Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (22 page)

I squinted at him in the bright sunlight. “How did you know
where to find me?”

“Weaver told me. The bug was still operational when you made
the lunch date with your cousin. I figured you had to run down this section of
path, and I wanted to see you in private.”

“Have you identified the terrorists who bought from
Glaston?”

“Yes, thank God. Knowing Glaston was the seller was a big
help. The doctor flirted with right-wing groups for decades. I feared the
buyers were Middle East terrorists targeting our troops with deadly diseases.
Given Glaston’s profile, we started poking at different viper nests and got
lucky. We traced a Glaston email to a Bo Quigley disciple. Bo’s a racist
nutcase—a very charismatic one. Homeland Security’s been watching his group a
couple of years.”

“Have you recovered the stolen materials or made any
arrests?”

The general shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. Homeland
Security arrested the man we believe is responsible for infecting those farm
workers. They’re sweating him, and we’re getting close to having enough
evidence for a raid. I’m contacting you because he had a scrap of paper with
your name on it and your aunt’s address.”

My stomach dropped and the sweat on my arms turned to ice.
“Do you think I’m a target? I’m not about to spend a minute more with May or my
cousins if it puts them in danger.”

General Irvine seized my shoulders and held tight. “Don’t
overreact. We’re watching May’s condo. My guess is Glaston’s co-conspirators
enlisted the terrorists to monitor conversations in May’s condo. That’s why the
guy had your name and May’s address. They’re not interested in you, just in
tracking down any evidence Jake scared up.”

I wrapped my arms tight to my body to ward off a wave of
chills.

“Weaver still thinks her trap will work? That they’ll come
after her?”

“Yes. We just figured you ought to have the complete
picture. It doesn’t look as if any of the villains are foreigners. They’re
WASPs who’d blend in anywhere.”

My head reeled. “So what does this Bo character want with a
targeted virus? And where’s his money coming from? Glaston’s journal indicated
he was getting ten million for the theft.”

“Hispanics are Bo’s newest focus for hatred. The recent
downturn in the economy helped his recruitment big time. He blames illegals for
stealing jobs, grabbing freebies that bankrupt our government, and sabotaging
the American way of life. Bo has a pile of money and he’s mad as a hatter.”

“That’s why the field test targeted seasonal farm workers?”

“If we’re right, yes. We think the grand plan was to
‘cleanse’ the American population by releasing a virus targeted to kill
Hispanics in cities across the country.”

“My God. These people are crazy. Are they even human? Their
plan would kill millions of innocent civilians, bona fide citizens as well as
undocumented workers.”

Before we parted, the general promised he or Weaver would
contact me if they made progress or any change suggested my family might be in
danger. “My purpose wasn’t to frighten you,” he added. “I just believe
forewarned is forearmed.”

Walking up the path to Ross and Eunice’s house, the silence
felt ominous. Typically, Queenie and Empress—my cousin’s Shelties named for
excursion boats—get so wound up they hurl themselves against the low picture
window and yap with ecclesiastic fervor when anyone approaches. Tomblike
silence, never.

My heart hammered. Sweet Jesus, the general had made me
jumpy.

I tapped out a “Shave and a Haircut” jingle on the doorbell
to alert Eunice. A Chevy Blazer parked out front indicated Eunice hadn’t
motored away. Walking the dogs?

I strolled around back to claim an Adirondack chair and
enjoy the view from the high bluff while my sweaty body cooled. Once I rounded
the bend, I spied Eunice and her Shelties on the dock. Simultaneously, the dogs
spotted me and brayed like lunatics as they raced up and down the boardwalk’s
narrow confine. For once their racket was music to my ears.

“Be right down,” I bellowed. Since the dock was too far for
shouted conversation, I trucked down the hillside’s sixty-one stone steps. Ross
claimed there were sixty-one steps going down, two hundred and one coming back
up.

Eunice held what looked like toddler life jackets.

“Expecting youngsters?” I asked.

“They’re for Queenie and Empress. The UPS man just brought them.”

I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

Eunice didn’t crack a smile. “You know Ross. He gets in the
water and teases the dogs until they jump in. He can’t stand it if he doesn’t
have playmates. But the girls are getting up there. One day they won’t be able
to paddle to shore.”

I stifled my grin and helped Velcro Queenie into a stylish
lifejacket decorated with racing stripes.

“Okay, Queenie, honey.” Eunice leaned over the dock to
immerse Sheltie number one. “Let’s see how this works.”

The straggly-haired dog flipped and bobbed like a
cork—upside down. Her wee feet pedaled with madcap frenzy above water. “Oh,
no!” A swell threatened to carry the submerged dog away from Eunice’s
outstretched arms.

Already soaked from my run, I jumped in to right the feisty
mutt. Queenie rewarded my valor with a nip. Eunice heaped more praise on me
than a Medal of Honor winner.

She cradled the writhing mop in her arms. “How’s my baby?
Don’t you fret.”

“I’d say that lifejacket needs a little refining.” Eunice
ignored the hint of amusement in my voice.

Before we left, I noticed a sleek cabin cruiser anchored
perhaps two-hundred feet offshore. No one on deck. How odd.

***

Volunteer handyman Nels had outdone himself. The museum’s
entry showcased three classic wooden boats on raised platforms. Two 1950s-era
Chris-Crafts leaned like fancy struts at thirty-degree angles to the
passageway’s sides, while a locally built 1932 Hafer claimed top billing above
the archway. Ross had tipped the runabout on its side so everyone could covet
its cherry red leather seats, gleaming mahogany decking, and shiny brass trim.

“Wow, impressive. Who did Ross coax into hoisting the Hafer
up there?”

“Don Henderson,” Eunice replied. “He’s building a three-story
timeshare on East Okoboji and Ross sweet-talked him into burning a little midnight oil with his crane.”

“Looks terrific.” I marveled as always at what Ross
accomplished through jocularity. Everyone who meets my cousin—men and women,
young and old—are eager to find ways to bask in his hundred-watt smile. Ross is
the exception to the rule that good guys finish last.

Unfortunately, his bonhomie seems nontransferable. This week
alone, I could name a dozen folks who hadn’t taken a shine to me. For some reason,
the Hamiltons, Kyles and Olivias of this world have little affinity for lippy
broads.

As Eunice and I craned our necks to admire the boat show’s
come-hither arch, one of the museum’s part-time workers greeted us. “I’m
heading over to Godfather’s Pizza for a little breather. Wait’ll you see what
Ross is up to now!” She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

The tinkling sound of children’s laughter greeted us inside
the museum proper. Ross had donned a tattered, old-time canvas dive suit,
complete with a bell helmet that looked as if it were bolted—and rusted—in
place.

It had to be one hundred degrees inside. Ross didn’t seem to
notice. He’d recorded “Monster Mash” as background music and performed a
lurching jig in the sand surrounding the Miss Lively—the 1928 recovered wreck
displayed near the museum’s entrance. Ross’s merry blue eyes danced with more
zeal than his clunky dive boots could manage.

Two-dozen six- to eight-year-olds wearing bright aqua
T-shirts from a lakeside church camp giggled, wriggled and clapped to the
music. They gasped en masse as Ross plucked two giant bones from the wreck’s
interior.

Once he had them spellbound, the curator-showman doffed his
heavy bubble helmet. “These aren’t human bones. They’re buffalo bones unearthed
at the bottom of West Okoboji. This takes us back to a time when Indians called
our region home. Believing Big Spirit Lake had evil demons waiting to destroy
them if they ventured upon the waters, they never risked crossing any of our
Okoboji lakes. No boats, canoes or rafts of Indian origin have ever been
found—”

Having all but memorized the upcoming segment of Ross’s
history lesson, we waved farewell and sauntered down the center aisle of the
airplane-hangar sized museum. Ross had scootched around permanent exhibits to
make room for the most valuable and fragile participants in this year’s Antique
and Classic Boat Show. A red carpet runner and an overhead banner proclaimed
we’d entered the realm of wooden boat royalty.

As a nonconnoisseur, a person who wouldn’t know a 1940
Chris-Craft from a 1958 Resorter, I still was impressed with the proud
craftsmanship and timeless style. “These boats really are beautiful.”

“Thank you.” The man’s voice startled me. “Now what would
you like to know about my ‘Wet Dream’?”

“Pardon me,” Eunice said.

The speaker, whose gleaming dentures were the centerpiece of
a puckish grin, looked almost as old as the 1938 twenty-four-foot Sportsman he
stroked with proprietary pride. Wet Dream was the name the old prankster had
gilded on her bow.

Neither Eunice nor I had the heart to abandon the devilish
oldster without giving him an opportunity to brag. So we asked about the boat
and listened to his discourse on its pedigree. The speedboat was one of only
two models built during 1937 with a Scripps/Ford flathead engine. The elderly
gent claimed he’d personally applied fifteen coats of varnish to the gleaming
deck.

Escaping the garrulous showman, we wandered through one of
the museum’s overhead garage-style doors to an outside area. Each hydraulic door
opens wide enough for a small airplane to taxi through without clipping her
wings. A godsend for moving boats with six-foot beams in and out of the museum.

The open bay led to a loading and storage zone Ross had
temporarily converted into a showroom annex. Jerry-rigged canvas awnings
borrowed from regional funeral homes and lashed together with boat lines
provided spots of shade and limited protection from the elements.

We ambled through the exhibit. “I do like to look, but I’m
happy we no longer have a wooden boat—or, rather, pieces of one—strewn across
our basement. When Ross was restoring his Hafer, I had a recurring nightmare
someone would strike a match and our house would blow. Those resin fumes can
bowl you over. Once Ross started captaining the Queen, he no longer had time to
putter. Now that he’s museum director, he plays with his toys at work.”

“I resemble that remark.” Ross had snuck up behind us.
Though he’d exchanged his diving suit for a short-sleeved seersucker shirt and
lightweight khakis, he still mopped copious amounts of sweat from his forehead.
“Let’s get something to drink. I must’ve sweat off five pounds in that diving
suit. Don’t think I’ll wear that thing again before February.”

At the boardwalk Godfather’s Pizza, we traded money for
high-test calories and claimed a café table in the mild afternoon sunshine. As
we lunched, we watched antique boat enthusiasts ogle and salivate. In addition
to the boats showcased in dry dock, three-dozen vintage vessels were moored in Arnolds Park anchorages. Owners of these seaworthy boats, prepped to lead the weekend’s
stately water parade, gave short rides to tourists. Ticket revenue from the
excursions contributed to the show’s prize money.

“Just wait till you see the harbor at night,” Ross enthused.
“Prettier than Disneyworld. Colored lights drape all of these classics. They
twinkle like fairy dust.”

After we polished off our late lunch, Eunice checked her
watch. “Three o’clock. Ye gods, I have to run. Marley, I can drop you at May’s,
but you’ll have to join me for a few errands first.”

“Don’t let her hijack you.” My heart sped up. The voice
belonged to Duncan. “I just got here. Stay awhile and I’ll take you home.”

Ross pumped Duncan’s hand. “Hey, nice shirt.”

His knit polo shirt’s red pocket was embroidered with a
white Queen II logo. The rest of the package wasn’t shabby either. Crisp
chinos, polished loafers and a big smile.

“Our board meeting starts in a few minutes, but it’ll be
over quickly,” Duncan added. “We’re going to tell the rest of the board about
Jake’s bequest. Why don’t you stay, Marley? You can come straight home with me.
It’ll give us time for a boat ride before dinner.”

“If slacks are fine, it sounds like a plan. I’ll call May so
she won’t worry. Ross, can I use your computer to check emails?”

“Help yourself.”

In Ross’s office, I dialed May’s home phone. Her answering
machine picked up on the fourth ring. She’d probably latched onto some poor
walk-in schlemiel. I left a message.

To pass the time, I checked emails and piddled around on the
Web. A little after four, I tried May’s home again. No pick up. After debating
a few minutes, I dialed her work number. Though reluctant to bother her at the
office, I wanted to suggest she bring her bridge club to Arnolds Park tonight after the final rubber. Let the ladies enjoy the harbor light show her son had
planned.

“Robinson Realty,” a perky voice answered. “This is Donna.”

“Hi, Donna. This is May’s niece, Marley. Could I please
speak with my aunt—or is she with a customer?”

The pause was lengthy. “May’s not here.” Donna sounded
puzzled. “Isn’t she with you? She left about noon, after that fellow called to say you’d had an accident while you were jogging. We figured May would come
back to work or call after she picked you up. When she didn’t phone, we decided
she was playing nursemaid.”

My stomach lurched and my head started pounding. I wanted to
scream at the real estate agent, pummel her with questions until her blathering
made sense. There’d been no accident.