by Linda Lovely
“Amen,” we somberly echoed.
Once blessed, our supper chatter turned unexpectedly cheerful. It began with critiques of recent movies, then Julie asked me to tell her more about what her mom was like when we first met.
“Darlene was a few years younger than you…” My Spirit Resort yarns—censored for explicit sexual content—entertained the gathering. Julie especially liked the farting contest in which contestants used a cigarette lighter to flare gaseous emissions. Darlene indignantly protested that my memories were clouded.
“I didn’t compete. Only judged,” she countered with a laugh. “Marley must have been smoking wacky-baccie.”
Weaver frowned.
“She’s kidding,” I assured her. “Like President Clinton, I never inhaled.”
As we pushed our plates away, I remembered the photo I’d pilfered from Jake’s tribute. I retrieved it from my bag and passed it round the table, starting with Duncan to my left.
“Speaking of old times, does anyone know who’s standing beside Jake in this picture?”
Everyone answered “no” until the photo reached Weaver at the end of the line.
“Don’t you see the resemblance, Marley? Imagine him with a few more years under his belt. I’d bet anything it’s Hamilton.”
“Quentin Hamilton, no way,” I interrupted. “If the man in this photo’s still alive, he’s what—seventy-five or eighty?”
Weaver rolled her eyes. “Listen up, it’s Quentin’s father. Can’t you see the family resemblance? I figured you met Ansley Hamilton during your stint at the Pentagon. He died last year. His obituary earned several inches in the ‘Washington Post’.”
The mention jogged my memory. How had I missed the likeness?
Weaver tipped her chair back and rocked. “He got a lot of media coverage during hearings on Capitol Hill when he defended that billionaire CEO charged with insider trading. Ansley must have been a good lawyer—his client walked away with two-hundred-million dollars even though thousands of investors lost their pensions.”
She handed the photo back to me. “Where did you get this, Marley? What’s it have to do with this case?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I described how Nancy snuck it onto the display. “It may have no significance. Maybe it’s just a happy memory of her time with Jake.”
“Given what my husband told me about that bitch, she’s not the sentimental type.” Darlene’s eyes narrowed. “I’d sooner believe she meant to give Jake the proverbial finger at his final sendoff.”
“How so?” I asked.
Darlene scrunched her face in a moue of distaste. “I don’t know. Maybe she entertained a lover while the men took Kyle off to drown worms. I don’t think she considered any lover off limits. Jake caught her screwing his business partner, you know. He knew she had multiple affairs.”
Clearly my friend held no truck with philanderers.
“Did you run a background check on Nancy?” I asked Weaver. “Say, I just realized I don’t even know the woman’s last name. Does she go by Olsen?”
“No, she remarried—twice,” Darlene answered. “Her last husband was a Pike. That’s the surname she’s using. Kept it after the last divorce.”
“I’ll see what we can dig up on her,” the FBI agent promised. “Probably nothing. But it’s not as if we have tons of leads. I’ll crosscheck information on Ansley Hamilton, too. See how, where and why he crossed paths with Jake.”
“Don’t bother.” Darlene balled up her paper napkin and stood. “That’s no secret. Ansley and Jake were college roommates at Harvard, lifelong friends. Ansley’s law firm handled all Jolbiogen’s legal work. Ansley visited Jake just before the cancer did him in. I wish they hadn’t been such good friends.” She shuddered. “That’s why Jake hired Quentin Hamilton—because that prick was Ansley’s son.”
NINETEEN
After dinner, we moved to the cottage’s well-worn sofas and oversized La-Z-Boys. Outside the drizzle turned into a driving rain. Every time a northerly gust picked up the tempo, splatters smacked the large windows. The barrages sounded like spinouts on a gravel road.
Duncan inspected the old stone fireplace and discovered gas logs. He flipped a switch and flames danced merrily. While the fire wasn’t needed for heat, its warming blaze provided a psychic balm.
Our conversation veered to the topic of scientific advances and their potential for good and evil. The chatter reminded me of the DNA report hidden in Glaston’s floor vault. Undecided if Weaver wanted it mentioned, I dosey-doed with a roundabout inquiry.
“Is Jolbiogen doing any pioneering DNA research?” I asked Julie. “Let me rephrase that. Is the company doing anything you can talk about?”
“Sure. There’s plenty of work going on that’s public domain. In fact, Jolbiogen regularly puts out press releases on our progress. This may interest you, Agent Weaver. We’ve developed new DNA screening kits for crime-scene and paternity. Both huge markets. We’re in the final testing phase now and expect to begin sales before year-end.
“Our portable kit separates DNA source material into sequences, then uploads to a high-speed mainframe programmed for this work. The kit can be plugged into any phone jack and delivers results in a couple of hours. So if a murder victim got a few licks in before she died, police can determine if blood under the victim’s fingernails matches a suspect.”
“I read about that,” Weaver commented. “When we went through Dr. Glaston’s papers, we found a Jolbiogen header on a DNA report dated May 10. Could it be related to testing for the kit? We didn’t find any test data with the same date on the Jolbiogen computers.”
“That’s odd.” Julie frowned. “If it was a Jolbiogen printout, the information should be there. One of Dr. Glaston’s labs is handling quality control studies. For each test, DNA samples are taken from a dozen volunteers—employees, relatives, lab visitors, whoever wanders by. Each test includes two relatives, say a mother and son or a brother and sister. All the rest are control blinds to make sure the kits don’t give false positives. In fact, Jake and I both donated skin scrapes for a test.”
Weaver twirled the pencil she’d been holding. “Our missing report showed two distinct DNA matches—one for siblings, one for a father and son. Perhaps they included multiple relatives in that test.”
Julie shrugged. “That doesn’t sound right. You could ask Jim Jacobs. He set up the protocols and supervised all of the studies until a couple of weeks ago. Jim’s no longer at Jolbiogen though. A headhunter lured him away to Boston.”
My skin tingled. Were we onto something? “Julie, what if one of the tests turned up an unanticipated DNA match?”
“Jim would have reported it to Dr. Glaston and asked permission to contact the folks involved for added testing. He’d want to determine if the test kit delivered a false positive or if the people were truly related. A ticklish situation. Who’d be eager to ask a woman, ‘Could this young man be the kid you put up for adoption twenty years ago?’”
Aha. Potential blackmail.
“Glaston’s printout identified patients by number, not name,” Weaver added. “How could we identify the people who took part in that particular study? Our computer forensics team turned up zilch. Either the study was never input or an expert wiped the computer. Our guys found none of the electronic footprints that are usually left behind when people erase files.”
Duncan leaned forward. “A lot of wills have a standard phrase that divides an estate between named heirs and any other living issue.” His voice hummed with excitement. “Some attorneys are looking to use DNA tests as a means to claim inheritances for illegitimate children. Maybe we have a motive.”
The FBI agent excused herself. “I need to leave. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
I stood. “Too many Cokes,” I fibbed.
I caught up with Weaver in the mudroom as she slipped on a rain slicker. “Would you ask the folks at Jolbiogen to compare DNA samples from all Olsen blood relatives—Jake included—p
lus everyone who’s visited Julie’s lab in the past three weeks?”
“You think Glaston blackmailed someone about an illegitimate kid? Could be. We have hair samples from every family member—gathered to help us sift through trace evidence.”
“Can you get a sample from Hamilton, too?”
Weaver’s eyebrows shot up and she laughed. “Are you kidding? Why?”
“Let’s call it a hunch.”
Weaver shrugged. “I’ll try. Maybe I’ll stick a pin in him to see if his blood’s really blue.”
While her suggestion sounded appealing, I had a better idea. “Vacuum the chair in the office Hamilton uses at Jolbiogen. Despite the hair gel, I’ll bet he sheds.”
Duncan smiled when I reclaimed my chair. “Well, there’s one subject we’ve studiously avoided,” he said, “even though it’s on everyone’s mind. The murders. Let’s brainstorm, try to make sense of what’s happened.”
No one objected but silence reigned. What the hell? I had something to say.
“We know Dr. Glaston’s our thief, but I’m convinced the doctor’s accomplice is our serial killer. Glaston certainly didn’t kill himself. So who did? Jake, the Glastons, Olivia—all were murdered by someone with estate access and toxin know-how.”
“Thanks, Marley. You’re describing me,” Julie complained.
“True. But Kyle fits the bill just as well. He comes and goes as he pleases at Jolbiogen. He has a degree in chemistry, knows his way around a lab. The Glastons welcomed him into their home. They didn’t invite you over for cocktails. Plus Kyle could have walked into his wife’s dressing room whenever he pleased.”
“But he was in Omaha when Jake died,” Darlene interrupted.
“True, but who’s to say he didn’t switch the eyedrops days before Jake used it?”
Duncan leaned back in his chair. “So what’s the son’s motive?”
“He’s plain evil.” Julie shuddered. “That man makes my skin crawl. I heard how he talked about his dad—not exactly a loving son. He’s been cheating on his wife for years, too. I think even dimwitted Olivia knew.”
“Julie, I don’t like Kyle either, but that’s malicious gossip,” Darlene jumped in.
“Oh, Mom, it isn’t,” Julie snapped. “Remember Celia Riley, the friend I met at Camp Foster when we were twelve? In junior high, Celia told me Kyle regularly spent the night with her mother, Vivian. Celia hated Kyle.”
“So what if Kyle was bonking Vivian?” Darlene asked. “That doesn’t give him any reason to kill Jake, the Glastons or Olivia.”
“Celia said she used to eavesdrop on Kyle and her mom. Kyle talked trash about his father. Called Jake a mean, stingy tyrant who sent him to boarding school because he didn’t want him around. He described Gina’s mom as the wicked stepmother personified.”
Until the woman conveniently died in a boating accident with Kyle at the wheel.
“Kyle’s second favorite topic was how much he hated his wife,” Julie added. “He claimed he’d married her to please his father and the shrew couldn’t even bear children to carry on the glorious Olsen family name.”
“Oh what hogwash!” Darlene piped up. “Jake only wanted him to be happy.”
Duncan held up his hands. “How about Eric? Sure, his image is one of a druggie unable to hatch a plot, but the boy’s not stupid, and he put in time at Jolbiogen. Jake told me he has a one-forty IQ. Maybe his zonked-out demeanor’s an act. He was mad at Jake, and he hated Dr. Glaston.”
“Which is why Eric would never have teamed up with Glaston,” Darlene objected. “Don’t forget, that’s the other part of the equation. We’re looking for someone who collaborated with the doctor. You know how a cat toys with a cockroach, that’s how Dr. Glaston played with his stepson. Nothing could have compelled Eric to help him.”
My friend shook her head. “No. Eric wouldn’t kill Jake, or his mother. He’s unbalanced. But the boy loved Jake. His granddad was one of the few people who showed the kid affection.”
“Why not add Nancy to the suspect list?” I asked. “When did she first turn up in Spirit Lake?”
“The day before Jake died,” Duncan answered. “Jake called the gate to let her in. I checked the log.”
“What!” Darlene exploded. “Jake said nothing about a visit. He hated the woman.”
“Mom, don’t go ballistic. Why would Nancy want to kill Jake now, after they’d been divorced what—more than forty years? An ex who wants revenge would have acted a lot sooner.”
“You know what they say about revenge being a dish best served cold,” Duncan tossed in. “But I think Julie’s right.”
“Yeah, Mom. Nancy’s grudge isn’t cold, it’s permafrost. Even if we invent a motive for Nancy, how could she get cyclogel and know it would kill Jake? Plus she’d have needed a supply of phalloidin to murder Olivia and Gina.”
I jumped in. “The murderer didn’t have to kill these folks with his—or her—own hands. No one in this family is exactly strapped for cash. Any one of them would have enough dough or promised inheritance to pay a creative hit man. Dozens of people visited the estate before that wedding reception. A paid killer could have waltzed in with the caterers, the florists, pest control, hell, any service company.”
Duncan nodded. “There’s another group with unlimited access to the estate—Thrasos International Security. Those guards share a lot of skills with hit men. They know plenty of criminals, too. Maybe one of the Thrasos guards was hard up for cash.”
I glanced at my watch. Almost ten. Time for a reassuring chat with Aunt May.
“I need to ask one of our babysitters to dial Aunt May. If I don’t check in, she’ll have my hide.”
When I returned from my brief conversation with May, all signs of bonhomie had vanished. Darlene and Duncan sat silent, eyes glued to a hallway where an FBI agent stood at parade rest. Where had Julie gone?
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Weaver walked in with a funny look on her face and another agent in tow,” Duncan answered. “She asked Julie to come with her. Very formal and told us to wait. They disappeared into that last bedroom down the hall and closed the door.”
“Probably routine,” I lied. Had it been routine Weaver wouldn’t have asked another agent to join her nor would she have cut Julie from the herd.
I sat beside Duncan. He reached over and squeezed my hand.
Julie burst through the watched door and barreled down the hall toward us. “Oh, Mom,” she sobbed and collapsed in her mother’s arms.
Her grownup composure had crumbled. Her sobs stretched into a child’s long wracking cries of misery. Too distraught to talk.
Weaver and her fellow agent emerged. Faces somber.
“What did you do to her?” Duncan demanded.
“CSI investigators found new evidence at Kyle’s house.” Weaver spoke like an automaton, all emotion buried. “The tampered foot powder container was wiped clean—just the victim’s prints. But the techs found Julie’s prints on an Advil bottle nearby. Strands of Julie’s hair were caught on a dresser hinge. She can’t explain the fingerprints or hair.”
“I never set foot in that house,” Julie wailed. “That’s why I can’t explain it. I didn’t even know Olivia. And if I’d killed her, I sure as hell would have worn gloves. Yes, I’m guilty of taking Advil, but that’s all. Somebody must have taken that bottle from my purse and planted it. My hair, too.”
Duncan glared at Weaver. “For Christ’s sake, don’t you see the pattern? This isn’t the first time someone’s manufactured evidence to make Julie look guilty. Remember the fake emails and mysterious UPS package. Glaston’s journal made it clear those clues were bogus. Someone’s trying to let Julie take the rap.”
“Yes, I remember. I have no plans to arrest Julie. But the fake emails designed to implicate Julie in the theft were probably put there by Glaston. Since he’s dead, who’s framing her now? I can’t ignore this. I’m afraid I’ll need to confer with my boss again before allowing Julie to
leave town.
“Right now, I’m headed to Kyle’s house to talk with the crime scene techs. I’ve asked Agent Rickard”—she nodded in the direction of the man who’d joined her for the interrogation—“to stay with you.”
Julie’s crying jag collapsed into soft hiccups. Tears trickled down her cheeks. While Darlene cradled her daughter in her arms, Duncan and I offered platitudes. Everything would turn out okay.
We sank into silence. The room seemed to shrink, sucking all life from its dejected inhabitants. Bruise-like smudges reappeared under Darlene’s eyes. How I wished I’d stayed at May’s.
A slumber party first. Regret.
Exhaustion—physical and emotional—finally overtook us and we dozed. The thunk of a closing door startled us awake. We never made it to bed.
When I moved, my joints crackled like a just-milked bowl of Rice Krispies. No light through the blinds. I squinted at my watch. Four-thirty. Duncan yawned, and I began to ascend from brain dead to groggy.
Did everyone feel as scruffy and crotchety as me? My teeth wore little fur coats—accessorized with cookie crumbs.
“Morning,” Weaver said softly. “Sorry I woke you. Figured you’d be in bed by now.”
“We were waiting for you. More bad news?” Darlene mumbled.
“No, though you won’t like everything I have to say. My boss has agreed to hold off on charging Julie, and he’ll permit both of you to go to South Carolina. You have to surrender your passports, however.”
So far, so good. Dear Island, my home, may have some strange customs, but it’s part of the good old U.S. of A.
“I asked one of our agents in Omaha to check Julie’s desk at Jolbiogen,” she continued. “He also rousted one of Julie’s coworkers in the middle of the night. She confirmed the young researcher always kept an Advil bottle in her top drawer. No bottle. The absence doesn’t prove tampering, but it raises questions.”
“That took all night?” Duncan asked.
“No,” Weaver answered. “About midnight Eric called the sheriff claiming that Nancy was drugging him. The boy also claimed he heard Nancy say she was thrilled Jake and that blackmailing son-of-a-bitch Glaston were dead. Then Eric screamed, ‘She’s going to kill me just like Grandpa.’ The sheriff immediately called us.”