Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone

by Linda Lovely

  Was it the same car I’d spotted at the cemetery? I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to kill me. I wasn’t one of Jake’s heirs. I knew next to nothing about the bioterrorism threat.

  Quentin Hamilton? Though I hated the man, his M.O. was innuendo and character assassination, not spilling real blood.

  Maybe Agent Weaver would have some clue why I’d been nominated as a shooting target. She could pass the news along to General Irvine, too.

  I squeezed water from my shirt and the hem of my shorts, opened the car trunk for a beach towel, and dried off as best I could, eager to get while the gettin’ was good.

  Being alone on Spirit’s isolated bluff no longer seemed a bright idea. I hadn’t brought a gun on vacation—only carried when I worked as a security officer. Thanks to Eric, I knew my cell phone stun gun worked. Was the pepper-spray atomizer a winner as well?

  I pulled it from my bag. Pressed the trigger. A few drops dribbled out. I fiddled with the nozzle, checked the wind direction, and sprayed again. Incapacitating mist. Great, but only if my would-be shooter decided to get up close and personal and stood downwind.

  With eyes peeled for the tan car, I folded the towel on May’s car seat to keep it as dry as possible. Should I beg off Duncan’s dinner invitation?

  Damn, my vacation was getting complicated.

  ELEVEN

  Ensconced in dry clothes, I fetched May from her open house, showing my aunt more teeth than a Desperate Housewife hiding a cabana boy in the closet. Luckily, she hardly glanced my way. Too busy making notes about prospect follow-ups. Her intuition hadn’t penetrated my fake cheer. Good. No need to worry her.

  I was worried enough for both of us. Still several notches down from hysterical. I’d talked to Weaver, who had no additional insights. After we ran through a few scenarios, she agreed the shots were meant to warn not maim or kill. Someone wanted to scare me off from helping Darlene.

  Unable to manufacture a single reason why the shooter would object to my eating chocolate with a handsome attorney, I showered, dabbed perfume in spots that had suffered an extended cologne drought, and slipped into a silky red blouse and slinky black slacks.

  In the sexy underwear department, the best I could muster was black as the color du jour for my briefs and Barely There bra. At least my pull-on, pull-off knit bra offered no hook-like obstacles, though haste could result in unsightly tangles, a sort of squashed, single-breasted pirate look.

  Okay, I confess. I hoped chocolate and a few beers might make my clothes fall off. I lusted for a little heavy breathing not inspired by gunfire or dead bodies.

  Though I looked forward to the evening, I was prepared to cancel if there was even the slightest chance someone was following me. I drove around Spirit Lake for half an hour, dodging down alleys and making U-turns. I even pulled into a grocery store parking lot, walked to the store and peered out from behind a pillar to see if a tan car with dark windows lurked anywhere in my vicinity. The spy craft made me feel a bit foolish, but it convinced me I didn’t have a tail. Still, I parked in the golf club’s parking lot and hoofed it the last block and a half to Duncan’s front door. Not a single car in sight. If someone spotted May’s car, I hoped they’d decide I was getting a bite at Bud’s Pub inside the golf club.

  Balancing a bowl filled with my Death by Chocolate trifle against my hip, I freed a hand to ring his doorbell. A second later, he seized control of my dessert and my lips. I think he set the trifle on a table. I know he quickly freed both hands. Perhaps getting shot at whetted my appetite. I was hungry for whatever the barrister planned to serve. Like tongue.

  Duncan’s hands slid up and down my arms. He pushed back. “Welcome.”

  I laughed. “Think I got that.”

  He looked past me to the street. “Where’s your car?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s a long story.”

  “Well, you can tell me over dinner,” he said. “It’s almost ready. I’ll slip your dessert in the fridge.”

  I declined wine, noting my allergies to both red and white varieties. After handing me my requested alternate—a beer—he opened a bottle for himself.

  “I may not be directly in the line of fire, but I can still use a drink,” he said. “Darlene’s problems get uglier with each passing day.”

  “Amen to that.” Since we’d met, twenty-four hours had yet to elapse without the discovery of a dead body—or two. “Since you mentioned being in the line of fire, I need to tell you about my afternoon. You may want me to disappear.”

  Duncan’s forehead creased as he listened to my Spirit Resort tale of a hidden gunman taking potshots at me, and how I’d tried to ensure no one followed me to his house.

  “Hopefully if they spot the car, they’ll think I’m at the bar at the golf course.”

  “It sounds like someone just wanted to put a scare in you. But I understand your caution. I’m not worried though. Let’s enjoy our evening. Take a break from tragedy. No mention of gunman, murder or death through the main course.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.”

  He took my hand and led me to a walled patio where a dozen citronella torches flickered. I figured they were as much for mosquito protection as ambience. Duncan seated me then brought out a large bowl of Caesar salad. My muscles gradually unknotted as we sipped our beers and nibbled greens.

  We chatted about everything and nothing. I learned his twenty-six-year-old daughter Kelly, an only child, worked as a landscape architect in Austin, Texas, and was engaged to a podiatrist. “She was away at college when my wife and I separated.” Duncan glossed over the details of his marriage breakup. “I should have become suspicious when my wife suddenly started buying slinky underwear.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  When he didn’t elaborate, I changed the subject, reminiscing about my first visits to Spirit Lake to see Aunt May and Uncle John. From there we segued into genealogy, and I discovered his mother, like my own, was Irish and traced her relatives to County Cork. “Hey, maybe we’re long lost cousins,” I said.

  His hand snaked across the table, and his fingers trailed along my arm. “Okay by me so long as it’s the kissing variety.”

  My pulse took a hop, skip and jump. I felt pretty certain we’d soon see each other’s birthday suits.

  My nervousness made no sense—more like a teenager than a middle-aged female who’d read “The Joy of Sex” in bed with her husband and experimented with a variety of positions. Before we settled into our comfortable long-term routines, Jeff and I had been game to try most everything that did not mandate pretzel-like contortions. The purposely-shocking addition of ice cubes had been tested only once.

  Duncan stood to clear the dishes. “How about a boat ride? Then we can arm ourselves with spoons and attack your dessert. It looks delicious.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea—being out in the open like that. What if I’m a target? I don’t want someone to miss me and hit you.”

  He laughed, but there was no twinkle in his eyes. Duncan understood I was serious. “Hey, you may be in more danger in my presence than I am in yours. If someone wants to cut Darlene off from her support, I’m a target, too.” Duncan draped a loaned windbreaker around my shoulders. “Let’s head down to the dock. Sit a spell. If there are no boats in sight, I think we can assume no one’s stalking either of us.”

  Lingering sunlight didn’t stop a sharp temperature drop. At the community docks, Duncan surprised me when he stepped onto what he called his “geezer craft”—an eighteen-foot pontoon boat with a sensible, no-wake, no-hurry fifty-horse motor.

  “Had you figured for a sporty deck boat.” I chuckled. “You know the wind-in-your-hair, plane at mach speed variety. Waterskiing on weekends. A buxom babe bouncing on the fore deck.”

  “You have me all wrong.” He rapidly blinked his eyes in mock innocence. “As far as speed and water skiing goes, I’ve been there, done that—before arthroscopic surgery on my knees. Now I enjoy puttering around on the
water, hoisting the occasional cold one, and actually hearing what my guests have to say.”

  Given his retort did not refute bouncing babes, I wondered how many girlfriends he’d wooed aboard his “geezer craft.” I’d wager a harem. Who cared? At the moment, I had his undivided attention.

  We sat on the pontoon boat as it gently bobbed in place. After fifteen minutes without a single boat scouting Duncan’s cove, he convinced me we could shove off. After steering toward the Arnolds Park pier, he pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees to give us grandstand seats for the sinking sun. The shimmering lake mirrored every nuance of the kaleidoscope sky. Rich hues of red and gold seeped into the depths of the lake and became one with the fluid weave.

  The sun made its final pirouette, and the sky deepened to indigo. Stars winked like fireflies across the heavens. Since the moon had yet to make its appearance, only stars and twinkling shore lights pierced the lake’s shadowy cloak. Our low-wattage running lights did nothing to pollute the peaceful scene. Duncan notched up our cruising speed.

  “Not sure I’d feel safe piloting at night,” I said. “Come sun up, I know the landmarks to dodge shallows and rock piles, like that nasty one off Pocahontas Point. At night, it’s harder to get my bearings. Arnolds Park’s lighted roller coaster gives a faithful point of reference, but it’s hard to judge distances away from the Park.”

  “Good thing I’m driving.” He smiled. “I love the lake at night. So quiet. Not many pesky wave-runners. Know where we are?”

  I squinted toward shore. Colored lights danced over a miniature waterfall. “Just outside the Olsen cove. I recognize the waterfall.”

  He nodded. “Sure doesn’t look like a crime scene, does it?”

  My gaze meandered along the shoreline. “You said opportunity is one reason Darlene and Julie are suspects. Sure it would be hard for an outsider to access the estate on land, but I could swim ashore easily.”

  “True. But what happens once you’re on shore? You still have to neutralize house alarms and slip past guards on patrol. How do you know the Olsens or Glastons won’t catch you fiddling with their Visine bottles or respirators? Sorry, but at the very least our killer has inside help.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Guess a SEAL-style assault is a little far-fetched.”

  I meant it. Unless the killer used the Glaston safe room as a comfy hideaway. Though tempted to ask Duncan if he knew about the room, I felt queasy betraying the second-hand secret. Jake had gone to great lengths to keep locals ignorant. I had no business spouting off until I spoke with the FBI and Darlene.

  While we’d avoided murder as dinner conversation, our visit to the cove reopened the topic. “What happened after you got rid of Hamilton?”

  “I had about two hours to myself before Darlene called with a new emergency. Wanted me to sit in on an interview with an FBI agent.”

  I held my tongue. Didn’t ask, “How’s Sherry?”

  “I checked the Fed out,” he added. “Her name’s Sherry Weaver. Though young, she’s built one hell of a reputation. Credited with catching a scientist who smuggled nuclear secrets out of Los Alamos. Seems to have her head screwed on straight.”

  “How’d the interview go?”

  “The agent asked Julie about her research and quizzed her about some mushroom toxin the FBI suspects killed Gina. Julie handled herself well. Very matter-of-fact. Her lab uses the toxin. She even suggested an autopsy routine to pinpoint the source of the toxin.”

  My shoulder muscles relaxed. I was glad Duncan had subjected Weaver to a background check. Boy, was I slipping. That should have been my first action.

  “Julie was smart to cooperate,” I observed. “Darlene told me about the toxin. Any word as to what might have killed Dr. Glaston?”

  Duncan guided his boat into his assigned slip. “Glaston took pills for a heart condition. Once again, Jolbiogen expedited some lab work. Blood work showed a mega dose of Viagra. Triggered a massive heart attack. Doctors don’t prescribe that stuff to people with bad tickers, so it’s doubtful he self-medicated. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s also tough to imagine Dr. Glaston wanting to pump up his penis to schtupp Gina.”

  My mental picture of the Glastons en flagrante was the opposite of erotic.

  Duncan killed the engine. I stepped off and tied the ropes on my side to cleats fore and aft as he secured his bumpers.

  “So did Weaver have a theory about how the killer tricked Glaston into taking Viagra?”

  “Yep. Pills were ground up and dissolved in the bottle Glaston used to pour his nightcaps. The agent didn’t bother to quiz Darlene or Julie about access to Viagra. Too easy to get an Internet prescription or steal pills from a friend’s medicine cabinet.”

  He met me on the dock’s center aisle and slipped an arm around my shoulders. When his fingertips skimmed my shoulder, my brain almost abandoned the Olsen puzzle. Yet I didn’t feel I was eligible for recess until I’d finished my homework. Maybe Duncan could offer some plausible motives that I could pass along to Weaver.

  “Have you come up with any motive beyond greed?”

  “Money’s always a safe bet. Guess I’ll stick with it. But the who eludes me. Even if I weren’t Darlene’s attorney, I’d rule her out. She and Jake seemed genuinely happy. Had she wanted to dispose of her husband, she’s smart enough to plan a less public and splashy—pardon the pun—demise. And Darlene only stood to gain a few million extra by killing the Glastons. Not much in the scheme of things. I’m convinced all three murders are related. As to Julie—she’d never do anything to hurt her mom.”

  I glanced at Duncan. “If inheritance is the motive, how about Eric or Kyle? Eric was mad as a hatter that his grandfather refused to back some harebrained music scheme, and I understand Kyle’s relationship with his dad was strained.”

  Duncan chewed his lip. “Eric’s too impulsive to intricately plot three murders. Kyle? Now he’s the archetypical schemer. But why kill his own dad? He’s not the type to commit a crime of passion, and he’s not hurting for money. He has millions. If he waits a few years and Jake dies of natural causes, more millions fall from the sky. No way would Jake disinherit his only son.”

  Duncan shook his head as he opened the gate to his condo’s fenced patio. “Patricide is very rare. No, I can’t see it.”

  His assessment made sense. “Guess you’re right. Where’s the motive for Kyle to murder the Glastons? Gina’s his half-sister, and her husband inherits nothing—even if Gina dies. No earthly reason to kill his sister and brother-in-law.”

  With appetites renewed by the chill air, we demolished generous servings of my rich trifle. Then Duncan circled the table and pulled back my chair. I stood. His palms cupped my face. He tilted my head, and our lips met. A hint of sweet chocolate. A promise of something sweeter with a touch of spice.

  He backed me into the kitchen cabinets. While one of his hands migrated lower, the other fumbled inside a kitchen drawer. He pulled out an apron.

  “Want to change into something more comfortable?” He laughed as he handed me an apron. Its red type proclaimed “I’m The Boss In The Kitchen.” Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Wear this—and nothing else—and you can boss me all you like. I won’t mind a bit.”

  “What happens if we move to neutral terrain, say, your bedroom?”

  “I still follow instructions pretty well.” Duncan’s eyes bore into mine. “I aim to please.”

  He took my hand. I followed.

  We halted beside the bed. He unbuttoned my blouse, one button at a time, taking care to kiss each new inch of exposed flesh. Duncan’s hands snaked beneath the elastic waistband and my slacks shimmied to the floor. He knelt before me. Cupping my bottom, he clasped me to him. His hot breath sparked an inferno of desire.

  This man needed no instruction. I ran my fingers through his curly hair.

  God. Yes.

  An hour later, Duncan brushed a sweaty curl off my forehead. “Want a shower? We can soap au pair or I can use the guest bath.”r />
  “Separate but equal showers,” I replied. “My body can’t stand any more excitement at the moment.”

  Leaving the bathroom, I noticed an oversized picture frame covered one of the bedroom walls. The photo collage charted daughter Kelly’s march to adulthood from a four-year-old’s gap-toothed grin to a teen’s spunky victory leap near a soccer goal.

  Arm-in-arm with a girlfriend, Kelly looked as if she loved life. I took a closer look at the friendship shots. The same towhead appeared with Kelly in half a dozen pre-teen and teen photos. Why did the friend look so familiar?

  Oh, God. It was Julie. Darlene’s daughter had been Kelly’s best friend growing up in Ames, Iowa.

  That meant the parents had more than a nodding acquaintance with each other.

  So why did Duncan lie? Claim he didn’t know Darlene before Spirit Lake? When kids are inseparable, parents have no choice. They know each other.

  Suddenly, I felt ill—weak in the knees and in the head. Duncan walked into the bedroom, toweling his wet hair.

  “I have to go now.”

  Duncan dropped his towel. My abruptness a shocker when he’d been expecting post-coital cooing.

  Like a rockslide, my words tumbled out, spilling with no pattern. “I’m bone tired and Aunt May is certain to wait up. Let’s hope we both get a good night’s sleep with no new murder wake-up calls. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “Do you really have to leave so soon?” Duncan’s crinkled forehead signaled his confusion. “I thought we’d have a nightcap on the patio.”

  “Sorry, I’m too tired.” I offered no further elaboration.

  He frowned. “Well, okay. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  We walked in silence. I unlocked May’s Buick and Duncan opened my door. His goodnight kiss tilted more toward formality than passion. He’d definitely picked up on my confusion and mood swing.