Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (2 page)

“I’m sure we’ll get the lowdown if Gertie’s allowed to
talk,” May added. “Nobody saw wife number three give Jake a little push, did
they?”

My aunt must have seen the dismay written on my face. She
backtracked so fast her tongue practically performed a somersault. “Sorry,
sorry. Sometimes my mouth outruns my brain. I forgot Darlene’s an old friend of
yours. I didn’t mean anything. Just a stupid joke. Work in a hospital long
enough and black humor becomes a bad habit.”

Ross cleared his throat. “At least no one’s going to accuse
this wife of helping her husband overboard. Two of my deck hands swear Jake
wandered off and was completely alone when he doubled up and pitched over the
side.”

A crewman jumped to the dock and secured the Queen’s lines.
At a neighboring slip, two Iowa Lakes Patrol officers tied their speedboat. The
Queen had towed even more law enforcement in her wake.

As soon as the gangplank was set, paramedics hustled aboard.
Hardly a minute elapsed before they wheeled Jake Olsen’s body to the ambulance.
A plaid wool blanket covered the body. Darlene trailed the official procession.
“Can I ride with him? Please.” Her voice broke, her pain evident.

“No, ma’am. Sorry.”

The ambulance doors snicked shut, and the sirens emitted a
few high-pitched burps to warn milling officials. A news photographer snapped
pictures of Darlene staring after the vehicle as it peeled away. I lost sight
of my friend when the sheriff clamped her arm and steered her toward the
museum.

That’s when I spotted a tall interloper amid the confusion
on the pier. He stood ramrod straight, watching Darlene. With his face averted,
I could only see his salt-and-pepper hair, styled not barbered. The way his
suit molded to his body proclaimed it wasn’t off any ready-to-wear rack.
Definitely a Mr. Moneybags. He looked eerily familiar. I shuddered.

He turned to stare at the Queen, and my stomach clenched.

Quentin Hamilton.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Quentin Hamilton.” The very sight of the man had me
muttering. “You pompous jerk.”

Ross’s eyebrows shot up. “What? You know him?”

“Afraid so. Sounds like you’ve made his acquaintance, too.
Why’s he here?”

May looked at me, then Ross. Her frown said she’d never
heard tell of the man—a rare occurrence for a woman who’d birthed, nursed or
sold real estate to most of Dickinson County. Ross smiled at May’s consternation.
“He’s an out-of-towner, Mom. Doubt any members of your Spirit Lake intelligentsia have researched his bio.”

I tapped Ross’s arm. “Hey, cuz, you didn’t answer—what’s he
doing here?”

He let out a long sigh. “His company provides protection
services to a lot of bigwigs, Jake included. He was all over me before this
cruise. Demanded a guest list. I politely told him to stuff it—he’d have to ask
Jake. Hamilton got huffy. Said his clients were too important to be bothered
with crap from some make-believe captain in a Halloween costume.”

Ross scrubbed his face with his hand. Exhaustion shadowed
his eyes. The day was taking its toll. “I reported the conversation to Jake. He
laughed. Said Hamilton was an arrogant bastard, and he only used the security
company because he owed Hamilton’s father.”

Ross nodded at me. “Okay, your turn, Marley. Was Hamilton some Army mucky-muck?”

“Not exactly.”

I chewed my lip. How much should I say?

“During my stint at the Pentagon, Hamilton’s firm, Thrasos
International, sought a multi-million dollar contract to revamp computer
security for Department of Defense facilities worldwide. I represented Army
Intelligence on the taskforce that slogged through proposals. I couldn’t
believe some of the follies in the Thrasos bid.”

“I think I know what’s coming,” Ross said. “You torpedoed
the bid.”

“Not exactly. General Irvine had that honor in a closed
hearing well attended by government and military elite. But I sat at the
general’s elbow. The hostile reception shocked Hamilton, who seemed unfamiliar
with his own firm’s proposal. He was furious—expected business to be handed to
him as a droit de seigneur. Since he could never accept the blame, he projected
it onto me, a convenient scapegoat.”

“So you’ve been getting dirty looks ever since.”

“After the hearing, he cornered me in a deserted hallway,
‘You,’ he snarled, drawing out each vowel into a syllable of its own. ‘You’re
finished. You hear me?’ He kept his voice low, but it quivered with hatred. He
told me no one in the military would touch me after he was finished.”

“So he bullied you into retiring?”

“God, no. I made my decision before he issued his threats.
To this day, my sole retirement regret is Hamilton’s belief that he cowed me
into a rushed departure.”

I took a deep, calming breath and gave Ross and May a Cliff
Notes version of what happened after the contract debacle. Hamilton lost a few
million, but he used his contracts to bootstrap himself back into favor. To my
mind, he still had too many former DAs, Special Ops soldiers, spooks and techie
magicians at his disposal.

We watched Hamilton follow the sheriff and Darlene inside
the museum. Suddenly I felt anxious for my old friend. She didn’t need that
dipwad bullying her. I wanted to get inside, find Darlene and offer help—even if
it was just a sympathetic ear.

As the last straggling passengers left the Queen, a couple
of sheriff’s deputies passed them on the gangplank, headed in the opposite
direction.

“Guess I’d better greet our newcomers,” Ross said. “Why
don’t you two go ahead to the museum? I imagine Eunice would welcome your
help.”

I shrugged off the blanket tucked around my shoulders and
took May’s arm. “Shall we?”

We crossed the wooden walkway onto the pier. When I glanced
back at the Queen, sheriff’s deputies had already festooned the top railing
with police tape. The ribbons of orange looked more like bunting than markers
of an accident or crime scene.

Somehow the festive image made Jake’s death seem all the
more macabre.

Eunice intercepted us before we reached the museum. “The
volunteer docents and a couple of park security guards are keeping order. You
were right, May. How did the TV, radio and newspaper folks get here so quickly?
It’s been what, half an hour since the accident?” She shook her head.

Eunice handed me a towel and a set of extra work clothes
Ross kept in his office. Though he served as museum director, he put in plenty
of time varnishing wood, painting signs and oiling gizmos. The paint-splotched
sweatshirt smelled faintly of my cousin’s aftershave.

She held a pair of worn tennis shoes by their laces. “I even
scrounged these. Ross said you’d lost yours. You can change in the restroom and
then come join us. The security guard at the theater will ask for a password.
It’s Hafer.”

I smiled. What else? Ross’s vintage Hafer runabout was his
pride and joy.

“Thanks, you’re a doll.” I hugged her. “I’ll be along
shortly.”

Since Godfather’s Pizza was located a hop, skip and jump
from the museum, the manager knew my kin well and volunteered to hang on to my
soaked waitress duds for the duration.

Ross’s sweatpants sported a drawstring waist and elastic at
the ankles, while the tennis shoes were only one size too large. I have big
feet. Still I felt a little like a homeless hobo as I entered the museum.

The pool of reporters had grown like bacteria in a Petri
dish. As Eunice warned, they roamed the exhibit areas, sniffing for story meat.
Luckily, my skuzzy apparel marked me as hoi polloi—common folk—not one of
Jake’s ritzy guests.

When I reached the theater entrance, the security guard
eyeballed me with suspicion. But as soon as I whispered “Hafer,” he motioned me
inside.

After the door closed, the throng’s whispers seemed to fuse
into a white-noise hiss. Uncharitably, I decided the affluent were gathering
gossip kindling to stoke next winter’s cocktail-circuit fires.

No sign of Darlene. Probably cooped up with Sheriff Delaney.
I did spot Aunt May mid-hubbub, making soothing noises and patting the
shoulders of sobbing guests. Eunice, who’s more than a tad shy around
strangers, hid behind the refreshment table. A relieved smile lit her face when
she saw me.

“Now I don’t feel so out of place,” she whispered. “Look how
I’m dressed.”

She wore a cotton rag sweater, jeans with that aged patina
prized by kids, and not one iota of makeup. Eunice and her twenty-five-year-old
daughter could star in a mother-daughter anti-wrinkle cream commercial.

“Hey, my fashion statement makes you look like a runway
model. But don’t worry. These people won’t notice either of us. Serfs are
invisible.”

Few young faces appeared in the middle-aged to geriatric
sea. While most were over forty, the guests tended to exude that prime-of-life
glow that’s a badge of the wealthy. Tucks, lifts, and liposuction expunged the
consequences of gravity and two-martini lunches. Emollient bronzers polished
cheeks with a warm glow. Flitting smiles revealed rows of straight teeth, so
white they bordered on fluorescent.

I’d met a few of the Iowa “Who’s Who” at the one gala I
attended. I recognized the owners of a restaurant chain featuring low-fat
buffalo steaks. An evangelist who performed lakeside baptisms for a TV
following prayed over a small group of bowed heads. While I couldn’t place any
other faces, many looked news clip familiar.

The theater door squeaked open for another latecomer. Ross.

Oh, crap. Hamilton followed at his heels. A bas-relief cord
in the man’s neck thumped like an overworked piston. Not a happy camper.

Ross fast-walked toward us with Hamilton cemented to him and
spewing invectives.

I wondered how my old enemy would react when he saw me. Had
the past three years lessened his animosity? New bulls to gore and all that?

His gaze flicked over my face. Bingo. The gray eyes narrowed
to slits. “Colonel Clark.” He addressed me with a mocking bow. “What are you
doing here?”

“No need to call me Colonel. I’m retired.”

“I heard.” He almost purred, quite pleased with himself.
Yes, the dolt thought I’d run because he’d frightened me.

I declined to explain my presence. No sense contaminating
Ross’s situation by introducing our cousinhood. With a shrug and a cold smirk, Hamilton let it go.

He coughed. Hamilton’s look seemed to blame me for whatever
he’d hawked up. He turned to Ross. “Someone from my staff will be in touch.”

He strode away as if on a presidential mission. My cousin
and I remained silent until he was out of earshot.

“So what’s that SOB want now?” I prodded. “Why are his
people contacting you?”

“He’s just trying to cover his butt. His company was on
point when his billionaire client dropped dead. He’s calculating how to shift
blame if there’s anything hinky about the circumstances.”

Ross cracked his knuckles. “The asswipe told me he’s
conducting his own probe into ‘Jake’s accident.’ He demanded background on
Queen employees and zeroed in on Carlos. Hamilton is too politically correct to
call him a gypsy, but he pigeonholed Carlos as an undesirable.”

Ross grinned. “I couldn’t help myself. Had to ask: ‘Gee,
didn’t your people vet everyone ahead of time?’ That really torqued him.”

I shook my head. “Welcome to Hamilton’s enemy list. Say, did
Olsen have a Thrasos bodyguard aboard the Queen?”

Ross cut his eyes across the room to a muscled fellow
standing at parade rest. “Yeah. That guy with the twenty-inch neck. He was in
the head taking a leak and missed all the action.”

My chuckle bubbled up before I thought better. When scowls
swiveled our way, I sobered. These people had just suffered a loss.

I touched Ross’s sleeve. “With all the excitement, I haven’t
had a chance to say how sorry I am about Jake. I know how much you liked him.”

My cousin bit his lip. “Yeah, I did. We weren’t exactly
bosom buddies, but he sure was a friend of the museum. He loved the lakes as
much as I do.”

My aunt bustled over. “Ross, there are a bunch of limos
outside. The guard tells me they’re waiting to shuttle these people to Jake’s
house for dinner. I’m certain the widow won’t want to play hostess. See if the
drivers could take these folks to their cars instead.”

Before Ross could run the errand, a sheriff’s deputy entered
and made a beeline for our group. “That’s Pete Marshall,” May said. “I was in
the delivery room when he was born. Cared for his mother before the cancer took
her.”

The lawman leaned down and whispered in May’s ear.

My aunt turned toward me. “Pete, this is my niece, Marley
Clark. Deputy Marshall here has a message from Sheriff Delaney. Apparently
Darlene wants to know if you’ll go home with her and stay the night.”

I hesitated, then nodded. I’d want company in the same
circumstances.

“Good,” Deputy Marshall said. “Follow me. I’m to drive you
and Mrs. Olsen home. The Sheriff said he’d be by later to get your statement.
You were the one who jumped in after Mr. Olsen, right?”

“Yes,” I answered. “That’ll be fine.”

Ross touched my shoulder as I turned to go. “Want me to pick
you up at Darlene’s house tomorrow morning?”

I smiled my thanks. “Okay, I’ll treat. Breakfast at the
Family Diner.”

We settled on a nine o’clock rendezvous unless I called to
reschedule.

As I left with the deputy, a scowling Hamilton pointed me
out to a local. Was he trying to ferret out my Spirit Lake connections? How
tight did he hold to his grudge? What was it Jeff used to say? “The smaller the
brain, the bigger the need for revenge.”

Deputy Marshall escorted me to his official ride and handed
me into the backseat. “Sheriff Delaney is bringing Mrs. Olsen.”

He’d barely got the words out when the sheriff shepherded
Darlene out the museum door. Predatory reporters circled like a wolf pack,
ready to cut out the weak and rip them apart with questions sharp as canine
teeth.

With a protective arm around her shoulders, the lawman
cleared a path with repeated “get out of my way” commands.

A man shouted at Darlene’s back. “How did your husband die?
How much do you inherit?” Another voice piped in, “How will this affect
Jolbiogen stock?”

Darlene looked shell-shocked. Tears dribbled down her
flushed cheeks, and smeared mascara lent a bruised look to the skin beneath her
eyes.

Until our surprise rushed reunion aboard the Queen, it had
been thirty years since I’d seen Darlene in anything except sporadic Christmas
card photos. I’d barely recognized her.

As a twenty-year-old, she’d been farmer’s-daughter
curvaceous, her strawberry blonde hair long and ironed straight. Now she was
model thin with platinum-dyed hair feathered in a short pixie style. Only her
luminous green eyes remained unchanged.

As the sheriff opened the car door for Darlene, he turned on
the reporters and held up a scrawny, sunburned hand. “Mrs. Olsen just lost her
husband—please extend a little courtesy.”

Bless you.

Darlene scooted across the bench seat and wrapped me in a
bear hug.

Sheriff Delaney leaned in. “I know you have private
security, but I’ll lend a patrol car to help keep the tabloid snoops at bay.”
His message arrived on tobacco-laced breath.

His gaze slid toward me. “Ms. Clark, I have some questions
for you. I’ll try to come by before it gets too late.”

Delaney slammed the car door and the deputy sped away,
official blue lights flashing, siren silent. The deputy didn’t say a word. The
sudden silence gave me chills.

Darlene bracketed my face with her hands and pulled my head
close so she could whisper in my ear. “Oh God! It’s so awful. We’ve only been
married a week.” A sob caught in her throat. “I can’t tell you how much it
means to have you here. Those people think I killed Jake.” Her breath felt hot,
fevered.

I squeezed her hand and kept my voice low. “Everybody knows
your husband was alone when he went overboard. No one could think you had a
thing to do with his death.”

She bit her lip, straightened, and flicked her gaze to the
back of our deputy-chauffeur’s head. “I can’t think straight,” she murmured.
“I’m numb.”

Darlene’s wary glance suggested she was reluctant to say why
she might be a murder suspect with the law eavesdropping.

I changed the subject. “Have you talked to Jake’s children?”
Ross had mentioned the billionaire had a son with wife number one, and a
daughter with wife number two. The siblings were almost as old as Darlene and
me.

“I asked Sheriff Delaney to phone them. They didn’t bother
to attend our wedding and we’re not exactly fond of each other, but I didn’t
want them to learn about their dad’s death on TV.” Her eyes narrowed. “They’ll
be here by nightfall. Carrion are quick to circle when there’s fresh kill.”

Uh-oh. The family dynamics signaled firefights ahead, and I
had no interest in serving as peacekeeper. What had I gotten myself into?

“How about your daughter? Will Julie be here soon?”

“Tomorrow morning. You’ll like her. The minute she finished
her doctorate, Jake offered her a post-doc at Jolbiogen. Called her a kindred
soul. He loved her.”

Darlene massaged her neck. Her engagement ring’s
walnut-sized diamond trapped sunlight streaming through a side window and
practically blinded me.

When she caught me gaping, her lips curved up in a wry
smile. “Kind of obscene, huh? This ring’s usually stashed in a safe. It’s only
the second time I’ve worn it. Jake said, ‘humor me,’ so I put it on. It’s so
big it looks like I pulled it from a box of Cracker Jacks.”

My friend collapsed in her seat. “I was so shocked to see
you today, balancing a tray of champagne glasses, no less. I remembered Captain
Ross was your cousin, but never dreamt you were in the area or I’d have invited
you to the party.

“Last I heard you were a Lieutenant Colonel working at the
Pentagon and married to a soldier. So I assume you’re not starting a second
career as a waitress?”

This woman just watched paramedics pronounce her husband
dead. How could she make polite chitchat?

“Hey, Darlene, we’re friends. You’ve suffered a big shock.
Forget social etiquette. It’s not like we met by accident in a supermarket
reaching for the same carton of eggs. You don’t have to make conversation.”

She shook her head. “I’m cried out. I just spent half an
hour answering the sheriff’s questions. If I close my eyes, I still see Jake
smiling, toasting me with his champagne glass. A minute later he was gone. I
need normal conversation…a few minutes of sanity. Humor me, please. Just talk.
About anything but this afternoon. Tell me about your life.”

“Okay.” I tried to remember the last time I’d sent Darlene a
Christmas card and realized she didn’t know my husband was dead or that I now
lived on a South Carolina island where I worked part-time as a security guard.

Hard to believe we’d once been so close we knew what the other
thought without a word being spoken. We’d worked together as cooks at Spirit
Resort the summer before I started Northwestern University. The workers, all
high school and college kids, lived in dormitory cottages. Darlene bunked next
to me.

We’d hit it off instantly. She was two years older—a
lifetime of experience when those years span the gulf between high school and
college. Darlene was tall, blonde and, in the parlance of the day, built like a
brick shithouse.

In Spirit days, she was feisty, swore like a sailor and led
search-and-pilfer raids on Chef Rudy’s stash of Kentucky bourbon. I adored her.
During the school year, we traded campus visits and phone calls. A second
summer of high jinks at Spirit Resort cemented our bond. Still it was the
pre-internet, pre-Facebook era, and we only stayed in touch sporadically after
the Army shipped me overseas.

As I told Darlene about my husband’s death in a car crash
and my day-to-day life on the Carolina coast, her fidgeting fingers stilled. My
monologue seemed to soothe her. By the time I completed a comic digest update
of my life, the deputy turned off the main thoroughfare onto a winding private
road.

Less than five miles from Arnolds Park, Jake’s estate
fronted on West Okoboji, one of fourteen northwest Iowa lakes gouged out by
retreating glaciers. Underground springs lent West Okoboji, the chain’s deepest
gem, its aquamarine hue and sticker-shock pricing.

Darlene sucked in a breath. “Goddamn bottom-feeders.”

Two uniformed Thrasos guards had conceded squatting rights
to reporters just outside the gate. However, the uniforms stoically defended
the estate’s perimeter stone wall and evergreen hedge. The Olsen home was
invisible from the roadway. Of course, nothing obstructed the view of lakeside
gawkers, who routinely throttled down outboards to sidle past the tycoon’s
spread.

As we approached the wrought-iron gates, a TV newswoman,
excitedly motioned to her cameraman. His lens swung our way as our car idled,
waiting for the gates to open. We slipped inside and a wall of greenery
swallowed us. A moment later, the slate roof of Jake’s fieldstone and glass
castle popped into view.

Guilty of scouting the Olsen compound in Ross’s Hafer
runabout, I recalled my aunt’s offhand appraisal—“at least ten million” and her
appreciative chuckle at Jake’s shrewd land grab. He’d used multiple agents to
scoop up five adjacent lots before anyone knew the buyer’s true identity or
what he might be willing to pay.

After razing houses in the center of the combined
properties, Jake built a Frank Lloyd Wright-style fortress straddling two lots.
The two lake homes flanking the manor were remodeled for his son and daughter.
However, according to Ross, Jake’s offspring preferred swankier watering holes
to Iowa’s meat-and-potatoes lifestyle and only visited on patriarchal command.
The final piece of the Olsen compound made my history-obsessed cousin drool—a
vintage cabin.

Gravel crunched and the police cruiser skidded to a stop. I
snuck a look at my watch—ten after six. As the deputy helped Darlene from the
car, I scrambled out my side. The day’s warmth lingered, a welcome relief from
the car’s stale air-conditioned breath. Afternoon light bathed the stunning
house in molten gold.

An older gentleman opened the front door the instant Darlene
stepped on the porch. He wore black slacks with a sharp crease and a starched
white shirt. The butler? Did anyone use that term anymore?

The man’s words rolled out in a low rumble. “Please accept
my condolences. Mr. Olsen was a fine gentleman. He’ll be sorely missed.”

His voice caught, and Darlene threw her arms around his
neck. His eyes squeezed shut, and a single tear meandered down a cheek pitted
by acne decades before.

“I know how much you’ll miss Jake.” Darlene stepped back,
releasing the gentleman from her hug. “I’d like you to meet Marley Clark. She’s
an old friend, and she’s not expecting Jeeves, so lose the Mr. and Mrs.
nonsense. Marley, meet Harvey Krantz. He manages our lake property. Jake calls
him Handyman Harve.”

Darlene’s face crumpled as she realized she’d spoken of Jake
in the present tense—the world of the here-and-now he’d never occupy again. She
closed her eyes, took a ragged breath.

Harvey’s bushy white eyebrows bracketed the deep fissure of
a frown. “Want me to talk to the caterers? I wasn’t quite sure what to do with
all the food.”

His voice had lost all trace of its frosty formality, and I
figured his relationship with Darlene came closer to fond uncle than obsequious
butler.

“Oh, cripes,” Darlene swore. “I forgot about the buffet.
Don’t worry, Harvey, we’ll figure something out.”

I trailed my friend through the great room. Her brisk pace
barely gave me time to appreciate the West Okoboji view framed by a two-story
wall of glass. Breezing through oversized glass doors, she led me onto a trio
of stone patios spilling down the hillside.

The sound of gurgling water drew my eyes to a rock-edged
waterfall. Its meandering course fed an endless-horizon swimming pool on the
terrace below before burbling its way to a lakeside catch basin I’d spotted
from a previous boat idle-by.

“Just look at all this food.” Darlene waved a hand at a
half-dozen buffet tables that practically sagged under the weight of
accumulated delicacies. “It’s a shame to waste it.”

“How about one of the camps?” I suggested. “I’ll bet the
girls at Camp Foster wouldn’t mind trading hot dogs and s’mores for a little
lobster and cheesecake.”

“What a great idea.” A smile flickered across her face.

While working at Spirit, we’d discovered we were both alumnae
of Camp Foster, a Y camp offering canoeing, archery, horseback riding and
dorm-style bunk beds. A fixture on East Okoboji for more than a century, the
camp was every eleven-year-old tomboy’s dream.

Darlene excused herself to arrange the food giveaway.

When she returned, she headed straight to the bar setup. “I
figure we can both use a drink. You still a rum and Coke fan?” I nodded and
Darlene chuckled. “Me, too. To Jake’s chagrin, I never acquired a taste for
champagne or wine.”

Pouring with a heavy hand, she splashed rum over ice in two
glasses before adding pop.

As the catering crew continued to bundle food, she led me
down to the next patio level where we sank into poolside chaise lounges,
sun-warmed and toasty. It would be almost nine o’clock before the sun set. We
had hours before the night’s chill crept across the lake.

Darlene stirred her drink with a finger. “It’s not real yet.
I can’t believe Jake’s gone. Three hours ago we were joking and laughing.”

She reached over and her fingers skated over my cheek. “I
can’t believe you dove in after Jake. Thank you for trying to save him.”

She retracted her hand and stared out at the lake. “Doc
Swann, one of our party guests, said he figured Jake was dead before he hit the
water. Probably an aneurysm.” She looked up, her eyebrows knitted. “Was he
dead? Did he say anything?”

I shook my head. “He was already gone. Whatever happened was
mercifully fast.”

Darlene stared down into her glass. “Good.”

“Had Jake been ill?”

She took a generous swallow before answering. “A while back,
he groused about eye fatigue. Then, he started getting short of breath for no
reason. The company doctor diagnosed myasthenia gravis—MG. He got it under
control and he’s been fine ever since. My husband,” she hesitated over the
word… “My husband was such a bear about privacy, it’s a wonder he even told the
doctor he had a problem. Jake never wanted anyone to suspect he had any
weakness.”

“Do you want me to call anyone?” I asked. “Family? Friends?
A minister or a doctor?”

Darlene sipped her drink. “As far as a doctor goes, forget
it. I’ve been through this before. There’s not a drug in the world that helps.
Tomorrow I’ll call our minister, but I don’t want to see him tonight. I do want
to go to the house and check in with Julie. Find out what time to expect her.
Do you want to stay here or go in?”

“Here,” I answered. “Is it okay if I take a walk?” Stone
steps meandered toward an enchanting gazebo and flower garden. I could almost
hear the buzzing of ecstatic bees.

“Of course, make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”

I ambled through the garden and stooped to smell a rose. The
swing hanging from the gazebo ceiling was a pleasant surprise. I sat and
rocked, staring at the tranquil lake. I knew all too well what it was like to
lose a husband without a moment’s warning. Darlene wouldn’t have it easy.