by Linda Lovely
“Glaston’s journal let us pick up the money trail,” she said. “The good doctor salted away two million in a Swiss bank account. His journal indicated ten million more would be wired after his buyers conducted a successful ‘field test.’”
“The farm workers infected with that toxic cocktail?” I asked.
“That’s our guess. Unfortunately, Glaston’s foreign bank account was emptied and closed the day he died. The first installment vanished. We’re guessing the man’s accomplices double-crossed him. The good doctor had a new ID—passport, driver’s license and bank accounts—in a safe deposit box with his plane ticket. He definitely planned to bolt.”
A pair of trumpeter swans took flight, an effortless escape. Glaston hadn’t been so lucky.
“Why did he take the risk? The man lived in the lap of luxury. His wife stood to inherit a fortune that makes twelve million seem like peanuts.”
Weaver kicked at the gravel in our pull-off. “Mrs. Glaston’s liver was shot, and asthma and alcoholism precluded a transplant. He feared his wife would kick the bucket before Jake. If that happened, his lifestyle would implode. He wasn’t named in Jake’s will, and Gina’s trust directed the remainder to her son. When Glaston learned Jolbiogen’s new president planned to shoulder him out, that was the capper.”
Whoa. About time. The FBI could finally exonerate Julie and Darlene. “So Jake found out about the theft and Glaston killed him?”
“Maybe.” Weaver stared into the distance. “Or the doctor’s accomplices killed Jake first and then the Glastons.”
I stretched. “At least Julie and Darlene are in the clear.”
“Not quite.” Weaver straightened. “While we know Glaston was the master thief, my boss has nominated Julie and her mom as his ‘high and mighty’ co-conspirators.”
“What a crock! They had a mutual-hate society. They’d never have helped Glaston.”
“Unless they were blackmailed. Hamilton’s provided a tidy new theory—Glaston blackmailed the mother and daughter into cooperating. The women killed Jake when he discovered the conspiracy, then they did away with their blackmailer so he couldn’t fix the blame on them. Hamilton’s almost convinced my boss—his best buddy—that ‘marrying money doesn’t change trailer trash.’”
Sensing my pending tirade, Weaver jerked her arm up like a cop stopping traffic. “Save your breath. I don’t buy it either, but I need a compelling rebuttal. Glaston left no clues to identify his accomplices or his buyers. We need to set a trap.”
We? What happened to there being no us?
The FBI agent described a plan to draw out the real killers. The goal was to convince them Darlene had found a second riddle, identifying another site where Jake had stashed evidence. I’d confide this tidbit to Ross while we chatted in May’s bugged living room.
Weaver said my conversation should emphasize four points. One, Darlene had turned the new riddle over to the FBI. Two, Weaver had placed her under guard. Three, suspecting a leak inside the agency, Weaver had decided to go solo to retrieve the missing evidence. Four, neither Darlene nor Weaver had entrusted me with any clue about the note’s contents.
“That should goad the killers into coming after me.” Weaver sounded gleeful. “But you have to make it clear no one else knows what the riddle says. I have to be the sole target.”
The plan seemed rife with personal risk for Weaver. I told her so. She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve taken precautions. No one else will be in any danger.”
Her conviction sent a shiver down my spine. It sounded an awful lot like my justification for allowing Ross to tag along on my jaunt to the Tipsy House.
After Weaver deposited me at May’s condo, I checked the front of the refrigerator, our family’s never-fail bulletin board. A note from my aunt said she’d collect me for lunch at twelve-thirty. Egad. All of fifteen minutes to get ready. She’d also ordered me to cogitate on banquet menus for her wingding. A meeting with the Village West coordinator was set for two p.m.
I showered, dressed, and entered the vestibule just as May swung by. “Hi, Marley. Get your fanny in gear. We’re burning daylight.”
Actually there wasn’t much light to burn. At least the drizzle wouldn’t hurt my wet hair.
May’s gaze snagged on my finger-combed hairdo but she swallowed any comment. “Thought the tearoom would be nice.”
The renovated Victorian proved a cozy spot for lunch. We both ordered the daily special, a cup of creamy mushroom soup with lemon-laced chicken salad on a crusty croissant.
May fanned out the banquet selections across the unused portion of our table. She’d completed her initial cull, relegating most “heart healthy” selections to the dustbin.
“Hell’s bells, this is a party, not a Weight Watchers’ coven. People can get back on their diets after we celebrate.”
Detrimental though it may be to the longevity of the Carr and Woods tribes, this diet-delay philosophy is deeply ingrained in family tradition. It’s trotted out for any and every celebration from Mother’s Day to thank-goodness-it’s-Friday.
Okay, I subscribe. Good food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. I surrender easily to eggs benedict, crispy onion rings and cheesecake. That makes exercise my main strategy to keep from weighing in on freight scales. The thought made me shudder. I’d actually seen a military doctor at Fort Bragg herd a pendulous, pregnant dependent onto a freight scale.
Hmmm. Maybe I’d fit in a run after lunch.
Our Village West meeting went swimmingly. May sweet-talked the group planner into an added “local” discount. By two-thirty, we were back home. When May retreated to her boudoir for a power nap, I opened a book, a mystery set in Rome. After rereading the same page twice, I closed the paperback. The Spirit Lake murders were far more intriguing.
Maybe if I organized my thoughts I’d discern a pattern, or at least find a clue. I tore a piece of paper from May’s grocery pad and drew columns.
I headed the first column: “People with motives to murder Jake.” The second column read: “People with motives to murder the Glastons.”
In column one, I scribbled Glaston’s name. Then flipped my pencil, eraser ready for action. If Glaston was inclined toward murder, why not kill his father-in-law right out of the starting gate? Once he ensured his wife would outlive her dad, he only needed to wait till Gina kicked the bucket. No need to mess around stealing secrets.
I started to erase his name and stopped. Instead I wrote “fear of exposure” beside it. Perhaps Jake confronted his son-in-law but gave him a grace period to turn himself in. That could have pushed Glaston into murdering Jake.
Okay. Column two, people with motives for the Glaston murders. I tapped my pencil a full five minutes, while I chewed my bottom lip raw.
A double cross? Perhaps Glaston’s accomplices were willing collaborators who murdered him only after they discovered his plan to burn them. Was Glaston supposed to share his proceeds from the sale?
Below double cross I penciled in “blackmail” and doodled “opportunity.”
The Glaston murders spoke volumes about his fellow conspirators. They’d filched phalloidin from Jolbiogen. Insiders? They knew how to handle it. Training? They’d accessed the Olsen estate.
Three people met all the criteria—Eric, Kyle and Julie. Well, maybe there was a fourth. I knew next to nothing about Nancy, Jake’s first wife.
“Great nap.” Aunt May yawned theatrically as she wandered into the room. I put down my pencil, pocketed the paper with my doodles.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” May said. “You’d better get cracking, too. Ross and Eunice are picking us up for Jake’s visitation in half an hour.”
***
The funeral home foyer reeked of flowers. I fidgeted in line waiting my turn to sign the guest register. May handed over a pen, and I scrawled my name. The inked pages indicated we were latecomers. That made the sparse gathering inside the large reception area a surprise. Thirty people tops. The early arrivals
hadn’t stayed long.
A stout man hurried to greet us. “Do you remember, Sam Larsson?” Ross whispered in my ear. Without my cousin’s prompt, I wouldn’t have known Sam from Adam. The plump mortician bore little resemblance to the mischievous boy I’d known.
My eldest Carr cousin and Sam were inseparable in high school. Whenever the Larsson mortuary was vacant, my cousins and I bowled in the sanctum. With chairs folded away, our featherweight plastic balls sailed over the polished hardwood floors.
“Good to see you, Ross.” The mortuary’s owner stuck out his hand. Ross introduced me. Sam gave a slight formal bow. “Nice to see you. I recognized you, right off.”
Sam’s eyes darted left. He frowned and excused himself. “Afraid I have to act as a bouncer today.” He hustled toward a woman in a pink pantsuit.
“She’s a reporter,” Ross whispered. “Not one of the locals or summer stock.”
Dwarfed by baskets of flowers, a photo board occupied the space usually reserved for a mahogany casket. Where were Darlene and Julie?
On the right side of the room, a knot of people shuffled forward, and my friend’s blonde hair popped into sight. A solid hunch prompted a look left. Bingo. Jake’s blood relatives occupied a stronghold along the wall opposite the widow and stepdaughter.
Hmmm. The enemy cast offered a surprise. While Kyle held the position of first batter-up for handshaking, the woman beside him wasn’t his wife. Coal black hair swept away from the matron’s pasty face. Anna’s description was dead-on. So this was Nancy, Kyle’s much-maligned mother and Jake’s first wife.
Where was Olivia? Had I chased her out of the dress shop before she could buy a suitable black frock?
Eric slumped next to Nancy. He looked zonked. Drugs for sure, who knew if they were the prescribed variety. I’d seen soldiers stoned on Percodan as well as pot. The boy’s blue eyes failed to focus as the parade of mourners snaked by.
Kyle’s head remained rock steady, while his beady eyes darted in all directions. Every few seconds, they cut to his nephew. Was he afraid the boy would do something to embarrass him? Or was he genuinely concerned about Eric’s mental state?
Ross herded our family delegation toward tables mounded with crustless tea sandwiches and book-ended by punch bowls. So far I’d escaped Kyle’s roaming gaze.
“Let’s wait to give our condolences until there are fewer people with Darlene,” Ross suggested as he helped himself to punch.
Eunice, May and I followed his example. While we sipped, Kyle huddled with Nancy. Their body language and whispered dialogue fascinated me. Totally ignored by Nancy, Eric might as well have been a mannequin. Of course, since he was the grandson of Jake’s second wife, Eric was no kin to Nancy. No wonder the woman evidenced no desire to clutch the boy to her bosom.
My attention shifted to the photo display. A fair number of mourners dawdled there. If current protocol held, the visitors would soon vanish. Even the profusion of finger foods wasn’t enough to hold people in the tension-filled room long.
I nudged Ross. “Didn’t any of Jake’s hotshot business associates come?”
He shook his head. “Sam says they’ll fly in tomorrow for the formal service.”
A glance toward Darlene and Julie revealed a break in the action. “Let’s pay our respects.”
Darlene prolonged the hug fest, clinging to each of us as if she feared we’d disappear. Uncomfortable, May, Ross, Eunice and I trotted out all the old chestnuts about the loss of loved ones. Each cliché encased its own sad kernel of truth.
Once a new wave of arrivals appeared, we sauntered to the Olsen photo tribute. Eunice and May, who hadn’t seen the photos, commented on the good times they documented. When my relatives opted to soldier on and offer condolences to Jake’s blood relatives, I took a cowardly left to the punch bowls. While Eric looked more comatose than angry, I had no desire to precipitate a brawl. Better to let sleeping dopers lie.
I staked out an oasis of empty folding chairs, and soon, my aunt and cousins joined me. We talked quietly as we sipped more of the tepid punch. I’d promised to stick around and give Darlene moral support whenever there were breaks in the hand-pumping action.
“Did you find out why Olivia’s absent?” I asked May.
“Kyle claimed she felt poorly and stayed home to rest up for the funeral,” she answered in a stage whisper. “Bet she’s peeved about Nancy invading her domain. Don’t blame her for snubbing her newly unearthed mother-in-law.”
As Aunt May dissed Nancy, I studied the woman. Her pale skin, willowy build and sculpted hairstyle called to mind a Japanese doll. The waxen ex-wife slipped back from the entourage, retrieved a purse, and rummaged inside. Looking for a tissue?
Nope. Her head swiveled in Darlene’s direction. Checking to see if she was being watched? Nonchalantly Nancy strolled to the photo collage. She studied it for a long moment before tacking a square addition in the right-hand corner. A snapshot? Memento or curse?
A shoulder squeeze interrupted my visual snooping. Duncan’s smile—a wolfish one—captured my full attention. He greeted my kin with genuine enthusiasm.
“I need to pay my respects,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
Would my chivalrous attorney run both sides of the grief gauntlet? Or would he be as chicken as me and skip Kyle’s mourner camp?
I tugged on his sleeve. “Would you stop at the photo tribute and take a close look at the picture in the lower right-hand corner?” The add-on piqued my curiosity. “See who’s in the shot.”
Duncan awarded me a puzzled look. “Okay.” He strode briskly toward Darlene.
Another member of the museum board greeted Ross, and the two reminisced kindly about the deceased.
My attention shifted to Duncan. He embraced Darlene and, in turn, Julie, speaking briefly with each before moving to the photo display. He leaned in for a close look at several shots, saving my request for last. Assignment completed, he demonstrated his chivalrous nature by shaking hands with Kyle. He even greeted Eric, who sullenly stuck out a paw.
By the time he poured punch and moseyed our way, my curiosity had passed simmer and reached boil. Duncan pulled a chair close to mine and whispered in my ear. “How about we wander into the annex and find a vacant coffin? Seems sort of a shame people don’t get to enjoy all that smooth silk when they’re alive and kicking. Course I have something other than kicking in mind.”
His hot breath made my ears burn and the hairs on my neck prickle. I punched his arm. A flush of heat warned me my cheeks had turned scarlet. Had my aunt and cousins detected my discombobulation?
“Okay wise guy,” I whispered back. “You need to stop reading zombie erotica. Just tell me about the photo.”
Duncan’s grin accompanied his shrug. “Not much to tell. It showed Jake and another man taking a little boy fishing. Kyle I suppose. The tyke held tight to a fishing pole. A young Nancy stood in the background waving goodbye.”
I frowned. “Nancy tacked that photo up a few minutes ago. Maybe it’s symbolic. That’s around the time she kissed her son goodbye for good. I’d love to know what compelled her to add it.”
Hushed voices drifted in from the foyer and Agent Weaver and Sheriff Delaney entered. The law enforcement duo went straight to the front of the room. Weaver split left. The sheriff peeled to the right.
Weaver clasped Kyle’s arm and maneuvered him away from his mother. The agent’s somber demeanor telegraphed bad news. Kyle’s poker face didn’t change.
The sheriff used a similar tactic to quarantine Darlene. He bent his head, brought his mouth near her ear. His lips moved, and Darlene shrieked. Delaney tucked an arm around her and guided her to a chair. The funeral director hustled over with a glass of water.
The pantomime left me clueless. “What now?” I asked Duncan. “Do you know?”
He shook his head.
Darlene massaged her temples, stared at the floor. Julie sat beside her and patted her shoulder.
Kyle spoke to his mother and Eric. W
eaver waited at a respectful distance.
“Murderers!” Eric screamed.
The news—whatever it was—jolted him out of his catatonic trance. He shook a fist at Darlene and Julie. “Murderers! I’ll get a gun. You’re dead, you hear me. Dead!”
He’d barely issued the threat when two men in suits—FBI agents?—hustled him toward the front door. Kyle and Nancy scurried behind Eric and his official bouncers. The room grew silent as a tomb. The audience stunned speechless.
“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” May demanded.
“I don’t know, but I plan to find out,” Duncan answered.
Before his long strides could bring him face to face with the sheriff, Delaney took center stage and cleared his throat. “Ladies and uh, gentlemen,” he stammered. “Sorry for the disruption, but Mrs. Olsen, uh Olivia Olsen, has been rushed to the hospital. Her husband…uh, Mr. Olsen, and his family have left to be with her.
“Mrs. Olsen—” he waved in Darlene’s direction—“this Mrs. Olsen says she appreciates your thoughtfulness in um, honoring her husband’s memory. Due to the uh, unfortunate circumstances, Mrs. Olsen has decided to reschedule the memorial service. It will not be held tomorrow. Uh, thank you for your understanding.”
While the tongue-tied sheriff tried to differentiate between Mrs. Olsens, Duncan took a seat next to Darlene. Her eyes never left the floor as he spoke. Clearly a receiving line would not re-form. Duncan cut a grim look my way before making his way to Sheriff Delaney.
Julie tugged her mother upright. An agitated Sam Larsson shepherded the women toward the protection of his back office. At least that would remove them from public display. I spotted the ugly-in-pink reporter. She’d snuck back amid the hubbub. She had to be delirious at her good fortune. She could now give first-person accounts of the family’s reaction to the latest Olsen tragedy, including Eric’s “murderer” outburst.
My throat spasmed as a burning sensation worked its way upward. Sweat beaded my forehead. Nausea. I tapped Ross’s arm. “I have to get some air.”
A broad porch wrapped three sides of the funeral parlor. Despite the roof’s protective overhang, a cold mist shrouded the decking. I leaned against the railing. A steady drip pinged beside me, overflow from full gutters.