Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (8 page)

The warm whisky and candlelight nibbled at my inhibitions.

“Yeah, when you’re over fifty, it’s tough to keep a straight
face and claim ‘I’m saving myself for marriage.’ Nowadays the trick is to find
a socially-acceptable way to exchange certification that you’re HIV-free.”

“Darn, I forgot to put mine in my wallet,” he quipped.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He added softly, “You
really should get out of your wet clothes.”

Duncan touched my arm through the beige—and, I suddenly
realized—almost transparent blouse molded to my breasts. Worse yet, the damp
silk advertised my arousal. Might as well have taken out an “I’m horny”
billboard. Even the most discreet gentleman would notice.

“Right you are,” I choked out. “Back in a jiffy.”

Mortified, I sprinted toward the guest bedroom, shed my wet
clothes, and slipped on shorts and an oversized velvet pullover—thick enough to
camouflage any eager salutes by my girls. Returning to the living room, I chose
the chair adjacent to the couch. Away from temptation.

“Hey, come closer so we can talk without waking your aunt. I
won’t bite.”

Unable to think of a comeback, I surrendered. A
hand-crocheted afghan rested on the back of the sofa. Duncan draped it around
our shoulders. A cozy cocoon. The candles sputtered down to nubs as we talked.
I glanced at my watch—five after midnight.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked in disbelief.

“Past time to do this.” He brushed his lips over mine. They
felt warm, insistent.

Okay, if Duncan had a fatal flaw, it wasn’t his kiss.

The fantasy I’d squelched in the restaurant forced my heart
into double time. I imagined his body sliding against mine. In my flight of
fancy, Duncan’s dog tags swayed.

Where had the dog tags come from? Get a grip, Marley. Are
you nuts?

Since Jeff’s death, I’d bedded exactly one man—and I hadn’t
collapsed into Braden’s arms like a rag doll the day we met. Had that spring
fling short-circuited my brain? When Braden left the South Carolina coast to
return to Atlanta, we released each other of any romantic commitment. Still I
felt obliged to ease off the gas pedal.

My brain dismissed the yellow caution light to focus on the
teeth nibbling my earlobe. My reservations melted faster than chocolate chips
in a double boiler. I think I refrained from purring. His hands sauntered
lower, heating the skin beneath the velvet. My fingers joined the dance as I
threaded them through his curly hair. Our tongues twined in exploration.

Duncan lifted his head and broke the embrace. A space opened
between us. Cool air raced in, raising goosebumps on my heated skin.

“Sorry, Marley. Don’t know what came over me.” He trailed a
finger down my cheek. “I’m fifty-five years old not a rutting teenager. I don’t
want to give May a stroke by propositioning her niece on her living room
couch.” He stood, pulled me to him, tilted my face to his. His thumb trailed
along my cheek. “Can I call you? Tomorrow? I promise to be more romantic.”

I squeaked out a ladylike, “sounds great” and squelched my
desire to say, “the hell with romance, I’m ready any place, any time.”

I was on vacation, old enough to know better, young enough
not to need a pacemaker. Life was good. Inside our candlelit cavern, our
encounter seemed more fantasy than reality.

My brain argued it was good our necking halted a mile short
of my erotic daydream. Reality never lives up to fantasy, right?

Yet I sensed I’d have been quite content with Duncan’s reality. Who needs swaying dog tags?

A phone rang, loudly and insistently. I groped the bedside
table to still it. Oh, I wasn’t sleeping in my own bed. The bell tone cranked
above humane decibel limits was in May’s room, not mine. The ringing ceased.

It was pitch black. The alarm clock’s fluorescent numbers
flashed 5:05 a.m. No one calls at this hour unless it’s an emergency.

Was it some family crisis? I threw on a robe. My knock
opened Aunt May’s door a crack. Phone to her ear, she motioned me inside.
“You’re kidding. They’re both dead?” Her eyes went wide, all trace of sleep
gone. “The sheriff’s there, right? Yes, yes, I’ll put Marley on.”

May handed me the phone and sagged against her pillows. She
looked so fragile, her skin almost translucent with the veins at her temples
visibly throbbing. Without benefit of a comb’s camouflaging efforts, her pink
scalp played hide-and-seek through her wispy hair.

“Marley, it’s Darlene. I know I’m putting a real burden on
an old friendship but could you come to the house? Now? I called Duncan, too. I’m petrified.”

A small sob forced a pause. “The sheriff’s next door.
They’re taking the bodies away.”

“Bodies?” I interrupted. “What bodies?”

“Sorry, my brain’s scrambled. I told May, not you. Gina and
Robert—the Glastons—are dead. Eric came home snockered and registered something
wasn’t right. Lights burning at four a.m. in both his mom’s bedroom and his
step-dad’s. He stumbled upstairs and found them dead. I’m really scared.”

I clutched the lapels of my robe and shivered. “I’ll come
right away.” My promise earned a stern look of disapproval from my aunt. “Give
me half an hour, but I’ll be there.”

May started her harangue before I hung up. “Are you crazy?
Bodies are stacking up like cordwood, and you mosey into the fray like it’s a
Sunday school picnic. Has to be some Looney-toon. I know, I know. You think you
can take care of yourself, but nobody’s safe around crazies.”

“May, calm down, the sheriff’s there—heck, probably the
whole Sheriff’s Department. No killer is going to try something right under
Delaney’s nose.”

“Then answer me this.” May pinned me with a stare. “How did
the Glastons get murdered with private cops scurrying around like cockroaches
and a security system worthy of Fort Knox?”

Excellent question.

I shrugged. “Maybe it was a murder-suicide. The couple
didn’t exactly impress me as America’s sweethearts.”

The upside of May’s excitement? No questions about Duncan. The reprieve gave me hours to prepare for her grilling and decide how I felt about
the unexpected mutual attraction.

I kissed May’s cheek. “I’ll be careful. Promise. Go back to
sleep. Odds are I’ll be home before breakfast. Is it okay if I take the Buick?
What time do you leave for church?”

“The service starts at ten. But my neighbor can give me a
ride. Go on, take the car.”

Despite my hurry in dressing, I took more care with grooming
than the emergency warranted. I damn well knew the reason.

Would our first post-amorous meeting feel awkward? I hoped
not. Even if last night’s heat proved the proverbial flash in the pan, it was
nice to know a sturdy match could light my out-of-warranty pilot.

***

The estate’s gates stood open. An ambulance rolled past in
the opposite direction. Its leisurely pace confirmed its destination—Spirit Lake’s now busy morgue. A pewter-gray sky cast a funereal pall over the landscape.
The rain had halted and puddles glinted like black ice beneath the security
lights.

I pulled up and waited for the Thrasos guard to approach.
I’d spoken to the same sentry when I left on yesterday’s run. He remembered me.
A glance at his clipboard and he motioned me ahead. “Please park to the right,
Mrs. Clark.”

Waaaay back, when first inoculated with feminist furor, I
corrected folks, let ’em know it was “Ms.” not “Mrs.” Never bothered nowadays.
Political correctness means nada. Either people think women have brains and
deserve independent status from the men in their lives, or they don’t.

Happily, my husband belonged to the first camp. We’d married
late and neither of us could fathom why marriage should change my identity or
last name. God, I loved Jeff and missed him. Nothing ever touched that
compartment of my life. Not friends, not family, not a lover.

A gaggle of official cars cluttered the Glaston driveway.
The catawampus parking angles testified to the hyped-up state of the drivers.
Only one vehicle sat outside Darlene’s mansion. Duncan’s convertible.

The door opened before I could ring the bell. Julie welcomed
me with a light-as-a-feather embrace. “Come in.”

The young lady wore what appeared to be her uniform of
choice—baggy britches and a T-shirt, hot pink this time. I followed her to the
kitchen.

Darlene sat like dejection’s poster child at the end of the
butcher-block table. The floor-length robe wrapping her slim frame didn’t
disguise the wilted posture. Puffy eyes and reddened cheeks testified to a lengthy
crying jag. She stared vacantly at the table, while the hand at her throat
worried the edges of her terrycloth robe. She glanced up, started to stand.

“Stay put.” I came round and kissed her forehead.

Duncan greeted me with a lift of a coffee mug. “It’s not
Irish, but let me get you some.” A brief smile carried to his eyes. “Glad
you’re here.”

His fingers grazed the back of my hand when he handed me the
mug. A little tremor reminded me what those fingers had been up to a few hours
ago.

Darlene lifted her head. “I wasn’t fond of Jake’s daughter
or her husband. Frankly I disliked them. But I never wanted to see Gina and
Robert dead.”

“How did they die?” I asked. “Does anyone know?”

“When Eric called 911, he triggered the security alarm,” Duncan said. “Thrasos bodyguards swarmed to the scene. As soon as the sheriff turned up,
he sent a deputy to check on Darlene and Julie. When I arrived, I pumped the
deputy for details. He said both bodies were stone cold, probably dead for
hours.”

Duncan swiveled his coffee cup to and fro. “The Glastons
slept in separate rooms. They found Gina in her bed, her respirator clamped to
her face, and Dr. Glaston sprawled in a heap at the foot of his bed. If the
dual deaths hadn’t screamed foul play, the guard said he’d have figured heart
attacks.”

Recalling Eric’s rage-contorted face made me wonder. “Could
Eric have killed them?”

“No.” Darlene sighed. “Gina was his mom. Eric’s a hothead,
not a cold-blooded killer. I can’t see it—even if he was hopped up on some
drug.”

My friend paused. “At least Julie and I won’t be suspects
this go-round. Sheriff Delaney got an earful from Kyle. He claims Jake’s new
will prompted me to kill my husband before he came to his senses. I have no
incentive to kill Jake’s children. These new murders will expose his ravings as
pure crap.”

Duncan’s hand covered Darlene’s and gave it a little
squeeze. “I wouldn’t say boo about the will. You do benefit from Gina’s death.
It ups your share of Jake’s fortune.”

Darlene’s eyes widened, and she yanked her hand free. “What?
Surely Eric inherits his mom’s share. This is ludicrous.”

Duncan shook his head. “The will stipulates Jake’s
beneficiaries must survive him by at least thirty days to inherit. If anyone
dies earlier, the deceased person’s share reverts to the estate to be divided
among survivors.”

“Why did Jake put that in his will?” Julie looked puzzled.

“In case there was a bad accident involving several family
members,” Duncan explained. “If some heirs lingered briefly on life support,
Jake didn’t want their shares to become windfalls to ‘money-grubbing leeches.’
His words. Specifically, he didn’t want Dr. Glaston waltzing away with dollars
intended for his flesh and blood.”

“Good heavens, does that disinherit Eric?” I blurted.

Duncan shook his head. “Jake didn’t neglect his grandson.
Eric claims a multi-million-dollar trust fund when he turns thirty. That trust
is outside the will, and the trustees can advance money for any good
reason—say, college or buying a house. The boy’s also a beneficiary in this
will. His share will increase with other survivors. Plus Eric inherits the
remainder of the trust Jake set up years back for Gina.”

Julie pushed back from the table. “The will doesn’t have a
damn thing to do with the Glaston murders. All the heirs inherit millions. What
kind of idiot risks killing two people for a few more million? They can’t spend
it rotting in prison. Besides, Dr. Glaston didn’t inherit. Why kill him?”

“Good points,” Duncan said. “Just wanted to warn you the new
murders don’t pare down the suspect list. The beefed-up security also argues
against a stranger as killer, though maybe the electronic security system will
confirm you and Julie were both here when the Glastons died.”

He nodded at Julie. “Too bad you told the sheriff Dr.
Glaston wanted to fire you.”

Duncan absently tapped a finger on the side of his mug.
“Darlene, you should hire an attorney. Immediately.”

My friend’s brows knitted in confusion. “Aren’t you my
attorney?”

He massaged his temples. “I’m an estate attorney. I know
beans about criminal law. I doubt Sheriff Delaney will jump to any conclusion.
He’s too independent-minded to be bullied by Kyle or Hamilton. But it’s only
prudent to be prepared. I’ll find you a good criminal lawyer.”

I’d been pondering motives. “Suppose the Glastons knew who
killed Jake and planned to talk. If so, the killer had nothing to lose. He
couldn’t be put to death twice.”

Darlene’s hand flew to cover her open mouth. Shock. Time to
disengage my motor mouth. “Sorry, Darlene. When I get excited, I blurt things out
without thinking.”

“It’s okay.” She exhaled. “I didn’t call you and Duncan to
be coddled. If Sheriff Delaney even hints Julie and I are suspects, I’ll hire a
criminal lawyer.”

“I wouldn’t wait,” I put in, “even if the sheriff acts like
your best buddy.”

I longed to blab about Hamilton’s pressure on his FBI
liaison. That was a far bigger worry than the local constabulary. My tongue
practically bled as I kept my promised silence.

“You might consider hiring a private investigator,” Duncan added. “The sooner somebody uncovers the real murderer, the sooner you’re in the
clear—and safe. Until we figure out why it’s open season on the Olsen family,
I’ll worry plenty about both of you.”

Darlene shot a horrified look at her daughter. “My God, what
if the killer comes after you?”

She knocked over her coffee as she leapt up. “Julie, I want
you to go away—far away—until things settle down. Duncan, can you find a safe
place to hide her?”

Julie put her hands on her hips. “Calm down, Mom. Don’t be
ridiculous. I’m staying.”

“We’ll see.” Darlene swiped at the puddled coffee with a
napkin.

I remembered that someone had been in the cabin. “Sheriff
Delaney ought to give that old cabin a once-over. Someone’s been using it,
maybe the killer. Yesterday Duncan and I spotted disposable gloves on a
counter. Maybe the murderer wore them when he mixed up some little surprises to
knock off the Gastons.”

Darlene bit her lip, nodded. “The cabin would be a good
hiding place.”

The doorbell trilled. Duncan answered it and ushered the
sheriff and Deputy Marshall into the kitchen. When Delaney spotted me, his
frown deepened. My presence didn’t delight him.

Both men accepted Julie’s offer of coffee and claimed vacant
chairs. Though the blush of sunrise warmed the kitchen windows, the faces around
the table looked gray, exhausted.

“We need to get statements,” Delaney began. “I posted
deputies on the grounds for your protection. If you want to go anywhere,
they’ll escort you.”

Duncan frowned, opened his mouth to speak. Delaney held up a
hand. “Don’t get all lawyerly on me, son. This isn’t house arrest. I’m not
trying to step on anyone’s rights. But this has gotten way out of hand. I
wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t try to protect Jake Olsen’s remaining
heirs.”

Darlene spoke. “Fine by me. I’m frantic with worry about
Julie’s safety. I’ll welcome any protection you offer.”

The sheriff nodded, pulled out his pen and a recorder, and
asked Darlene and Julie how they’d spent the evening. He didn’t bother to
quarantine them for questioning. Probably figured if any of us were in cahoots
we’d had ample time to synchronize stories.

Mother and daughter claimed they never left the house after eight p.m. Unfortunately they only had each other for alibis. When the storm took a
breather between six and eight, Julie soaked for a while in the poolside
Jacuzzi. Once the storm renewed, she hunkered down with her mother, who’d
shaken her migraine and wandered downstairs.

The women said they saw nothing unusual through the home’s
vast windows, except the storm’s awesome lightning display. While the house
lost power, a backup generator—part of the estate security package—kicked the
lights on within minutes of the initial outage.

“The guards called to make sure we were all right when the
power went out,” Julie volunteered. “I answered the phone. That was around
nine-thirty.”

The sheriff turned to Darlene. “Tell me about the health of
the deceased.”

She frowned. “Everyone knows Gina was an alcoholic. She had
liver disease and asthma attacks. Robert popped pills regularly. I don’t know
why. We weren’t close.”

Finally, the sheriff focused his attention on Duncan and me.
The look wasn’t friendly when he asked our whereabouts. Duncan said he dined at
the Outrigger with my family, squired May and me home, and stayed until shortly
after midnight.

I substantiated his story, though I failed to mention May
could only vouch for our whereabouts until nine-thirty. After that, my aunt was
sawing logs.

I saw no reason to expound on our entertainment.