Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone
No Wake Zone
Linda Lovely
Published by
LHI
Seneca, South Carolina
***
2nd Digital & Trade Paperback Edition, 2013
Cover and Interior Design by LHI
1st Digital & Trade Paperback Edition, 2012, L&L Dreamspell
Copyright © 2012 Linda Lovely. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
Reviews
A Roller Coaster Ride
A master at combining suspense and romance, Linda Lovely has once again created a killer thriller in NO WAKE ZONE. The twists and turns of her cleverly plotted story offered a roller coaster ride I didn’t want to end. Lovely’s vivid descriptions whisked me to the Midwest and tree-lined lake shores, where sheltered coves harbor long-hidden secrets. Marley Clark is one of my favorite protagonists, an intelligent, energetic 52-year-old who never hesitates to chase after a killer or romance.
Author Cindy Sample,
2012 Lefty Award Finalist Best Humorous mystery,
Dying for a Date
Dying for a Dance
Smart, Sexy and Nobody’s Fool
Hurray for Linda Lovely for embracing a protagonist Baby Boomers and Generation Xers can relate to. Marley Clark proves that women aren’t dead after 50. As for Marley, she’s just getting started—smart, sexy and nobody’s fool. Lovely produces vivid settings and intelligent writing all around. Characters so real you’ll swear they’re standing beside you. The author of Dear Killer has done it again. Readers will love diving into No Wake Zone.
Donnell Ann Bell, Bestselling Author
The Past Came Hunting
Deadly Recall
No Wake Zone
Reviews
Dedication
Note to Readers
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
Titles by Linda Lovely
HOA=DOA
Dear Killer
One
About Author Linda Lovely
Dedication
To
—Son & Mother—
Stephen Ross Kennedy, 1st Captain of the Queen II,
& Mary Deck Kennedy, Nurse & Storyteller Extraordinaire
Thank you for your gifts of laughter, courage and love, and for the fond memories that kept me company while writing No Wake Zone.
Acknowledgements
I’ll start with family. A special thanks to Mary Eunice Kennedy, curator, Iowa Great Lakes Maritime Museum, for help with Spirit Lake research. Lay any inaccuracies at my doorstep, not Mary’s. Brenda Mann and Tammy Nowling, my Ph.D. nieces, deserve star billing for their attempts to explain complex biotech subjects. I hope enough of their wisdom rubbed off to sidestep major science gaffs. Thanks to my great nephew Duncan James Nowling for letting me attach his first and middle names to a main character. As usual, I’m grateful to my husband, Tom Hooker, and sister, Rita Mann, for suggestions on early drafts.
Major (Retired) Arlene Underwood, a dear friend since kindergarten, continues to provide anecdotes to help flesh out my heroine’s Army experience. My long-distance critique partners—Maya Reynolds and Robin Weaver—and local critiquers—Donna Campbell, Danielle Dahl, Polly Iyer, Howard Lewis, Jean Robbins, Helen Turnage and Ellis Vidler—help me hone my craft and inspire me with their creativity. Thanks a million.
***
Note to Readers
While this is a work of fiction and all characters and events are fictional, Spirit Lake, Iowa, and the Iowa Great Lakes are very real and every bit as enticing as No Wake Zone suggests. Arnolds Park, a century-old amusement park; the Queen II, a classy double-decker tour boat; the Iowa Great Lakes Maritime Museum, located inside Arnolds Park, and the Tipsy House are honest-to-goodness, real-life entertainments. I love and highly recommend every one of them.
My thanks to Historic Arnolds Park Inc., the nonprofit umbrella encompassing Arnolds Park, the Queen II, and the Maritime Museum, for allowing me to use these settings as a backdrop for my mystery. For plotting purposes, I invented security routines and emergency procedures, law enforcement and medical examiner responses, and carved out jurisdictional boundaries. I know nothing about real-world security at Arnolds Park or the operations of the Dickinson County Sheriff’s Department or the Medical Examiner’s Office. I hope the true professionals in these organizations will smile at my follies and the fictional characters I’ve added to their staffs.
I cheated some descriptions of physical locations as well. For example, I lent Arnolds Park’s Tipsy House distorting mirrors. The mirrors actually were part of Arnolds Park’s old Fun House, torn down decades ago. While the Tipsy House has probably been remodeled during its life, the renovation described in the novel is purely a plot device. I also changed the dates and format of the annual Antique and Classic Boat Show. Don’t go hunting for a Spirit Resort either, though it’s evocative of many grand old resorts that have since passed into legend.
If you want to catch me in any other prevarications, come visit the Iowa Great Lakes and Arnolds Park. It’s a trip worth making.
A huge thank you to Mary Eunice Kennedy and John and J.D. Kennedy for permitting me to borrow endearing traits, sayings and folklore associated with family members no longer with us. They give my characters humor, depth and spirit. If you find something likable in one of my composite characters, hats off to my kin. If you find something objectionable, hand me full blame.
With love to the Iowa Great Lakes.
Linda Lovely
***
ONE
“Miss, Miss—are the crab puffs all gone?”
I tightened my grip on the tray, wishing I held my Glock instead of a platter of tricked-out wieners. At the rate these folks snarfed hors d’oeuvres and champagne, they’d empty the galley before the midpoint in our afternoon lake cruise.
“I’ll check, sir.”
While answering the portly merrymaker, I spotted my cousin Ross in his crisp captain whites. His blue eyes twinkled, and his moustache quivered like a frightened chinchilla. What nerve. I’d tell him where to stuff his chuckle—and my frilly apron—the minute we docked.
Ross grinned. He’d shanghaied a junior helmsman for backup so he could kibitz now and again with the well-heeled guests. “Having fun, Marley?” he whispered as he slid by me.
He tossed off a two-finger salute and headed back to the wheelhouse. While Ross only pilots the Queen on special outings, today qualified. Jake Olsen, a tycoon the locals claim as one of their own, had chartered the double-decker excursion boat for a post-wedding reception.
When a waiter called in sick at the last minute, I agreed to fill in, never dreaming Olsen’s newest wife—number three—would turn out to be Darlene Sherbert, an o
ld college friend.
As I trotted down the metal stairs to restock my tray a blur of red and black snagged my attention. Windmilling arms. Splayed legs. A body thudded against the lower deck railing a few feet to my left and ricocheted. My mind flashed on the image of a limp rag doll. A geyser sprayed me with cold rain as the body tumbled into the lake.
Sweet Jesus. How long would it take Ross to stop the Queen?
Please, God. Not another drowning. Could I save him?
I threw down my tray, toed off my deck shoes, and clambered over the railing. The water rushed by three feet below. I pushed hard with my feet for distance and dove.
Knifing into what felt like an ice bath, I gasped. Big mistake. Water flooded my throat. I fought to the surface, and coughed up some of the inhaled water. Tremors shook my body. Screams from the Queen’s passengers blended with the seagulls’ raucous cries.
I scanned the churning lake for a head breaking the surface, for a body, for anything human. Sunlight sparkling on the water blinded me. Was it a man or woman? The Queen’s wake flung me upward, and I spotted the victim a few yards away. The floater vanished as I descended into the wave’s trough. Head down, I swam toward the spot where a flash of red clothing last appeared.
When my hand touched skin, I stopped mid-crawl and raised my head. The Queen’s wake made it tough to tread water. Had I gotten turned around? No. There he was. The man floated face down and bobbled like a cork. Well-toned arms stretched wide. A red silk shirt clung to his back, as revealing as plastic wrap. A swell flung him against me, and I seized a thick mat of white hair. My desperate yank flipped the body.
Heaven almighty. Jake Olsen.
Empty eyes told me I was too late. The man’s eyelids drooped at half-mast as though he could no longer resist sleep. A thin rim of faded china blue circled dilated pupils—black, lifeless holes. Disconcertingly the eyes had pin-balled in opposite directions. It didn’t matter. Jake’s vision of this world was gone.
With an arm tucked across his chest, I cradled his head to keep his lips above water. Lifesaving 101. Though I hadn’t been a lifeguard for thirty-plus years, it’s something you don’t forget.
Wasted effort. Jake wouldn’t be organizing any more cruises or have a chance to introduce wife number four.
My scissor kicks and feeble one-armed sidestroke kept us afloat. I pivoted to keep an eye on the Queen. A low growl escaped the engines. How long would it take Ross to slow and make the seventy-five-ton vessel heel?
A lifeline ring shot across the waves and skipped over the surface just out of reach. I kicked harder. Though I wore only thin slacks, a blouse and that damnable apron, the waterlogged apparel felt like chain mail. A desperate lunge brought the nautical ring within inches. Once my fingers snagged the rope netting, I looped my free arm through the buoy.
Now I simply needed to hang on and prop up Jake’s head until help arrived. The frantic crew lowered a lifeboat. The dinghy swayed several feet above the lake’s surface before it plopped down with a theatrical splash. After what seemed an hour, but was more likely two minutes, the lifeboat pulled alongside.
“We’ll take him, Marley,” shouted Carlos, a carnival roustabout Ross befriended years before.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he hoisted the body. “We’ll pull you in next.”
“I’m fine.” My teeth clattered like castanets. I clung to the gunnels while Carlos and another crewman checked Jake’s pulse and attempted to revive him. No dice. Carlos shook his head, then grabbed me under the armpits and hefted my body like a sack of potatoes.
Panting. I collapsed. As the rescuers rowed, I managed a final look at Jake’s haunting visage before shifting my gaze to the idling Queen. A knot of nattily attired partygoers crowded the lower railing, while a parallel flock of wealthy gawkers elbowed each other for good balcony seats. Cell phones bristled like antlers among the herd.
Who are they calling—their brokers?
Then the realization hit—they were using the phones as cameras. I turned away. But not before I spotted my friend Darlene. Standing alone. Arms crossed as she hugged herself.
My God. Her marriage had lasted one whole week. A sob caught in my throat. I knew too well how it felt to lose a husband. At least, I’d had sixteen years with Jeff.
I’m so sorry, Darlene.
As soon as the crew hoisted my soggy butt aboard the Queen, May claimed jurisdiction.
“You’re a damned fool.” May shook her head as she tightened the blanket around my quivering body. “Only an idiot would do a swan dive off the Queen. What if you’d hit the side of the boat or a log? We’d have two corpses instead of one. Damned fool.”
My seventy-nine-year-old aunt talked tough, but after decades on the receiving end, I knew her fierce bark to be colorful bluff. The tremble in her fingers and warble in her voice said fear for my safety, not pique over my idiocy, prompted her latest tirade.
She loved me like a daughter. When Mom was alive, May offered to swap one of her three sons for my sister or me. That was Irish bluster. May Carr would do anything for her “boys”—now men creeping up on Social Security eligibility.
May shepherded me to the wheelhouse, away from the morbid circus surrounding Jake. I let my aunt fuss. Arguing took too much energy, though I didn’t feel especially traumatized. Sitting around in wet clothes seemed a cakewalk compared to all too many of my experiences in the Army.
Though I’d retired from the military, I still worked, sort of. My part-time gig as a security officer let me travel when the spirit moved me. This tenth day of June, the spirit—an impressive one in the form of Aunt May—had moved me to Iowa and the haunts of my youth to help arrange a combo birthday party/family reunion. May took the opportunity to observe that I’d had ample time to recuperate from my tangle with Dear Island’s psycho killer and my backside would spread to the size of Alaska, if I didn’t get off it and do something.
When asked so sweetly, how could I refuse?
I glanced at my aunt. White hair as wispy as cotton candy and deep crinkles around her blue eyes reminded me she’d turn eighty in two weeks. That fact dismayed me as much as it amused her. A two-time veteran of open-heart surgery, she’d outlived four siblings and her own longevity expectations.
“Hell, people have tried to kiss me goodbye so often, they’ve got chapped lips,” she quipped.
A cold bead of water meandered from my hairline down my back. I used the towel May had commandeered to give my short hair a vigorous scrub.
Jeez. My mind pattered about like an insomniac tap dancer. Guess it balked at focusing on the present. Who wouldn’t want to block out Jake Olsen’s walleyed death mask or Darlene’s sobs? Yet Jake’s death hadn’t brought on the bone-rattling shakes I’d experienced two months before when I’d found a friend dead in a Jacuzzi.
Two big differences between the corpses. It appeared the Grim Reaper claimed Jake without a killer’s helping hand, and the tycoon was almost a stranger. We’d shared one quick handshake at a gala event at the Iowa Great Lakes Maritime Museum after Jake praised Ross as the nonprofit’s amiable leader. I’d instantly liked the philanthropist for that.
Still the image of Darlene standing alone at the Queen’s railing made me shudder. Once we reached port I’d ask how I could help. We hadn’t spoken since our brief reunion at the start of the cruise. After whooping with delight at seeing me, she’d whispered, “Some wedding reception. These people are all Jake’s business cronies. You’re my only friend here.”
With a shake of my head, I tuned back into the conversations swirling around me. Radio in hand, Ross alerted various authorities about the accident. May pasted her cell phone to her ear and issued marching orders to her daughter-in-law, Eunice.
“Find some dry clothes, too,” she suggested. “Marley looks like a drowned squirrel. Maybe sweats from Ross’s locker. She’d never fit in your clothes.”
Unfortunately, May was right. She called them like she saw them.
My aunt toyed with a c
lip-on pearl earring as she talked. “We need to keep the bulls separated from the cows. Let’s set up the museum theater for Jake’s guests and try to corral the reporters in the museum proper until we see what’s what.”
She paused, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Imagine the authorities will need a space, too. Maybe the boardroom? Oh, better order sandwiches from Yesterdays, and start some coffee.”
May stuffed her cell phone back in a pocketbook large enough to double as a body bag and patted my hand as the Queen made stately progress across a six-mile stretch of West Okoboji. High speed isn’t an option for a double-decker tour boat ferrying more than a hundred passengers.
“Do you honestly expect a reporter stampede?” I asked. “The local paper has what, a five-person staff?”
She speared me with a look. “You didn’t see the vultures descend when that plane crashed over in Clear Lake with Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper aboard. I was visiting folks over there at the time. Believe me, reporters will swarm out of the woodwork like termites. Jake’s worth a billion.”
I choked. “Holy kamole.” I tried to watch my language around May. “After I met the man at that museum benefit, Ross told me Jake was wealthy. But he never mentioned Jake’s bank account boasted that many zeroes.”
Having set foot in Iowa twenty-four hours ago, I was way behind on lake gossip.
“Jake founded Jolbiogen and made fifty million when he took it public,” May said. “Just the beginning.”
I slipped off my wet socks and wrung them, creating a miniature waterfall. “A billion dollars. Wow. I’d be hard-pressed to spend a million.”
“Well, kid, I hear Jake’s family rolls up their sleeves to help.”
My aunt often calls me “kid.” While it may not be the most accurate handle for a Midwestern-bred baby boomer, May’s use of the moniker makes me smile.