Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone

by Linda Lovely

  “Did Nancy seem pleasant?” I wanted to get a fix on the being inhabiting the wrinkle-free, late sixties’ wrapper.

  “How should I know?” Anna grumped. “Most clients treat me like family. Not the Olsens. I’m not talking about old Jake, just the junior Olsens and Glastons. Viewed me as a servant, plain and simple. Invisible. Nancy and Kyle talked a foot away from me, and he never so much as introduced me.”

  “You’re sure it was Nancy?” May piped up.

  “Yeah, Kyle introduced her to Reverend Schmidt, when he paid a sympathy call. Came to console Eric. Real Christian, seeing as how Kyle’s and Gina’s families never once warmed a church pew in Spirit Lake. Kyle told the reverend Eric was sedated, not up to any visitors.”

  “Anna, you’re a fount of information.” May beamed with proprietary pride.

  “I have an unrelated question about the Glaston house,” I interrupted. “You’ve spent lots of time inside, Anna. Ever notice anything odd about the rooms or layout?”

  “Odd how?” She arched her eyebrows. “It’s odd to me when someone pays a million bucks for a mansion and visits once in a blue moon.”

  “Never mind.” I shrugged. Didn’t want to give the housekeeper—or my aunt—too many clues. With their well-honed powers of deduction, I feared one of them would figure out my inquiry had to do with a hidden chamber. “I met an architect who mentioned that house had a few design eccentricities, that’s all.”

  May’s sharp look radiated skepticism, but she didn’t dispute my claim.

  Anna chuckled. “The Glastons put in an elevator a few years back. Mighty strange in a two-story house. As my mother liked to say, ‘Just cause you’ve got a hole in your arse, don’t make you a cripple.’ Walking up a flight of stairs puts a little apple in your cheeks. That addition ate up a lot of space. One second-floor bedroom shrank to the size of a postage-stamp. Guess they needed room for all the mechanical what’s-a-whozits to run the lift.”

  Bingo. Sounded as if the Glastons could take their elevator to a very private space. I’d relay that tidbit to Weaver.

  Anna glanced at her watch. “Have to run.” The housekeeper gave my aunt a parting hug. “Now remember, May, I’m giving you a free cleaning the week you turn eighty. My birthday gift. We’ll have this place spic-and-span for your well-wishers.”

  Anna bussed May’s cheek, while my aunt pressed folded bills into her housekeeper’s hand.

  “You girls behave now,” Anna called as she left.

  Once the door closed, May remembered I’d departed with an FBI agent, been AWOL for over two hours, and had not reported my conversation. “Now, let’s hear why the FBI wants to chat up my niece.” May claimed her easy chair and expected me to issue a full report.

  “Just a background check,” I fibbed. “The FBI is talking with everyone and anyone who happens to be friendly with the Olsens.”

  May didn’t believe me. I could tell. However, even Midwest matriarchs understand there are some restrictions on their need to know.

  May regarded the ringing phone with dread. Phone calls of late had not delivered cheery tidings. On the third ring, she snatched up her cordless, answering with what I recognized as forced jollity. “Carr Residence.”

  A pause, followed by a genuine smile. “Well, of course, you want to see the house again. No one in their right mind is going to pay three-quarters of a million without a little tire kicking. Yes, yes, I’m sure there’s room for haggling. The sellers are motivated. Eager to move south. Want to be nearer the grandkids. Un-huh. Un-huh.”

  Pause.

  “Well, I can’t tell you what to offer, but they won’t let you steal their home either. They’re sitting on a true Okoboji gem. What with the way property values are skyrocketing in Pocahontas Point, I’ll bet someone snatches this honey up before week’s end.” In full schmooze press, May started reeling in the live one on her line. She ended the call and chuckled. “Looks like you’re on your own for a bit.”

  She kept talking as she walked toward her bedroom, expecting me to follow in her wake. “I’m meeting a couple from Minneapolis. They’re smitten. What do you plan to do today?” She frowned. “I supposed you’ll make your daily pilgrimage to the Olsens? Oh, incidentally, Anna told me there’s a sale at Evans. You know the store on main. You really ought to buy a nice dress for Jake’s visitation.”

  My aunt’s version of a subtle hint.

  “Okay, I’ll buy a new dress.”

  I sighed as I leaned against the doorframe. Unless an unrelated male invaded her territory, May never closed the door or gave a nod to modesty—hers, mine or anyone else’s. Maybe she feared she’d forget what was on her mind if she waited politely for guests to vacate a shower or exit a bedroom before she spoke her piece. More likely, Nurse May had seen enough bare hineys that clothing seemed optional when she was in conversation mode.

  May perched precariously on the edge of her high four-poster bed, with only nylon panties and a bra anchored in place. She rolled up knee-highs as we talked. For all the world, she looked like a pudgy soccer player, standing arms akimbo before a stuffed closet, trying to settle on a lucky color for today’s pants suit.

  Since turning seventy, May wore pants everywhere except church and funeral parlors. My mother, who never wore slacks prior to my teen years, curtailed her skirt wear about the same time. That’s when the two women went on a trouser-buying binge. Mom bought slacks of any color so long as they were navy. Aunt May’s selection could shame a peacock.

  “Say, pick me up a bra at Evans, will you?” May asked. “You know the Playtex 24-hour one I like with the wide straps.”

  “What size, May?”

  “I’m thinking a 36 long.” May laughed at my look. “I’ll settle for a 36 C though.”

  I laughed appreciatively. “Believe me, there’s no way I’ll ask your panty size. Hey, why don’t I invite Eunice and Ross for dinner tonight? We’ve got all the ingredients to make chicken divan. I’ll whip up the casserole and set the oven to turn on at five if neither of us is home.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back. Either I’ll have a sales contract buttoned up by three, or I’ve landed another wishy-washy buyer who’s afraid to pull his wallet out of his pants.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “I’m off to Evans. See you later.”

  “Thanks, kid,” May called as I waved goodbye.

  ***

  Downtown Spirit Lake is a five-minute hike from May’s condo. Though clothes boutiques had sprouted like mushrooms along the network of highways connecting Okoboji region lakes, Evans Department Store clung to life in a compact downtown that featured a vintage movie theater, bakery, drugstore, bank, the county courthouse, and a smattering of the inevitable law offices. Was Duncan’s office downtown?

  Inside, Evans looked much as it had when I was a girl, except now the dummies were decked out in clothes designed to appeal to residents climbing the upper peaks of the fifty divide.

  “That’s very becoming, Mrs. Olsen.” The saleswoman’s flattery floated out from behind a rack of clothes. I hurried to see the recipient of the compliment.

  An anorexic mouse preened before a mirror, smoothing the black sheath’s bust-line tucks against molehill bosoms. The prospective buyer’s hair was the distressed brown of a molting squirrel and featured the same bristly texture. Her eyes blinked rapidly behind expensive, but unflattering, designer frames. The avant-garde glasses made the woman’s small eyes seem to recede into her head, like objects seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

  Had to be Olivia Olsen, Kyle’s beanpole wife. From what I’d heard, she’d be loathe to set foot in a Spirit Lake store that catered to commoners. Must be desperate to find black duds for the gauntlet of funerals. Conservative black outfits aren’t easy to locate in a summer resort and, what with the need to bury three in-laws, Olivia had plenty of wearing opportunities.

  The saleswoman was Faith Iverson, Eunice’s antiquing Questers friend. Faith smiled when she recognized me. “Oh, hi Marley, I’ll be r
ight with you.”

  The greeting snapped Olivia to attention. Kyle’s better half gave me the same horrified look she’d give a cockroach audacious enough to scamper across her polished floor. With my anonymity shot, I thought, “what the hell,” introduced myself and offered condolences.

  “Thank you,” Olivia muttered. She whipped her head away so quickly I thought her twig-like neck might snap. Not eager to banter about weather or the odd family murder, are we? I wasn’t about to let my treed quarry escape.

  “I hear you’re looking after your nephew. How is Eric?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she snapped, “considering he just lost his mother, grandfather and stepfather, and some idiot attacked him with a stun gun.”

  Touché. We both knew the identity of the aforementioned idiot.

  “I understand you have more company,” I purred. “How nice that Kyle’s mother could join you.”

  Olivia recoiled as if I’d doused her with ice water. In fact, she let out a “yip” before covering her faux pas with a snippy “yes.” The physical response communicated real data—Nancy’s presence was a personal affront she’d hoped to keep secret. Before I could fire another round of verbal artillery, Olivia bolted for the safety of the dressing room.

  I glanced over at the flummoxed saleslady, sorry to have nixed a commissioned sale for the hardworking bystander. Nonetheless, I congratulated myself on my bravado.

  I’d confirmed Anna’s observations: One, Nancy had moved in with Kyle. Two, Kyle’s wife wasn’t happy. Three, Eric remained in residence with the Olsens. And, four—well, that point really needed no confirmation—I would not win a popularity contest with that branch of the Olsen clan.

  Olivia’s fifty-yard dash from the dressing room to Spirit Lake’s main street impressed me. Figuring Miss Olivia might press assault charges if I tried to speak to her again, I pretended interest in a ragtag group of half-priced garments.

  To make up for Faith’ lost commission, I bought a staid navy suit and a gray print skirt and blouse that I could pair with the black jacket always tucked in my suitcase. Of course, I also purchased May’s bra, 36 long.

  THIRTEEN

  Fresh from my downtown adventures, I rewarded myself with a little sin—twin chocolate cookies with icing smooshed in between—and iced tea, invited Ross and Eunice to dinner, and switched on the radio for company while I cooked. With the volume jacked up for May, the blaring newscast almost bowled me over.

  This just in—a new development in Spirit Lake’s billionaire murder spree. Sources close to the investigation say Jake Olsen, former CEO of Jolbiogen, his daughter and son-in-law may have been killed because they discovered the identity of a master thief stealing biological research commissioned by the military.

  A week before Olsen’s death, the Department of Defense called in the FBI to help investigate the theft of research materials from Jolbiogen—research that could be used by terrorists to launch a targeted biological attack. Dr. Robert Glaston, Jake Olsen’s son-in-law, oversaw the lab conducting the military research.

  Dr. Glaston and his wife were killed within forty-eight hours of Jolbiogen’s billionaire founder. They were murdered in the Glastons’ second home in the family’s secluded compound on West Okoboji. Exotic toxins were used to poison the victims.

  The FBI is questioning Olsen’s stepdaughter, Julie Nauer, a Jolbiogen employee, about the theft and subsequent murders. Olsen married the researcher’s mother, Darlene Nauer, less than a week before he was killed.

  We’ll bring you more breaking news as this story continues to unfold.

  My heart pounded. I slammed my fist onto the kitchen counter with enough force to rattle May’s spice set. I dialed Darlene’s cell. Busy signal. Crap.

  May’s phone rang. I picked up. “You heard?” Darlene snapped. Then she let loose with a string of curses, hurling them at everyone she could think of—local reporters, Quentin Hamilton, Thrasos International, the FBI, and Sheriff Delaney. I wondered how she could go so long without taking in air.

  When she sucked in a breath, I jumped in. “Where are you? What’s happening now?”

  “I’m holed up in my bedroom, waiting for two FBI agents to finish interrogating Julie. They wouldn’t let me stay with her.” Darlene sobbed. “Those morons can’t believe Julie would help bioterrorists. Why would she? She loves this country—and her job. You wouldn’t believe how often she’s told me so. And we’re certainly not desperate for money. Even before Jake came along, we were doing okay. Please come over. I need to vent in person.”

  Darlene’s tirade stepped up my pulse rate one more notch. “Give me an hour.”

  By the time a taxi dropped me at the Olsens, my emotions had seesawed into a queasy equilibrium. I was cool and collected—well, collected anyway. I understood Darlene’s distress over Julie and her desperate need for a friend. My shoulder was available. But I also promised myself to ask—straight out—why Darlene had lied about her relationship with Duncan. I damn sure felt entitled to an explanation.

  Harvey was ushering Reverend Schmidt out when I arrived. As I exchanged “nice to see you” pleasantries with the pastor, I wondered if he’d trot across the lawn to the junior Olsen residence for his next sympathy call. If so, Olivia and Eric would surely give him an earful about my devilish proclivities.

  Julie sat alone in the great room. My tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. I had no idea what to say.

  “Marley, come on in. Mom will be down in a minute. She’s on the phone with Larsson’s Funeral Home. Or maybe you don’t want to be left alone in a room with an alleged serial killer. Hell, I’m right up there with Lizzie Borden, except I’ve found tidier ways to kill. That’s why I spent four years in grad school—so I wouldn’t get blood on my axe.”

  Her scrunched up face and tight fists telegraphed her battle to fight tears.

  “I’m sure the FBI will try to put a stop to such groundless speculation.”

  Julie slumped, head in her hands. “Don’t count on it. I’m sure the next newscast will tell everyone how I’m a sexual degenerate who sleeps with old men. I’m capable of anything. Even helping terrorists kill thousands of people without firing a shot.” Her chest heaved. “I’m a real virtuoso—a one-woman crime wave.”

  “You’re obviously upset. Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, no. It’s nice to see someone willing to look me in the eye. The poor reverend tried but couldn’t quite hang in there. You could see the questions in his mind: Did she really kill her stepfather? Am I talking to a monster?”

  I sat next to her on the couch, put my arm around her shoulder. “Well, you’re here and not in custody. That wouldn’t be the case if there were evidence to back up the media innuendoes.”

  Julie’s shoulder shook. A sob escaped before she straightened. “Actually, there is incriminating evidence—just not enough to cart me away in handcuffs. At the rate someone’s manufacturing stuff to frame me, I’ll hang in no time. Hey, they almost have me convinced I’m guilty.”

  With her fist extended, Julie freed one finger each time she ticked off a potential nail in her coffin. The young woman began by admitting a brief graduate school affair with Dr. Derek Valberg, a fifty-two-year-old professor. “Dad had just died. I went a little crazy. He was married, with a daughter older than me. Not my proudest moment. I bailed out as soon as I learned how far he leaned to the left.”

  Julie was adamant she’d had no contact with Valberg since he’d left Iowa State University and signed on as a consultant with some European research outfit. “The emails on my PC. I can’t explain them. I never sent them. Whoever wrote them knew enough about me to make them sound convincing. How did they do that? How could they access my hard drive? There’s even a UPS record showing I shipped a package to Gertrude Valberg—Derek’s daughter, who lives in LA.”

  “Did the FBI talk with the professor and his daughter?”

  “Yes, Derek supports my no-email claim, and his daughter insists no packa
ge was delivered. Of course, that’s what the FBI would expect them to say—guilty or innocent. My bet is the Feds may even find traces of the fabricated correspondence on Derek’s computer, once they jump through all the international hoops to gain access.”

  “You really believe this is an international conspiracy?” I tried to keep skepticism out of my tone.

  “That’s exactly what I believe,” she snapped. “And they’re very, very good. Jolbiogen has tested the phalloidin used to kill Gina. It came from my research stash. And the FBI dug up a pair of phalloidin-dusted gloves with my fingerprints inside buried beside the old cottage.”

  She shuddered. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to set me up. My guess is they took a pair of gloves I’d discarded at Jolbiogen and buried them there. The UPS package listing me as ‘Sender’ was shipped two weeks ago, well before Jake’s murder.”

  My lord. Julie was in a shitload of trouble. “Who do you think is behind this? And why? Do you have any ideas?”

  “If Dr. Glaston weren’t one of my alleged victims, his name would zoom to the top of my list. He hated Mom and me. Didn’t try to disguise it. Plus he regularly visited my lab. But I’m relatively sure Glaston didn’t kill his father-in-law and wife just so he could dose himself into oblivion and lay the blame on me.”

  “No other candidates?” I asked.

  Julie sprang up from her seat and paced. “Once I rule him out, I have no clue. It’s someone clever. Someone who has it in for me—or Mom. But I can’t think of a single enemy at Jolbiogen. Maybe I’m just an unlucky patsy with all the right qualifications.”

  “What about Kyle or Eric? No love lost for your mom and they both work at Jolbiogen, right?”

  She walked to the window, pressed a palm against her glass cage. “Kyle and Eric despise Mom and me. So, yes, they’re possibles. Eric briefly worked as a Jolbiogen lab tech, but I doubt his old badge would let him in the building. Kyle never descends from his ivory tower to see what the peons are up to. I doubt he could find my lab, let alone know how to lay his hands on those toxins.”