Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (5 page)

We claimed an empty table. Once we’d secured our very own
coffeepot, I launched a new topic, one that didn’t hint I might be in line for
iron bracelets. “What happened at the museum after Darlene and I left?”

Ross tucked his napkin into his shirt collar. “Limos
spirited away each batch of guests as the sheriff dismissed them. By the by,
some news crew filmed you and Darlene entering the Olsen estate. At first, they
identified you as ‘a friend,’ but they had your name by the eleven o’clock
news. The reporters were desperate. The only celebrity they could corner was
moi.”

I smiled. “You couldn’t resist, could you? Did you work in a
plea for donations?”

Ross’s face fell. I instantly regretted my motor mouth.

“Jeez, I feel like a ghoul. I hope nobody thinks I used
Jake’s death as a fund-raiser. I just said he was a wonderful friend of the
Queen and the museum and that we’d all miss him.”

Ross paused. “Had Jake known his time was up, he’d probably
have voted to spend his final moments on Lake Okoboji.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. It may not have been Jake’s time.
It looks like someone cheated and pushed the clock hands ahead.” The
conversational turn got me thinking about the convenient timing of Jake’s death.
Just when he’d decided to pen a new will. “Darlene mentioned her husband talked
to a local lawyer about a new will—one he probably hadn’t signed. Do you know a
Duncan James?”

“Sure. He’s on the museum board. Moved his law practice from
Ames three years ago. He’s in our general age bracket. Divorced. Lady
volunteers at the museum go gaga when he comes around. Can’t understand it
since they can swoon over me any day.” He arched an eyebrow. “Eunice toyed with
the notion of fixing you two up. Interested?”

I smiled. “It’s my policy never to date a man prettier than
me. Besides, most hunks our age date babes, not boomers. You say he’s from
Ames? Wonder if Darlene knew him when she lived there.”

Our breakfasts arrived and we tucked into the impressive
stockpiles of fat and carbohydrates. “Tell me again about the history of that
old cabin on the Olsen estate.”

I figured the prompt would keep Ross yammering through
breakfast and beyond. When we were kids, his aversion to book learning earned
veiled threats from his mom. Hard to believe he now devoured any book, letter
or diary he could lay hands on—provided it dealt with the Iowa Great Lakes. He
loved recounting tales about Indian uprisings, robber barons and ghost stories.

His lips hitched up in a grin. “Boy oh boy, I’d love to have
that cabin as an annex to our museum.”

Like a Jim Carey disciple, Ross could instantly transform
his rubber-like face to reflect boyish glee, and he had Jerry Seinfeld’s gift
for timing. The one-two punch made his love of the lakes contagious.

“Clarice Hunter haunts that cabin. She drowned in 1928 when
the Miss Lively sank. Clarice’s beau saved himself, left her to drown. No one
knows exactly how she got trapped. The boat went down at a spot where the
lake’s one hundred feet deep. The wreck wasn’t recovered until scuba divers
happened on it by accident.” He waved a forkful of biscuit. “The day after she
sank, Clarice’s body floated into the bay near that cabin. Newspaper accounts
speculated her foot wedged under a seat, sentencing Clarice to a very
unpleasant death.”

“So why haunt that cabin?”

“She and her boyfriend rented it with two other couples.
She’s searching for the friends and lover who abandoned her.”

“I can see why she’d be a little crotchety. I won’t hold any
séance if I take a look inside.”

Ross reached for his wallet. “I know you said you’d buy, but
it’s my treat today.”

I pushed my clean plate across the tattered oil tablecloth
with a whimper of satisfaction. “I’m surprised May didn’t join us.”

“Mom seldom eats breakfast out. Claims she needs time to
read the obituaries and make sure her name’s not there. She starts a little
slower, but she should be raring to go by now.” Suddenly his smile evaporated.
“Don’t tell Mom that Sheriff Delaney thinks you’re a suspect. She’d have a coronary—or
he would after she cut out his tongue.”

Since May’s a tad hard of hearing, Ross rang the buzzer
repeatedly before opening the door with a spare key wedged under a
flowerpot—traditional Iowa security.

“Come in, come in.” May’s disembodied voice floated from her
boudoir. “Just got out of the shower. Won’t be long—no sense gilding the lily.”

Ross wheeled my suitcase inside. “Want it in the guest
bedroom?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He lifted the suitcase onto a cedar chest and headed back to
the living room. “Think I’ll read the sports section. Didn’t have a chance
earlier.”

Goosebumps sashayed up my arms. May cranked her
air-conditioning to sub-zero. Weren’t older ladies supposed to like heat?
Unzipping my tote bag to grab a cardigan, I spied Steve Watson’s package. Ross
would get a kick out of a little show-and-tell.

Steve, an old Army buddy, runs a “Defend-U” Internet
business. While he doesn’t sell machineguns, hand grenades or other weapons of
mass destruction, he provides everything from bear repellent to Klingon
“fantasy” weapons for people fearing terrorists, aliens, wild hogs or Goth
teens. He relies on me and other retired vets to field test his gadgets.

I walked to the living room and dumped my beta testers at
Ross’s feet. “Want to see my newest toys?”

My cousin peeked over his newspaper. “A cell phone? Thought
you were as rabid about them as I am about jet skis.”

I laughed. “These are gadgets from my friend with the
Internet store. The cell phone’s a disguised stun gun. That perfume atomizer
holds pepper spray.”

Ross chuckled. “What’s with the gas mask, gloves and
binoculars?”

“Worried about anthrax in your mail? Bio gloves are the
answer. The binocs are night vision goggles—all the better to spy on neighbors.
Not sure about the gas mask.”

A note from Steve was tucked in with the goodies. I read it
aloud: Marley—Finally found a cell phone to your taste. P.S. Does the gas mask
bring back fond memories?

Ross arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”

I smiled. “We tested chemical warfare battledress at Fort
Bragg. The suits had two defects: one, you couldn’t pee; two, the built-in com
systems made everyone sound like Donald Duck on helium. Orders were
unintelligible. We had to resort to charades.”

My cousin rolled his eyes. “Sorry I missed the fun. Sounds
right up there with belly-crawling through swampland.”

“Guess I’d better find a discreet location to try out these
gizmos. Your mom doesn’t need neighbors phoning the cops about a gas-masked mad
woman. I unnerved them enough taking my Tae Bo routine on the balcony.”

I stuffed the gloves, mock cell and atomizer in my shoulder
bag and returned the bulky gas mask and night vision goggles to my suitcase.

A phone rang. By the time I re-entered the living room, May
had the receiver plastered to her ear. She cupped a hand over the
mouthpiece—“It’s Darlene”—and handed me the phone.

A short cord afforded no privacy and May and Ross made no
bones about eavesdropping. I tried to ignore them and keep my side of the
conversation cryptic.

“Uh huh. Uh huh…You’re kidding!…How could they get lab
results so fast?…Does the sheriff have a suspect?”

The receiver wasn’t back in its nest before May insisted on
details. “Was Jake murdered?”

No point stonewalling. May and Ross would unearth the
answers with or without my help. Spirit Lake’s a small town.

“According to current theory, someone filled Jake’s Visine
bottle with something called cyclogel. When he put drops in his eyes, it shut
his lungs down. Jake suffered from MG, an autoimmune disease, so he was
especially vulnerable.”

My cousin leaned forward. “Wait a minute. This is Spirit
Lake not L.A. We have no magical CSI lab to provide instant results. What
gives?”

“The results aren’t official. Jolbiogen’s CEO offered
expedited lab analyses. The M.E. gave Jolbiogen autopsy tissue samples, swabs
from Jake’s champagne glass, and samples from a Chapstick tube and Visine
bottle, the only items in Jake’s pocket. Gertie also sent samples to the state
lab for parallel testing. It’ll be weeks before the official results come
back.”

May’s forehead wrinkled. “Cyclogel. Well, I’ll be. Pretty
ingenious, getting the victim to do himself in. Took me a minute to work it
out. Never would have if I hadn’t taken care of a couple MG patients. ”

Ross sighed. “Okay, Mom, stop looking like the cat that
swallowed the canary. What are you talking about?”

“Optometrists use cyclogel to paralyze and dilate patients’
eyes. That’s why Jake’s pupils looked so big. Did Jake use eye drops a lot?”

“He had allergies.” Ross shrugged. “Always carried a bottle.
But back up—are you saying optometrists can kill patients with this stuff?”

May harrumphed. “Keep your britches on, I’m getting there.
Marley said Jake had MG, a disease that tends to afflict men over fifty.”

I held up a hand. “But Darlene told me Jake’s MG was under
control.”

My aunt gave me “the look” and I shut my trap. May didn’t
cotton to audience cue cards. As a nurse, she’d spent years translating medical
mumbo jumbo for dazed patients. Sooner or later, she’d dumb down an explanation
for us.

“MG fries muscle receptors. It shrinks the number of healthy
ones available to respond when the brain sends a message, like reminding the
lungs to breathe. Undiluted cyclogel would muddle communication with the
remaining receptors. When Jake’s muscles failed, his lungs quit. No air. Asphyxiation.”

Ross tugged on his moustache. “Would a dose of pure cyclogel
have killed someone who didn’t have MG?”

May shook her head. “Doubt it. The killer must have known
about his illness.”

My stomach clenched. That narrowed the suspect list.
“Darlene said Jake was rabid about keeping his illness a secret.”

May’s eyes narrowed. “Someone could have taken a gander at
his medical file, or Jake might have confided in a Jolbiogen researcher looking
into autoimmune disease research.” She lasered me with her baby blues. “Then
again, Marley, your long-lost friend could be involved.”

She held up a hand, anticipating my protest. “People change.
I’m not saying Darlene did it, but you need to butt out. You’re tempting fate
spending time with her before Sheriff Delaney looks into this mess. Even if
she’s innocent, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts someone in Jake’s family of vipers
is guilty as sin.”

I was sorely tempted to blurt out that Delaney’s suspect
list included me. Maybe that little tidbit would remind Aunt May suspects are
innocent until proven guilty. I kept my mouth shut. No point arguing. I’d yet
to change one of May’s opinions. Not that I wasn’t equally pigheaded. Darlene
needed a friend. End of story. I’d keep our afternoon date.

May lowered her recliner footrest and pushed to her feet. “I
know that look, Marley. You’re going to ignore me so I won’t beat a dead horse.
But it’s less than two weeks to my birthday and our overdue family reunion. Can
you still drive me to Gull Point and take a look at the banquet menu before you
go gallivanting off to the Olsens?”

“You bet.”

Ross saluted his mom. “Guess I’m dismissed. I need to get
cracking on our Antique and Classic Boat Show. We’ve signed one hundred entries
and I need to figure out what boat goes where.” He cut me a look of devilish
glee. “Every one of them deserves the red carpet treatment reserved for ye old
mahogany missionaries.”

I returned his grin. “Yes, I remember your motto—‘If God had
wanted plastic boats, he’d have grown plastic trees.’”

“Right you are, Cuz. I fully intend to bamboozle the winners
into showing off their wooden darlings in a rotating permanent exhibit.”

Aunt May sighed. “Lord help me, I suckled an idjit. How in
blazes can you shoehorn more boats in that museum? You have to leave room for things
women like—old photos, swimsuits, antique beach toys.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, that’s why they pay Captain Ross the big
bucks. We just need a new exhibit wing.” He paused half way out the door. “Say,
I promised Eunice to remind you both about dinner at the Outrigger. Six o’clock okay?”

“I can’t swear I’ll make it,” I answered. “I’m due at
Darlene’s late afternoon. I may not finish by six.”

Aunt May rolled her eyes. “A mistake,” she grumbled. “You’re
being a danged fool.”

***

Assuming my customary chauffeur duties, I headed May’s Buick
toward West Okoboji and Gull Point State Park. The midmorning sun beamed at
full wattage, boosting the temperature inside the vehicle to broil. May jacked
up the air. Not a day for rolled-down windows. Strong gusts shook the car. The
arms on the town’s Picasso-esque windmills twirled in a blurred frenzy.

Ross seized on blustery days like this to educate tourists
about Spirit Lake’s perch atop a Great Plains ridge. The location makes the
Iowa Great Lakes nirvana for summer sailors and a boon to insulation
contractors come November. The area’s windy status also helped secure grants
for two of Iowa’s first windmills.

Today’s westerly blasts were not auspicious. A big storm
brewed over the plains. That meant we were likely to be watching natural
fireworks come dusk.

As we turned on Highway 86, I glanced at May. A comment
Darlene made about her first husband troubled me. Maybe I should ask another
widow’s opinion.

“Darlene said she was angry after her first husband died. I
sensed she truly was mad at Mike—not fate. Were you angry at Uncle John after
his death?”

May doffed her glasses and polished away. “Felt sorry for
myself, mad at being left alone. No one in her forties expects to be widowed.
But angry with John? No. He certainly didn’t want to leave the boys or me.
’Course, struggling to make ends meet left little time to wallow in emotions.”

She paused. “Do you know how Darlene’s first husband died?
Maybe he did something dumb that helped him wind up in a coffin. Could be he
fought with Darlene, stormed out, ran a stop sign. Stupidity might make a widow
feel anger along with other hurts.”

I nodded. “Makes sense.” Out of morbid curiosity, I’d look
up a news account of Mike’s death.

As we approached the park, May studied her planner. “I’ve
already reserved Gull Point for our Friday fish fry but I need to check out the
lodge’s kitchen.”

May’s reunion plans also included a Saturday picnic, a
Sunday cruise aboard the Queen and a finale banquet at Village West for sixty
people—a number inflated by “shirt-tail relations.”

Though May was a relative-by-matrimony, I loved her as much
as any blood kin. So had my mom. As working mothers in a June Cleaver era, they
had plenty in common.

For years, my bond with Aunt May seemed flash-frozen.
Whenever we visited, we slipped into adult-child roles and reminisced about the
good old days. Then, once Alzheimer’s claimed Mom, we conversed as adults,
giving our relationship a deeper dimension.

As May poked around the lodge kitchen, I strolled down to
the sandy beach. The stone buildings and arbor of bur oaks looked just as they
did in tintypes taken before I was born. I could almost see the ghosts of
reed-thin Grandpa Carr lighting his pipe, his stout wife anchoring a picnic
tablecloth as winds stirred whitecaps on the lake.

“Hey, give the woolgathering a break,” Aunt May called.
“Come give me a hand with some measurements.”

Our Gull Point mission complete, we stopped by Mrs. Lady’s
for lunch—hand-dipped ice cream—then popped into O’Farrell Sisters to order homemade
pies. At our last stop, Village West, we picked up menus from a chatty
group-meeting coordinator and my aunt inquired after three generations of her
family.

“Now be sure to give my best to your grandmother,” she sang
out as we reached the door. She didn’t add “the big twit” until we started down
the stairs.

I rolled my eyes. “May, you’re incorrigible.”

“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything—until
you’re out of earshot.”

After buckling her seatbelt, she slumped against the
headrest and sighed. “I’m too pooped to pop. Time for a wee bit of shuteye.”

May slipped into her bedroom for a nap; I sauntered down the
hill to fetch her mail from the community mailboxes. The haul proved
predictable—AARP specials, optometrist bills and antique catalogs.

“Colonel Clark. I need to speak with you.” The
thirty-something speaker loped across the lawn with an athlete’s easy grace. I
envied her long strides, if not her height—over six-feet. We’d never met. I’d
have remembered the angular face, patrician nose, and red-gold hair. Arresting.

The Colonel salutation and a nondescript sedan parked
catty-corner from the condo entrance tipped me off. Military or law
enforcement.

She flipped open her badge. “Sherry Weaver, FBI. Could you
spare a few minutes? Maybe we could sit in the shade and talk?”

“Okay.” She’d raised my curiosity and my guard.

She led the way to a shaded park bench. “Hope I didn’t
startle you. I needed to catch you in private.” She stopped, licked her lips
and started again. “I’m looking into Jake Olsen’s murder.”

Most folks get nervous when an authority figure braces them.
Even innocents think, “What did I do?” I wasn’t immune. A quiver of fear
tightened my throat, but the FBI agent seemed even jumpier.

“You’re taking over the investigation from Sheriff Delaney?”
I asked.

“Not exactly. We’re keeping the FBI and military roles
quiet. I’ve been on the case three weeks. We hope to wrap up our investigation
discreetly before the press gets wind and complicates our investigation.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I laughed. “Reporters already
outnumber tourists. But I’m confused. Jake died yesterday. Yet you say you’ve
been investigating for weeks. Was he getting death threats?” Then her military
mention hit home. “And how’s the military involved? True, I’ve been retired two
years, but I don’t recall Congress rescinding the prohibition against military
involvement in domestic investigations.”