Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (21 page)

Vowing not to subject any new morning visitors to my
crumb-decorated wardrobe or peanut butter breath, I set my alarm for seven a.m.
Plenty of time to imbibe java and brush my teeth before a doorbell rang.

My precaution proved unnecessary. I woke at six thirty and started coffee. A peek into May’s bedroom confirmed she still slept. I
eased the door shut and called first dibs on our hot water supply. The steamy
shower felt heavenly.

By the time I dressed, May presided in her easy chair,
coffee cup in one hand, “Des Moines Register” in the other.

“Morning,” I greeted.

“Good morning.” A chipper reply. “It’s sure nice having
coffee ready. Why don’t you set an alarm every morning? Six or six-thirty would
be dandy.”

“Fat chance. I’ll put a new coffeepot on your Christmas
list, one with auto start. What’s on your agenda, May? Is this your day for
office duty?”

“Yeah, my turn to answer phones.” She wrinkled her nose. “Nine until two. Every now and again, office duty pays with a lucrative walk-in, but
mostly, it’s boring. One reason I’m thinking of retiring. My eightieth
birthday’s right around the corner. Why the heck should I dance to someone
else’s tune?”

I grinned. “Pardon me for contradicting, but you’re allergic
to retirement. Remember, you tried it and it didn’t take? You love to crank up
your charm-o-meter and schmooze with strangers. Besides your real estate
broker’s wrapped around your little finger. Tell him to jump and he’ll ask how
high. Ask him to take you off office rotation.”

“I could,” my aunt admitted. “Truth is, I’m not as sharp as
I used to be. Sometimes I look at numbers—offers or real estate comps—and I
can’t remember why they’re there, what they mean. Your mom confessed the same
unease, and less than a year later, whamo! Alzheimer’s hit sis like a Mack
truck. Remember? That’s when she started hallucinating about machine guns in
the mall and started calling cops on neighbors she swore stole her pocketbook.”

I remembered. Oh, how I remembered. Nevertheless, May’s
forgetfulness and occasional mental lapses had a very different character, and
I told her so. For better or worse, May’s personality showed no sign of change.

“May, none of us is at the top of our game when we’re
tired,” I offered. “You just get weary a bit more easily. With one word, I can
tell you why Alzheimer’s isn’t a worry. That word is bridge. You’ve been top
dog in your bridge club for six months running. No way could you win
consistently if Alzheimer’s were creeping up.

“Mom loved cards and never missed a trick. About two years
before other symptoms surfaced, she started forgetting cards, losing count,” I
added. “That was our first hint of trouble. You’re fine. Trust me.”

I crossed the room, hugged May and kissed her cheek. God, I
prayed my layman’s diagnosis was correct. I couldn’t stand to see another
bright woman—a woman I loved—mentally wither.

“Where are you playing bridge tonight?” I asked.

“At Gertie’s. June’s picking me up at six-thirty. Say, kid,
want to come? The ladies wouldn’t mind a little kibitzing. You could even sit
in on a hand or three.”

“Thanks, May, but I made plans with Duncan. Dinner and
Okoboji Summer Theater. He has season tickets.”

May closed her eyes. A smile played on her lips. “Duncan reminds me of Bob. We had lots of fun. Maybe you’ll get all prickly when I say
this, but I get damn tired of spending all my time with women. They jabber
about the same nonsense. It’s nice to go out to dinner with a man…to have a man
pay you a compliment…to have a man hold your hand.”

I sighed. “I understand. You know, I’ve always been a little
puzzled why you never married Bob.”

May had “dated” Bob for ten years, starting at age
sixty-five. The relationship ended when he died of cancer. The two had golfed
together in a senior couples’ league, played in a weekly bridge group, and
dined out every Tuesday and Friday. Even my doting male cousins approved of
May’s charming suitor.

I smiled when I realized I’d never allowed my mind to wander
to May’s sex life. Why is it that we imagine our elders live in sexless
purgatory until we start to approach the same stage of life?

May raised her coffee cup, took a sip. “Bob asked, I
considered. I think he popped the question because he felt obligated. I doubt
he wanted to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. We liked our
arrangement. I could spend time alone whenever I pleased, but I was never
lonely. With my own bank account, I could splurge on anything—antiques, my
boys, grandkids—without fretting I’d be chastised for going overboard. Plus, if
I got a hankering to visit my far-flung chicks, I could hop on a plane. Bob had
children, too, a tight-knit family. Neither of us needed a new spouse. We
needed a friend—a special friend of the opposite sex.”

Was that what I wanted from a relationship? No children
complicated my equation. Like May, I treasured my independence and relished
occasional solitude.

A doorbell interrupted my mental meandering.

“Morning,” I greeted Weaver before she could push the bell a
second time.

“Hello, Marley.” She strode across the room to greet May. “A
pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Carr. Sorry your family’s been dragged into the
Olsen troubles. I’m sure you’ve been worried about Marley. I’m pleased to
report we should have this business wrapped up soon. Would you two like to join
me for breakfast?”

Clearly Weaver played to hidden microphones. She knew May’s
schedule.

“Wish I could,” May replied. “You two go ahead. I have to
leave for my office shortly and won’t be back till after two. Marley, that
means you won’t have wheels. You’ll have to call Eunice or Ross to play taxi
driver if you need to go somewhere.”

“Not a problem, May. Have a great day.”

With a round of waves, we parted.

Weaver speed-walked toward her government-issued sedan. I
stayed on her heels. She shot out of the parking lot. I assumed we were headed
for what had become “our spot”—the Kettleson Hogs Back Wildlife Refuge.

The FBI agent swiveled her head my way. “Wait till we get
there.”

The cleared straightaway leading to the refuge made it
impossible for a tail to go unnoticed. Our empty rearview mirror bolstered
Weaver’s confidence we were alone. The rendezvous spot’s only inhabitants were
perhaps a hundred squawking trumpeter swans.

She climbed out of the car. I joined her. “Jolbiogen ran the
DNA tests,” she began without preamble. “Your hunch was right, we found a
genetic shocker. Kyle Olsen and Quentin Hamilton are half brothers, and Jake
Olsen didn’t come up as daddy for either. How on earth did you know?”

“What! I didn’t. Kyle and Quentin Hamilton are brothers?
You’re kidding. There’s no resemblance beyond some nasty personality traits. I
knew Jake wasn’t Kyle’s biological father. I thought there was a remote
possibility Hamilton had an illegitimate kid working at Jolbiogen. Who do you
think Glaston blackmailed?”

“My bet’s on Kyle. He had the most to lose,” Weaver replied.
“Maybe Kyle enlisted his half-brother’s help. They were friendly even before
the DNA test. I assume Ansley Hamilton was our indiscriminate sperm donor. The
notion that Kyle and Quentin are both bastards with the same phantom father is
too big a stretch.”

I shook my head, mystified. “I don’t see this as fodder for
blackmail. What’s the big deal? The sons aren’t at fault. Neither was Jake.
Ansley Hamilton’s the jerk, and he’s dead. Who cares? Ancient history not even
worthy of a reality show.”

“I’ll bet Kyle and Hamilton care—maybe enough to kill over
it,” Weaver countered. “We’re talking money and prestige. Maybe Kyle figured
Jake would disown a son who was the issue of a friend’s traitorous fling. Hamilton wouldn’t want his precious family name besmirched either. He revels in his
blue-blood genealogy and lofty perch among Washington’s elite.”

I shoved my hands in my pocket. “Too bad Hamilton’s
vulnerability to blackmail seems iffy. He’s a better candidate for criminal
mastermind. He knows how to stage crimes, manufacture evidence and hire
black-op types. Since Thrasos protects big shots from rock stars to foreign
royalty, he can access Interpol and other intelligence on the world’s top
assassins.”

It was hard for me to imagine Kyle pulling off the
complicated murders alone. “The sad part is Jake knew from the get-go that Kyle
was his ‘adopted’ son. He kept it secret because he wanted to protect their
relationship. Jake loved him.”

The FBI agent jingled the keys in her pocket. “Sad but
irrelevant. What Kyle believed is all that matters. He probably figured the DNA report would devastate his old man.”

“I guess,” I admitted reluctantly.

Weaver straightened from her slouch. “How about this?” Her
choppy hand gestures communicated excitement. “Let’s say Jake discovered
Glaston was the thief and gave his son-in-law a small window to turn himself
in. Instead Glaston blackmailed Kyle into helping him kill Jake. Then, once he
had one murder under his belt, Kyle decided murder wasn’t all that difficult
and whacked Glaston.”

I wasn’t buying. “Glaston I can see. But would Kyle murder
his own sister and wife in cold blood?”

“Hey, he’d just received a news flash that Gina Glaston
wasn’t even a half-sister. The drunk would take millions out of his pocket if
she lived longer than Jake. Remember the terms of the will? And Kyle was
boinking this Vivian woman, a classic reason to off the missus.

“Or maybe Olivia listened in on the wrong conversation. We
do know that Kyle didn’t waste any time shacking up with Vivian Riley, his
long-time lover.”

“Any evidence to support your theories?”

“Not a shred,” she admitted. “Just my gut. We’ll find
evidence. Kyle isn’t as smart as he thinks. Hamilton either, if he’s in the
mix.”

Now that we’d moved from speculation to evidence gathering,
I asked why Weaver hadn’t tried to locate and capture May’s eavesdropper. “Even
if it’s a hired hand, couldn’t you tie him to Kyle or Hamilton?”

“Our equipment tells us the receiver’s located inside a
five-mile radius. Doesn’t narrow things down much. It could be in a rented
house, a hotel room or a vacant unlocked cabin. Dozens of second homes sit
empty, especially during the week.”

“What’s your next move?”

Weaver kicked at some gravel. “I’m disappointed your chat
with Ross about new evidence didn’t panic our targets. We’ll pull the plug on
this phase of the operation. This afternoon we’ll do a sweep and electronically
block the eavesdropper who’s tuning into your aunt’s condo.”

My relief wasn’t complete. “I’d feel better if you had
concrete proof Kyle’s your killer.”

“Me, too. Guess I’d better get to work and make that happen.
I’ll stay in Spirit Lake one more day. If we don’t get a break here, I’ll head
to Omaha and follow other leads. I’ll contact you when I have something new to
share.”

“I hope that’s soon. Darlene must be going crazy, wondering
if and when she and Julie can reclaim their lives.”

***

I checked our refrigerator bulletin board and, sure enough,
found a scribbled note from May: “Be home three p.m. latest. Call 555-1875 if
you need me.”

Poised in front of the refrigerator, I opened the freezer
and helped myself to a Dairy Queen Dilly Bar, my favorite summer breakfast.

Having decided to run ten miles to atone for recent caloric
transgressions, I snagged a tourist map from May’s hoard of real estate
giveaways and calculated a Spine Trail route that would deposit me close to
Ross and Eunice’s doorstep. They’d given me a key so I could shower and change
clothes at my alternate vacation base.

Hmm, wonder if Eunice might want to join me for a late lunch
at Arnolds Park. Using May’s speed dialer, I punched the button labeled with my
cousin’s name. Eunice picked up on the fourth ring. A yawn preceded her
response.

“You know how I hate mornings, breakfast and cooking. One o’clock sounds perfect. You sure you want to run over here on the Spine Trail?”

“Yep, I need the exercise. I’ll change at your house.”

“Okay, I’ll let Ross know we’re coming. You know how he is
on the first day of a show. The big parade isn’t till Saturday, but all the
boats go on display at noon. He practically needs a towel to mop up his drool.”

The boat show offered a fun finish line for my run. My first
post-Tipsy House visit to Arnolds Park would be in broad daylight. Good. On
this sunny June day, there’d be no shadows to hide imaginary bogeymen.

My jog generated more than a few extra huffs and puffs,
payback for a few days’ layoff. The exertion performed its usual mind-scrubbing
magic, allowing me to think clearly about the merits of Weaver’s hypotheses.

I had trouble imagining a well-off executive—filthy rich by
my yardstick—killing four people to protect an inheritance. Yet the
half-brothers appeared to have inherited the same arrogance gene. Maybe Kyle
considered himself too intelligent to be caught.

Were Kyle and Hamilton in cahoots? Hamilton’s company hired
plenty of ex-CIA and FBI agents. Corporations called on Thrasos to salvage
computer records deleted by embezzlers. If Hamilton wanted files to permanently
disappear, he only needed to reverse the process.

An unholy alliance between the half-brothers made a certain
sick sense. The pair had opportunity with a capital O.

Weaver’s problem. Like it or not, I was out of the fray.
Truth was I liked it. I was ready to enjoy my relatives—and Duncan, lust
willing—for the remainder of my “vacation.”

I rounded a corner and saw a man in the distance. He stood
perfectly still. Not a runner. After a few more steps, recognition dawned.
General Irvine.

“General.” My greeting came between pants. I’d been running
flat out.

“We can walk and talk,” he said. “Looks like you’re ready
for a cool down.”