Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (17 page)

Sam’s eyes darted left. He frowned and excused himself.
“Afraid I have to act as a bouncer today.” He hustled toward a woman in a pink
pantsuit.

“She’s a reporter,” Ross whispered. “Not one of the locals
or summer stock.”

Dwarfed by baskets of flowers, a photo board occupied the
space usually reserved for a mahogany casket. Where were Darlene and Julie?

On the right side of the room, a knot of people shuffled
forward, and my friend’s blonde hair popped into sight. A solid hunch prompted
a look left. Bingo. Jake’s blood relatives occupied a stronghold along the wall
opposite the widow and stepdaughter.

Hmmm. The enemy cast offered a surprise. While Kyle held the
position of first batter-up for handshaking, the woman beside him wasn’t his
wife. Coal black hair swept away from the matron’s pasty face. Anna’s
description was dead-on. So this was Nancy, Kyle’s much-maligned mother and
Jake’s first wife.

Where was Olivia? Had I chased her out of the dress shop
before she could buy a suitable black frock?

Eric slumped next to Nancy. He looked zonked. Drugs for
sure, who knew if they were the prescribed variety. I’d seen soldiers stoned on
Percodan as well as pot. The boy’s blue eyes failed to focus as the parade of
mourners snaked by.

Kyle’s head remained rock steady, while his beady eyes
darted in all directions. Every few seconds, they cut to his nephew. Was he
afraid the boy would do something to embarrass him? Or was he genuinely
concerned about Eric’s mental state?

Ross herded our family delegation toward tables mounded with
crustless tea sandwiches and book-ended by punch bowls. So far I’d escaped
Kyle’s roaming gaze.

“Let’s wait to give our condolences until there are fewer
people with Darlene,” Ross suggested as he helped himself to punch.

Eunice, May and I followed his example. While we sipped,
Kyle huddled with Nancy. Their body language and whispered dialogue fascinated
me. Totally ignored by Nancy, Eric might as well have been a mannequin. Of
course, since he was the grandson of Jake’s second wife, Eric was no kin to Nancy. No wonder the woman evidenced no desire to clutch the boy to her bosom.

My attention shifted to the photo display. A fair number of
mourners dawdled there. If current protocol held, the visitors would soon
vanish. Even the profusion of finger foods wasn’t enough to hold people in the
tension-filled room long.

I nudged Ross. “Didn’t any of Jake’s hotshot business
associates come?”

He shook his head. “Sam says they’ll fly in tomorrow for the
formal service.”

A glance toward Darlene and Julie revealed a break in the
action. “Let’s pay our respects.”

Darlene prolonged the hug fest, clinging to each of us as if
she feared we’d disappear. Uncomfortable, May, Ross, Eunice and I trotted out
all the old chestnuts about the loss of loved ones. Each cliché encased its own
sad kernel of truth.

Once a new wave of arrivals appeared, we sauntered to the
Olsen photo tribute. Eunice and May, who hadn’t seen the photos, commented on
the good times they documented. When my relatives opted to soldier on and offer
condolences to Jake’s blood relatives, I took a cowardly left to the punch
bowls. While Eric looked more comatose than angry, I had no desire to
precipitate a brawl. Better to let sleeping dopers lie.

I staked out an oasis of empty folding chairs, and soon, my
aunt and cousins joined me. We talked quietly as we sipped more of the tepid
punch. I’d promised to stick around and give Darlene moral support whenever
there were breaks in the hand-pumping action.

“Did you find out why Olivia’s absent?” I asked May.

“Kyle claimed she felt poorly and stayed home to rest up for
the funeral,” she answered in a stage whisper. “Bet she’s peeved about Nancy invading her domain. Don’t blame her for snubbing her newly unearthed
mother-in-law.”

As Aunt May dissed Nancy, I studied the woman. Her pale
skin, willowy build and sculpted hairstyle called to mind a Japanese doll. The
waxen ex-wife slipped back from the entourage, retrieved a purse, and rummaged
inside. Looking for a tissue?

Nope. Her head swiveled in Darlene’s direction. Checking to
see if she was being watched? Nonchalantly Nancy strolled to the photo collage.
She studied it for a long moment before tacking a square addition in the
right-hand corner. A snapshot? Memento or curse?

A shoulder squeeze interrupted my visual snooping. Duncan’s smile—a wolfish one—captured my full attention. He greeted my kin with genuine
enthusiasm.

“I need to pay my respects,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

Would my chivalrous attorney run both sides of the grief
gauntlet? Or would he be as chicken as me and skip Kyle’s mourner camp?

I tugged on his sleeve. “Would you stop at the photo tribute
and take a close look at the picture in the lower right-hand corner?” The
add-on piqued my curiosity. “See who’s in the shot.”

Duncan awarded me a puzzled look. “Okay.” He strode briskly
toward Darlene.

Another member of the museum board greeted Ross, and the two
reminisced kindly about the deceased.

My attention shifted to Duncan. He embraced Darlene and, in
turn, Julie, speaking briefly with each before moving to the photo display. He
leaned in for a close look at several shots, saving my request for last.
Assignment completed, he demonstrated his chivalrous nature by shaking hands
with Kyle. He even greeted Eric, who sullenly stuck out a paw.

By the time he poured punch and moseyed our way, my
curiosity had passed simmer and reached boil. Duncan pulled a chair close to
mine and whispered in my ear. “How about we wander into the annex and find a
vacant coffin? Seems sort of a shame people don’t get to enjoy all that smooth
silk when they’re alive and kicking. Course I have something other than kicking
in mind.”

His hot breath made my ears burn and the hairs on my neck
prickle. I punched his arm. A flush of heat warned me my cheeks had turned
scarlet. Had my aunt and cousins detected my discombobulation?

“Okay wise guy,” I whispered back. “You need to stop reading
zombie erotica. Just tell me about the photo.”

Duncan’s grin accompanied his shrug. “Not much to tell. It
showed Jake and another man taking a little boy fishing. Kyle I suppose. The
tyke held tight to a fishing pole. A young Nancy stood in the background waving
goodbye.”

I frowned. “Nancy tacked that photo up a few minutes ago.
Maybe it’s symbolic. That’s around the time she kissed her son goodbye for
good. I’d love to know what compelled her to add it.”

Hushed voices drifted in from the foyer and Agent Weaver and
Sheriff Delaney entered. The law enforcement duo went straight to the front of
the room. Weaver split left. The sheriff peeled to the right.

Weaver clasped Kyle’s arm and maneuvered him away from his
mother. The agent’s somber demeanor telegraphed bad news. Kyle’s poker face
didn’t change.

The sheriff used a similar tactic to quarantine Darlene. He
bent his head, brought his mouth near her ear. His lips moved, and Darlene
shrieked. Delaney tucked an arm around her and guided her to a chair. The
funeral director hustled over with a glass of water.

The pantomime left me clueless. “What now?” I asked Duncan. “Do you know?”

He shook his head.

Darlene massaged her temples, stared at the floor. Julie sat
beside her and patted her shoulder.

Kyle spoke to his mother and Eric. Weaver waited at a
respectful distance.

“Murderers!” Eric screamed.

The news—whatever it was—jolted him out of his catatonic
trance. He shook a fist at Darlene and Julie. “Murderers! I’ll get a gun.
You’re dead, you hear me. Dead!”

He’d barely issued the threat when two men in suits—FBI
agents?—hustled him toward the front door. Kyle and Nancy scurried behind Eric
and his official bouncers. The room grew silent as a tomb. The audience stunned
speechless.

“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” May demanded.

“I don’t know, but I plan to find out,” Duncan answered.

Before his long strides could bring him face to face with
the sheriff, Delaney took center stage and cleared his throat. “Ladies and uh,
gentlemen,” he stammered. “Sorry for the disruption, but Mrs. Olsen, uh Olivia
Olsen, has been rushed to the hospital. Her husband…uh, Mr. Olsen, and his
family have left to be with her.

“Mrs. Olsen—” he waved in Darlene’s direction—“this Mrs.
Olsen says she appreciates your thoughtfulness in um, honoring her husband’s
memory. Due to the uh, unfortunate circumstances, Mrs. Olsen has decided to
reschedule the memorial service. It will not be held tomorrow. Uh, thank you
for your understanding.”

While the tongue-tied sheriff tried to differentiate between
Mrs. Olsens, Duncan took a seat next to Darlene. Her eyes never left the floor
as he spoke. Clearly a receiving line would not re-form. Duncan cut a grim look
my way before making his way to Sheriff Delaney.

Julie tugged her mother upright. An agitated Sam Larsson
shepherded the women toward the protection of his back office. At least that
would remove them from public display. I spotted the ugly-in-pink reporter.
She’d snuck back amid the hubbub. She had to be delirious at her good fortune.
She could now give first-person accounts of the family’s reaction to the latest
Olsen tragedy, including Eric’s “murderer” outburst.

My throat spasmed as a burning sensation worked its way
upward. Sweat beaded my forehead. Nausea. I tapped Ross’s arm. “I have to get
some air.”

A broad porch wrapped three sides of the funeral parlor.
Despite the roof’s protective overhang, a cold mist shrouded the decking. I
leaned against the railing. A steady drip pinged beside me, overflow from full
gutters.

I gulped cool air. The nausea receded. Darlene and Julie had
to be reeling from the tsunami of death and tragedy.

I straightened and turned to go back inside when Hamilton’s angry voice stopped me. Who was the lucky recipient of his latest tirade?

“You happy now, Weaver?”

Though I couldn’t see him, Hamilton’s voice crackled with
fury. He was right around the corner.

“You had enough evidence to arraign Julie, if not Darlene,”
he continued. “I am a lawyer, I know. Any judge would’ve said ‘yes’ to an FBI
request. But, no, you stalled, and now we have another corpse. What’s your
plan? Wait for every innocent connected to this case to have a toe tag so you
can arrest whoever’s alive? I’ll tell you right now who’ll be left
breathing—that conniving harlot and her daughter.”

Weaver barked back. “What is it with you, Hamilton? What
makes you hell-bent to stick your nose in my case?”

“Why waste my breath? Thank heavens your boss has a brain.
I’m confident new evidence will link Julie or Darlene to this latest murder. I
hope you’re competent enough to find it.” Hamilton bulled around the side of
the mortuary and almost knocked me flat. “Dammit, it’s you. Still trying to run
interference for your murdering friend?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Weaver joined me at the porch railing. We watched the man
march off.

“Gets under your skin, doesn’t he?” I asked. “Like a
chigger. Wish there was a salt and Campho-Phenique cure for that pest.”

The FBI agent massaged her neck, slowly rolled her head to
undo the kinks. The murders were getting to her, too. “This gets stranger and
stranger. If you overheard Hamilton’s yell-a-thon, you know Olivia’s probably
dead by now. Looks like she was poisoned with the same stuff used on Gina
Glaston’s respirator.

“It’s bizarre. Olivia had sweaty feet—we’re talking
buckets—and sprinkled foot powder in her shoes every day. Someone substituted
phalloidin for her regular talc. It was absorbed into her system through her
soles. Olivia started feeling woozy about the time the family left for the
visitation. She told them to go ahead. An hour later, one of my men checked on
her. When she didn’t answer the doorbell, he broke in, found her
unconscious—all but dead. Her pulse was thready and erratic when the ambulance
whisked her away.”

The news floored me. “Why kill Olivia? Could somebody have
meant to kill Kyle and screwed up the attempt? A bad guess about who used the
foot powder.”

“Not a chance. Olivia kept the powder in her private
dressing area.”

“But why Olivia? I’d bet my Army pension she was no
conspirator. It may be impolite to speak ill of the dead, but the woman was a
nitwit. She wouldn’t have known a military secret from a raspberry douche. No
way she’d have enough gumption to kill someone.”

“Hell, I don’t know.” Weaver gripped the railing tighter.
Her gaze followed Hamilton’s car as it shot out of the parking lot, spitting
gravel at an elderly couple trundling down the sidewalk. “Maybe Olivia heard or
saw something she wasn’t supposed to. I plan to re-look at anyone who’s come
near the Olsen estate. Thrasos kept a visitor’s log—at least for front-gate
arrivals.”

I didn’t comment. Dripping water—ping, ping, ping—filled the
silence. Finally the agent asked me if Ross had agreed to join in her
bait-the-murderer skit.

“I haven’t asked yet. No time alone. I don’t want Aunt May
to find out her condo’s bugged or that we’re laying a trap for a serial killer.
She’d freak. I’ll pull Ross aside today. We’ll schedule the play for morning.”

Weaver’s eyes bored into mine. “Be careful. The Olsen family
seems cursed. I’m sure this massacre’s tied to Jolbiogen, but the killer’s
shown no scruples about slaughtering bystanders. My guess is that Olivia Olsen
and Gina Glaston are dead because they stumbled across something. Not to sound
melodramatic, but you may have come across the same information and don’t even
realize it. Be extra cautious.”

“Hey, I’ll let my feet sweat, and I have no plans to powder
my underarms for the duration.” My attempt at a joke earned no smile.