Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (18 page)

The FBI agent turned toward the mortuary’s front door. “I’m
not sure what to do with the Olsen heirs—those left among the living. I don’t
want anyone to return to billionaire’s cove tonight. For all I know, our
killer’s planted more biological booby traps. But finding two safe houses on a
moment’s notice won’t be easy. Most cottages are rented for the season, and
motel rooms are too public and hard to secure. And I plan to make damn sure our
Hatfields and McCoys aren’t within ten miles of each other. This killing spree
is going to stop.”

Weaver patted my shoulder before she walked away. Now that
made me worry.

Back at my family circle, Duncan held everyone’s attention.
“Sheriff Delaney says Olivia was poisoned. She isn’t expected to pull through.”

Eunice’s hand flew up to her mouth. “Will this nightmare
ever end?”

“Darlene’s beside herself, worrying about Julie,” Duncan continued. “I invited them to stay with me tonight. They shouldn’t go back to their
house.”

Time to interrupt. “Agent Weaver agrees. She’s trying to
line up some lodging that will keep Kyle and Eric as far as possible from
Darlene and Julie. She’s looking for anonymous safe houses. Your condo doesn’t
quite fit the bill.”

“I have an idea.” May motioned us into a tighter
football-style huddle. “An out-of-town owner just asked me to put his house on
the market. It’s secluded, way up on Big Spirit—no next-door neighbors—and it’s
vacant. Five bedrooms, fully furnished. No one knows it’s available but me. I
can tell your FBI friend where to look for the spare key.”

I nodded agreement. “Sounds perfect. I’ll bet Weaver will
jump at the offer.”

“Darlene’s really frightened,” Duncan added. “Given that
many bedrooms, I’ll offer to keep them company. Marley, how about joining us
for dinner? Make it seem more normal.”

“If you say yes, Marley Elizabeth Clark, you’re a lunatic or
suicidal,” Aunt May erupted. She didn’t bother to lower her voice to the
funeral parlor’s muted conversational level. Several heads swiveled our way.

“I’m counting four people dead or dying,” my aunt hissed in
a quieter voice. “Now, I’m all for helping these folks hide where a killer’s
less likely to find them, but why tempt fate? This killer strikes with
impunity, day or night. All that razzmatazz security hasn’t been worth a
tinker’s damn. For all we know, the killer’s an FBI agent.”

I tried not to smile at May’s ire. Her flare-up would burn
itself out once she saw her outburst wasn’t yielding results.

She turned on Duncan. “I’m disappointed in you, too. Thought
you had better sense!”

Duncan didn’t say a peep. Good judgment.

“What’s the sheriff’s role?” I asked, trying to get the
conversation back on track.

“The FBI’s asked him to assist with logistics and community
PR,” Duncan answered.

I nodded. Smart move.

“Ross, can I borrow your cell phone?” I asked.

My cousin unclipped it. I walked to a deserted corner.
Weaver answered on the first ring.

“What is it? I haven’t made it ten blocks.” Her tone sounded
flat, weary.

I described May’s new listing and added that Duncan and I
might join them for dinner and possibly the night, if she approved.

“The house is a big help. I don’t see a problem with you or
Duncan visiting. Give me the address. I’ll arrange security. If you’re picking
up pizza, save some for me. It’s been eighteen hours since I had a bite.”

I reported back to my family conclave. “Agent Weaver thanks
you for the house, May. She’s doubling the number of FBI agents on the Olsen
security detail, and she plans to personally spend the night holding hands with
Darlene and Julie.”

I took a deep breath. “Darlene needs her friends more than
ever. I’ll spend the night, too. It’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” May threw up her hands. “From what I can tell, FBI
agents are about as helpful as vampires. They never die, but folks around them
have the life expectancy of a fruit fly. If you have so much faith in the FBI,
you’re not needed.”

“Strictly moral support. You’d do the same for a friend.”

Concern for Darlene’s fragile mental state factored into my
decision. And so did Agent Weaver’s throwaway comment about my personal safety.
I didn’t intend to bring harm to May’s doorstep. Better to board with Darlene
tonight. Tomorrow I’d decide if I should move out of May’s house—which would
prompt my aunt to throw one doozy of a fit.

I walked Ross off for a private word about Weaver’s scheme
to trap the killer. Since the plan didn’t endanger his mom, he readily agreed
to his part in the subterfuge.

When Ross left to retrieve the car, Duncan and I headed to
Sam Larsson’s private office to tell our beleaguered friends about their new
digs.

I smiled at Darlene. “I told Weaver we’d pick up pizza, but
I have a better idea. We’ll cook our own, like old times. Nothing like the
smell of pizza baking to forget your cares for a spell.

Darlene glanced over at her daughter. “Thank God. Only one
more night to get through. Tomorrow I’m putting Julie on a plane. I want her out
of here until they catch the murderer. I tried to get her to leave tonight. She
refused. Said the FBI might not let her go. I say bullshit. She doesn’t need
their permission to take off.”

“Are you kidding?” Julie piped up. She’d caught the tail end
of her mother’s rant. “Before they found Glaston’s journal, the Feds were a
nanosecond away from arresting me. While his scribbling makes it clear I didn’t
plan the Jolbiogen theft, I’m still a prime suspect. I had motive, means and
opportunity for the Glaston murders.”

Julie snaked an arm around Darlene’s waist. “Mom, I won’t go
anywhere without you.”

A brainstorm struck. Better late than never. “Why don’t both
of you stay at my place in South Carolina? I’ll be here another week. You’d
have my house to yourself. It’s on a private island so there’s a smidgeon of
built-in security, and we could arrange more. Let’s talk about it tonight.”

Duncan and I walked out of Sam’s office together. “Hold on,
a minute.” I scooted over to Jake’s tribute and palmed the photo Nancy added. Maybe the faded black-and-white print had a story to tell.

As we reached the porch, Ross tooted his car horn. May and
Eunice sat buckled into their seats.

Duncan kissed my cheek. “See you in a bit.”

“Sounds good,” I answered.

We both had assignments. I’d change clothes and pack all my
toys—stun gun, pepper spray, gas mask, night goggles. Duncan would purchase the
list of groceries I’d prepared on the fly, then swing by to pick me up.

Ross met my gaze in the rearview mirror as I slid into the
Chevy Blazer’s backseat. “That pizza idea doesn’t sound half bad, Mom. What’s
say we order one, too? The three of us can watch a movie at your house. There’s
a Cary Grant tribute tonight on AMC.”

God bless Ross. When May worked herself into a tizzy, she
liked her family gathered round. With Ross and Eunice keeping her company
tonight, she’d be less inclined to fret.

While I packed, my cousin shifted the conversation from
murder to his mom’s eightieth bash and his fast-approaching antique boat show.

Duncan knocked and announced himself through the closed
door. I crossed the room to kiss May goodbye.

“You call me,” she ordered. “Ten o’clock sharp. I’d like to know you’re still breathing before I head to bed.”

“I will, May, Scout’s honor. I’ll be back here by eight in
the morning. Count on it.”

May doffed her glasses, pulled a hanky from her purse and
started polishing. “You know I still talk with your mom, just like I do with
Uncle John. So don’t you go getting yourself killed, kid. Sis would never, ever
forgive me.”

I hugged May once more and whispered. “Not to worry. I’m too
ornery.”

***

The garage door of May’s “for-sale” house sat open, just
like Weaver promised. Duncan pulled the car in. We walked up three stairs to
the landing of the out-of-sight mudroom entry. He hit a switch and the garage
door lowered.

Duncan pulled me to him. His arms tightened. My head nestled
against his chest.

“Since it’s group activity night, I don’t know when I’ll get
another chance.” Duncan’s warm lips seemed mighty insistent, and who was I to
argue? If that man’s kisses didn’t wriggle a girl’s toes, her shoes were too
tight.

“Maybe we can stop at your place for breakfast?” I attempted
to mimic Cousin Ross’s exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

Duncan grinned. “Sounds perfect. I stocked up on Wheaties—good
for stamina.”

An FBI agent flung the mudroom door open, gun in hand. We
leapt apart. So much for canoodling.

With a curt apology, the agent patted us down and pawed
through our belongings. I wasn’t sure he knew what to look for—fake foot powder?
Meticulously he inspected every ration in Duncan’s grocery bags. In addition to
fixings for pizzas, the sacks held all essentials of the slumber-party food
pyramid—namely potato chips, French onion dip, cashews, chocolate chip cookies
and ice cream.

My defensive weapons—pepper spray et al—were the man’s most
provocative find. He extracted the contraband from my gym bag before returning
it. He also confiscated Duncan’s cell phone.

“I’ll hold onto these till Agent Weaver gets here and gives
an okay,” he said. “I expect her within the hour. I was told anyone who arrives
stays. You will not be allowed to leave without an FBI escort, and any phone
conversations will be monitored.”

Okay, prisoner status? Weaver took her protection
responsibilities seriously.

As soon as we were cleared, Darlene rushed to hug me. “I’m
so glad to see you.”

Julie took the grocery bags from Duncan and set them on the
counter.

Darlene motioned toward a hallway. “You two can put your
stuff in the first bedroom on the left. I assume you want to share.”

Heat crept up my neck. I hoped no one construed my goodwill
gesture to spend the night as respectable cover for a roll in the hay. Duncan tossed our overnight bags on the king bed, while I dumped my purse on a chest of
drawers.

He caught my arm and spun me for another kiss. “That agent
and his gun kept me from finishing.” His marauding hands felt good, his probing
tongue even better.

We came up for air. “I think they expect us to return,” I
whispered.

As we walked toward the kitchen, I considered the rustic
cottage’s layout. A long, scarred pine table filled a dining alcove. Scratches
on the galley kitchen’s cabinets revealed multiple layers of paint. The vintage
stove and refrigerator dated from the sixties. Quite a come down from the Olsen’s
stainless steel Mecca.

Yet the house radiated charm. The picture window framed a
pretty beach scene, and French doors led to a weathered screened porch with
comfortable wicker furniture.

By rote, we headed toward the long pine table. Since Friday,
I’d spent more time sitting at kitchen tables with Darlene than visiting with
my aunt. Was it only Tuesday night? The days and nights blurred.

“Weaver called,” Darlene said. “Olivia passed away. Now
there’s one more Olsen house roped off as a crime scene. I hope she has better
news for us at dinner—like a lead on the killer. She said to expect her by
seven.”

Hunger prodded us to start our pizza making. As we rolled
dough, we argued over which ingredients would grace the entire surface of our
pies and which should be confined to personalized taste zones. Onions,
mushrooms and green peppers proved common denominators. Pepperoni, anchovies
and hot peppers made the restricted substance list.

As we worked, Darlene and I bumped behinds in what Mom would
have called a “one-butt kitchen.” Duncan announced the action as if it were a
hockey game. Laughter and the aroma of baking pizza made the evening seem
deceptively normal. Our FBI minders stayed out of sight.

Weaver arrived about ten minutes before the pizzas were due
out of the oven. Darlene wasted no time asking permission for her and Julie to
leave town. One of our babysitters had allowed Darlene to call one of Jake’s
long-time friends, who’d agreed to put a private jet at her disposal. It would
arrive at the local airfield at six the next morning. Barring any objections
from the FBI, the plane would touch down at the Beaufort County Airport by nine o’clock, just in time for a late breakfast at my island home. Though islanders
nicknamed our local airfield Frogmore International, my pilot friends told me
it was a decent place to land.

After Weaver blessed the escape plan, she accompanied me to
the bedroom and monitored my calls to smooth the way. The head of island
security agreed to hire some off-duty folks to provide added protection for my
houseguests. My neighbor Janie, who has a spare key, volunteered to meet
Darlene and Julie’s plane and ferry them to the island.

By the time the oven bell dinged, Darlene and Julie’s
departure plans were set.

Darlene hugged me, tears in her eyes. “What a relief. I
don’t know how to thank you.”

I snuck a glance at Weaver. She appeared happy, too. Two
potential victims—or possible killers—would soon be subtracted from the
confusing Spirit Lake arithmetic. Would the new math help solve the murder
equation?

With the Olsens in hiding, there were no butlers, maids or
other functionaries. No one seemed to mind or even notice. We helped ourselves
to plates, paper towels and soda pop.

“I seldom say grace,” Darlene said, “but I need to offer a
little prayer tonight. Let’s hold hands.”

Those of us already grabbing for slices withdrew our greedy
mitts. Duncan, seated on my left, squeezed my hand. On my right, Weaver
accepted my hand with the same enthusiasm she might have shown a request to
fondle a rattlesnake. Handholding wasn’t one of her preferred customs.

“Thank you Lord,” Darlene began, “for providing good friends
to see us through bad times. Please let no more evil befall this family or the
friends who join us tonight. Amen.”

“Amen,” we somberly echoed.

Once blessed, our supper chatter turned unexpectedly
cheerful. It began with critiques of recent movies, then Julie asked me to tell
her more about what her mom was like when we first met.

“Darlene was a few years younger than you…” My Spirit Resort
yarns—censored for explicit sexual content—entertained the gathering. Julie
especially liked the farting contest in which contestants used a cigarette
lighter to flare gaseous emissions. Darlene indignantly protested that my
memories were clouded.