plotting to steal signs for dorm rooms. What twenty-year-old
doesn’t covet a bedside poster that reads ‘Thrill-A-Minute Roller Coaster Ride’
or ‘Get Your Hot Dogs Here’?”

I laughed. “Okay, Arnolds Park guards don’t need SWAT
training.”

The skinny sentry ambled our way. A police baton and radio
hung from a worn belt and the weight threatened to drag his droopy drawers
below crack level. Good thing his job didn’t call for the added gravity pull of
a gun holster.

“Working late tonight, Captain Ross?” the elder-guard asked.
I pegged his age at late sixties.

“You got that right, Jerry,” Ross answered. “I want to
fiddle with my boat displays while I have some quiet. No interruptions. You
keeping a close eye on those dandies for me?”

“Sure am,” Jerry answered. “You’ve got some real honeys.
Wish I could afford one.”

Ross nodded. “Me, too. This is my cousin Marley. Say, don’t
get spooked if you see activity at The Tipsy House later. Marley and I played
there as kids. I’m going to give her a busman’s tour of renovations and
brainstorm some ideas for promotion.”

“Fine by me. Just don’t break your necks on my watch. The
general manager would have my hide. Don’t know as we’re insured for nighttime
mishaps. There are no lights, you know.”

“We’ll pack a flashlight and be careful,” Ross answered.
“Won’t be in there long either.”

I’d joined Ross on evening excursions before. A true night
owl, his energy level peaked after midnight, and he enjoyed visiting when he
could survey his museum kingdom unimpeded.

Figuring Ross would be occupied for at least an hour before
he’d want to go exploring, I decided I had time for a quick visit to the web
before I snuck out. I commandeered one of the museum’s computer terminals and
scanned two archived stories: one on the Olsen murders, the second, a business
retrospective on the Jolbiogen empire.

Two interesting tidbits emerged. One of those “rumor on the
street” type columns speculated Jolbiogen’s new president planned to elbow out
Dr. Glaston to make room for his own protégé. Did that give Glaston incentive
to steal?

And Kyle held a Master’s Degree in chemistry. Since he was a
marketing exec, I’d assumed a non-technical degree. His education meant he
could find his way around a lab, even if he visited infrequently. Presumably,
he could handle cyclogel and phalloidin, too.

I closed down the computer and looked to make sure Ross was
still behind the museum. I grabbed the flashlight and tiptoed toward the door.
I cast one more look back before I opened the door, ran smack into Ross, and
yipped in surprise.

“A little on edge, are we?” Ross asked. “Guess you didn’t
expect me to come out the back and in the front. I was just checking some
storage options if more boats come in.”

My cousin noted the flashlight in my hand and, probably, the
sheepish look on my face at being caught in sneak-out mode. “Okay, cousin,
somebody’s got some ’splaining to do,” he added in his best Desi Arnaz
impression. “What are you up to?”

Busted, I confessed.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Ross asked. “That
explains the sudden itch that forced you to pull off the road. No one followed
us, right?”

“No. I don’t think we were followed,” I answered.

“Then let’s rock and roll, Cuz.” His blue eyes danced with
mischief. “You have a flashlight, let’s get your night goggles.”

“You sure you want to go? Aunt May will murder me if
anything happens to you.”

“I’m sure,” Ross answered. “This is the perfect time to do a
little reconnoitering and you shouldn’t go in there alone. I know the place
better than you. Get the danged goggles.”

“You realize we can’t use the flashlight and goggles at the
same time? A flashlight would blind anyone wearing goggles.”

“Duh. Of course, I know,” my cousin replied with mock
huffiness. “I may not have served in the Army, but I’m a brilliant student of
military tactics.”

Ross had lightened my mood and lessened my paranoia. Now our
mission felt more like a lark than a black ops incursion.

I chuckled. “Yes, I’m aware you’ve pored over accounts of
every flipping Civil War battle. But we’re talking night-vision goggles, not a
Blunderbuss.”

“Pardon me.” Ross harrumphed. “The Blunderbuss was popular
in the Revolutionary War not the Civil War, Miss Smarty Pants.”

“Okay, okay.” I laughed. “Kiss my Blunderbuss. Let’s get
this sortie underway.”

The Tipsy House, a narrow bell-tower-style building, sat
half a football field from the museum. As we strolled toward our destination,
night winds blew empty candy wrappers along the vacant concrete. The rustling
litter suggested the scrabble of little rodent feet. I shivered.

The intentionally crooked door of the Tipsy House was tucked
into the wall furthest from the road. Still street lamps spilled enough light
into the recessed niche for us to see it wasn’t truly boarded up. A lone
two-by-six covered the gaping hole where a rotting doorjamb had been pulled
free. Sitting on nail hangers, it offered no challenge. Ross lifted the lumber,
and we ducked inside the cavern-like darkness.

“Want to lead or follow?” I asked. “The leader gets the
flashlight. You can try the night-vision goggles on the way down.”

“I’ll lead,” Ross answered. “I was here a couple of weeks
back. Jake and I poked around after a board meeting. Said he marveled at the
effectiveness of its simple illusions.”

The whole premise of The Tipsy House is sleight of hand—or
more accurately visual misdirection. While the building’s floors do, indeed,
incline, it’s the weird, cockeyed angles of walls and ceilings that give the
impression you’re going up when you’re going down. This prompts stomachs to
lurch and balance to fail while navigating the maze. Throw in distorting
mirrors, skinny halls, and balls that appear to roll uphill, and the recipe’s
complete for a bout of vertigo.

These gimmicks posed no mental menace until Ross quit
focusing the flashlight on the floor and began brandishing it like a “Star
Wars” light saber. As the roving spotlight jumped from one of the structure’s
out-of-kilter features to another, my stomach danced a soft-shoe. The musty
smell, with its tacky paint overlay, and stifling heat didn’t help. Sweat
sprouted on my scalp and beaded on my forehead.

We’d traveled more than halfway up the tower, when Ross
halted at a six-foot-wide mirror to study our munchkin-like reflections. We
looked like Sleepy and Dopey smooshed by a bus. Our images rose a mere three
feet but covered a good five-foot span. Waves in the mirror added a rippling,
underwater effect that didn’t help my nausea.

“Who says I wasn’t born to play pro basketball?” Ross
laughed as he splayed the flashlight beam across the mirror.

None of my Carr cousins are taller than five-foot-ten. Not a
problem except they’d wanted to play basketball. As teens, their
vertically-challenged stature caused lament each season. “If only” they were a
few inches—or a foot—taller…

My aunt always sniped, “You picked the wrong gene pool. Play
ice hockey.”

May, ever the advocate of playing the cards you were dealt,
tolerated no whining.

A silky caress brushed my cheek, and tiny furry legs
sauntered down my back under my shirt. I yelped before I could stop myself.
Trying to reach my back, I launched into ungainly spinning, jumping jacks. I
hate spiders.

Let me repeat—I hate spiders.

Ross startled and dropped our flashlight. It rolled across
the floor and conked against a pipe with a metallic ping. Instant blackout.

“Damn,” Ross cursed. I barely heard him over my own
whimpering. “You scared me to death. What’s wrong? You sound like someone’s
torturing you.”

“A spider’s crawling down my back,” I whined. “Get it off
me. Now.” I turned my back and lifted my shirt. “Brush it off, pleeeese.”

Like a blind man, my cousin groped in the darkness. Holding
my shoulder with one hand, he roughly flicked the palm of his other hand back
and forth against my back like a stiff broom.

“You got him. Thank God. Wish I could see the hairy monster
to squash him.”

“What a wimp,” Ross teased. “And you think women ought to be
in combat.”

Had Ross been visible, I’d have slugged him. Debate about
the potential combat role of women was a given when I visited the Carr
household. I strongly suspected Ed and Woods, my Air Force alumni cousins,
raised my hackles for pure sport.

“Don’t step on me,” Ross said. “I’m on my knees looking for
the danged flashlight. Got it.” A series of clicks told me the flashlight had
quit working.

“Well, fearless leader,” I replied. “Now you get to wear
those nifty night goggles.”

I freed the goggles from around my neck and fumbled them to
Ross. In return, he shoved the defunct flashlight into my hands.

“Still want to climb to the top?” Ross asked.

I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see the gesture.
“We’re halfway. No sense turning back. Once we get to the top, the exit is a
no-tricks straightaway, right?”

“Right. Oooh, this is cool.” Ross said. “I really can see.
Grab the back of my belt. I’ll tell you what’s ahead so you’re ready. Oh, boy.
We’re at the start of the rolling floor section. Ready?”

“Go for it.” I hooked my fingers through his belt. “Your
belt’s secure, right? I’d hate to de-pants you.”

Three steps on the heaving floorboards and I lurched left,
throwing Ross off balance. “I need to let go. If I don’t, I’ll fall on my
keister and pull you down with me. Just tell me if I should go straight or
turn.”

“Straight,” Ross instructed.

My heart pitty-patted as I stumbled along in the rolling
blackness. The beads of sweat on my forehead now felt like icicles. Once my
feet returned to solid—though tilted—flooring, my whole body relaxed.

“Wow, is this cool,” Ross declared. “Amazing the detail
these goggles pick up, even though the color’s leached out. Everything’s tinged
a grayish green. I feel like I’m on a deep-sea dive.”

“Shhh.” I found Ross’s shirt and tugged ferociously. “I
heard something.”

We stood stock-still. Creaks and groans, the protest of aged
wood, echoed in the dark.

“Just the Tipsy House settling,” Ross said. “The building’s
older than we are. It’s supposed to creak.”

An out-of-place noise sounded. A footfall. Was it behind us?
It sounded close by.

“Did you hear that? Someone’s here,” I whispered. “Look
behind us. Can you see anyone?”

“Not a soul,” Ross answered in a conversational voice. After
my whisper, his volume boomed. “That spider spooked you. What did we say when
we were kids? ‘There’s nobody here but Hazel, and she’s nuts.’”

Maybe my imagination had run wild. Not the first time. Guilt
at work? The minute we entered the attraction, my conscience telegraphed second
thoughts about recovering Jake’s package without Darlene’s permission.

I tilted my face up and sucked in cool air. Stars floated
where the stairway opened to the roof. Moonlight filtered into the opening.
Ross lowered his goggles. An invigorating lake breeze wicked away my sweat and
paranoia.

Though a few structures intervened, our rooftop perch
revealed dancing moonlight on a sliver of West Okoboji. In the foreground, the
undulating roller coaster with its crisscrossed scaffolding supports looked
like a giant Tinker toy.

I scanned the roof and saw the elbow where a gutter once
emptied into the downspout. The actual gutter was gone. Probably being
replaced. Had Jake’s package been hauled away with the trash?

I groped inside the elbow. “Do you see anything else that
could be considered a gutter?”

Ross walked around the perimeter, stopped to admire the
silhouette of his museum and remarked how landscape lights might jazz up its
nighttime façade.

Eureka. My fingers closed on a slick piece of plastic. I
yanked. A sealed sandwich bag with paper inside. I hoped it wasn’t some lazy
worker’s lunch remains. Not enough light to scrutinize my Cracker Jacks prize.
The appraisal would have to wait until we returned to electrified civilization.

“Any luck?” Ross’s question ended in a loud “ughh.”

My cousin sank to his knees. A man in a dark ski mask stood
over Ross, preparing to deliver another blow. I screamed to distract him.