Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone Page 4

  “What?” I followed her gaze to a young man charging our way from the house to our left.

  “It’s Eric—Jake’s grandson. Dammit, I’m not ready to face him.”

  The kid—I guessed early twenties—bulled within shouting range. In other circumstances, I might have labeled him handsome. Jet black hair. Irises a remote china blue, just like his granddad’s. Pale skin that would turn lobster pink after an hour on the water. At the moment, he reminded me of a vicious dog, bristling with hostility.

  “You stinking bitch,” he yelled. “What made you decide to kill him? That ten-carat diamond wasn’t enough? You won’t get away with murder.”

  Eric gulped air to fuel his tirade. I could almost feel his hot breath abrading Darlene’s face. His hands balled into tight red fists, the exposed white knuckles looked ready to abuse. Fearing he’d escalate from verbal pummeling to physical assault, I slid sideways and stood. Edging behind him, I considered my options should matters deteriorate.

  Darlene’s face turned white as flour, bleached by fear. But her eyes flashed with anger. Past experience warned me she was about to blow. “I loved Jake, you little shit.” Her clipped tone vibrated with controlled fury. “More than you. Jesus, your grandfather’s body isn’t cold and you’re ranting about your inheritance.”

  Eric sneered. “What bullshit. You love money, period. I’ll see you in hell before you steal more.”

  Time to interrupt. “You need to leave—now.” I used my best up-yours, military command voice.

  The surround sound surprised Eric. He hadn’t noticed I’d scooted behind him.

  He swiveled. “Who the hell are you? Another overaged whore?”

  This boy was not winning brownie points.

  When he grabbed my arm, it made anything I did self-defense. I captured his forearm with my free hand. My thumb found the spot just below his elbow and dug in. His face went from pallid to pasty. Silently I thanked the sergeant who’d schooled me in pressure points and practical defense.

  Eric tried to free his arm. While I didn’t release him, I eased up on the pressure. “Are you ready to leave?”

  He stared daggers at me and spat at Darlene’s feet. “Guess you’re hiring freakin’ lesbo guards now. Well, she won’t always be around. We’re not finished.”

  I eased up more and he jerked free. The scene was so over the top I felt like giggling. Was he for real?

  As we watched the irate man-child stalk away, neither of us uttered a word. When he disappeared from sight, Darlene sighed. “Eric thinks he inhabits a soap opera.” She shook her head. “He’s convinced life’s dealt him a cruel blow. With Gina as his mother, there’s some justification. But lots of folks have it worse. Poor Eric’s twenty years old and can’t touch a fifty-million trust fund till he’s thirty. He’s flunked out of four colleges, majoring in recreational drug use. This spring Jake tried to interest his grandson in Jolbiogen, brought him in as a lab tech. He lasted three months. Thought the job beneath him. Jake worried about the boy, but knew throwing money at him wasn’t a cure.”

  “Your husband sounds like a gem,” I said. “But I don’t envy you his family.”

  “Jake told them he planned to write a new will. They’re all sure I goaded him into it. Truth is, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass if I’m in Jake’s will. Hell, I could sell this diamond and be set for life.”

  The value of expletives is often underrated. Letting loose with a few swear words seemed to help Darlene vent her frustration. Her shoulders straightened. Her eyes flashed.

  A strong lady. Good thing. Whatever was—or wasn’t—in Jake’s will, Darlene faced tough sledding.

  I did find her nonchalance about a billion-dollar estate hard to swallow. Darlene was a rare bird if she didn’t covet a chunk of change for her daughter, if not for herself.

  FOUR

  I jumped when a hand gripped my shoulder. “Ms. Clark, we need to talk.”

  Sheriff Delaney’s shoe-leather face hovered above me. His gray eyes looked anything but friendly. Darlene started to get up. He held up his palm in a stop motion. “This is official. If you’ll come with me, Ms. Clark, I’d prefer we do the interview in private.”

  Little hairs on the back of my neck saluted. Holy crap. If the sheriff’s squinty eyes were any sign, I’d joined the suspect list.

  A popular Army acronym sprang to mind—FUBAR.

  I followed Delaney back to the Olsen house where Harvey ushered us into a small study and shut the door. I headed for the red leather couch, automatically pulling one of the decorative throw pillows onto my lap.

  The sheriff claimed a club chair next to the couch and took out a pen, a notepad, and a digital recorder. “Mind if I record this?” he asked as he set it on the end table between us.

  “That’s fine,” I answered, trying to keep my voice from warbling. My throat felt parched and my nervous fingers toyed with the fringe on the pillow. I told myself I had no reason to be nervous; I’d done nothing wrong. But sweat glands and nerves seldom respond to logic. I knew that well enough from being on the questioning side of an interrogation.

  “Can we begin with why you were on the Queen this afternoon?” Delaney asked. “According to my notes, you live in South Carolina.”

  I took a steadying breath. At least the first answer was easy. I explained I was on vacation, visiting May and Ross Carr, my aunt and cousin. I’d agreed to waitress last minute as a favor to Ross.

  The sheriff scribbled a note, then pinned me with a cold stare. “Why weren’t you on the guest list for the party?”

  Huh? Where did that question come from?

  “I’d met Jake Olsen once at the Maritime Museum. We weren’t friends. He had no reason to invite me.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, but I’m told you and Mrs. Olsen are long-time friends. Why didn’t she invite you?”

  “Friends who hadn’t seen each other in literally decades. I had no idea she’d married Jake Olsen, and Darlene didn’t know I was in town.”

  The sheriff tapped his pen on his notepad. “Okay, let’s talk about your actions on the Queen. Did you serve any food or beverages to Mr. Olsen?”

  The man was getting my Irish up. I felt my cheeks flame—an early-warning sign I’m angry. Was the sheriff suggesting I’d poisoned my friend’s husband?

  “Yes, I brought a tray of champagne flutes to a group that included Darlene and her husband. Mr. Olsen helped himself to a glass of the bubbly. Darlene took a glass from that same tray. As far as I know, no one else who drank the champagne fell over dead.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of Delaney’s mouth, pleased he’d ruffled me. Probably figured I’d say something stupid and confess in a fit of pique. I willed myself to calm down and smiled. I could play that game, too.

  “According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Olsen finished the champagne you provided just before his collapse,” Delaney said.

  “How interesting.” I looked directly into the sheriff’s cold gray eyes.

  “Yes, it is.” My return stare didn’t coax the sheriff to blink. “Now, tell me how you came to leap into the water just seconds after Mr. Olsen fell overboard.”

  “I was headed down the stairs to the galley when I saw a body fall from the top deck. I recently found a drowning victim—a friend. I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else dying that way without making an effort to save him.”

  The sheriff kept his gaze locked on mine. “Save him, huh? At least two eyewitnesses seem to think your ‘lifesaving’ efforts pushed Mr. Olsen’s head under water.”

  My fingers squeezed the pillow I longed to throw in Delaney’s face. “Nonsense. The man was floating facedown when I reached him. I flipped him over and held his head above water until the lifeboat reached us. Unfortunately he was dead when I reached him.”

  Delaney looked up from his scribbling with a raised eyebrow. “What makes you so certain? Care to venture a guess on what killed him? Poison, maybe?”

  “I haven’t the fain
test, Sheriff. Is that all? If you’re going to play bad cop, can we do it later? I have a friend who just lost a husband. She needs me.”

  Delaney snapped his notebook shut and picked up the recorder. “Fine. I hope you don’t plan to leave town.”

  “Not for two weeks. I’m staying with my aunt, May Carr. You can contact me there after tonight.”

  I stood and walked out without a backward glance. How did the sheriff come up with the notion I had a nefarious motive for my dive into the lake? Talk about ridiculous.

  A possibility dawned. Not how, who.

  Quentin Hamilton. He’d be all too happy to seize innuendo and make me a suspect.

  I rejoined Darlene on the patio. We talked and watched the lake until darkness drove us indoors. I didn’t share the sheriff’s insulting questions. No need to upset my friend more. Jake was dead before I reached him. That meant no one could pin a drowning on me. And, even if he’d been poisoned, I couldn’t buy that someone played champagne roulette to deliver the coup de grace.

  Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the great room’s ocean of marble tile. The caterers had long since departed. Harvey Krantz offered to linger, but Darlene shooed the butler home, insisting we’d be fine.

  The stale, cold air made me shiver. Had Harvey lowered the thermostat earlier, anticipating a coven of sweaty celebrants?

  “Can I fix you something to eat?” Darlene asked. “I’m not hungry.”

  I touched her shoulder. “I can fend for myself, just keep me company. I don’t like playing mother, but you should eat a little something.”

  The kitchen boasted more appliances than an entire home economics lab—a doublewide refrigerator, a freezer, a Jenn-Air grill, two cooktops, twin ovens, a rotisserie that looked big enough to roast a large turkey, a warming drawer and a quartet of sinks anchored in acres of granite.

  “Holy smokes.” I chuckled. “Chef Rudy would shit his britches if he saw this layout. Well, maybe not. He’d miss his battery of deep-fat fryers.”

  While our old boss at Spirit Resort possessed a reasonable culinary range, his Sunday-feed-the-masses specialty was deep-fried chicken.

  I rubbed my hands together. “Based on your kitchen toys, raiding your larder should be fun. Is this the pantry?”

  Darlene nodded, and I opened a door to a walk-in treasure trove. Amidst stocked delicacies like artichokes and truffles, I found an abundance of mundane canned goods. “Ah ha, you rich folks do eat something besides caviar.”

  My kidding coaxed a smile from Darlene. After retrieving a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, I added milk, and nuked two cups in the microwave. Then I scavenged cheese, sawing off a few hunks of sharp cheddar to munch with some crackers. I set a mug of soup in front of Darlene and joined her at the kitchen table. The steaming soup warmed my hands. My friend cradled her mug against her cheek.

  She smiled. “Remember that Republican Women’s Club meeting, when Rudy banished us to the freezer to carve an elephant out of ice? Thinking about it still gives me goose pimples.”

  “I seem to recall you made one of the elephant’s appendages larger than his trunk. It was downright cruel how Rudy whacked it off.”

  My friend tilted her head. “I still say Jumbo was anatomically correct. You know those old ladies would have loved it. Maybe behind closed doors, but they would’ve giggled. But listen to me, calling them old ladies. We’re their age now.”

  Darlene sipped her soup. “When we were twenty, I sort of figured old people—you know, fifty and up—didn’t do it anymore. I never imagined we’d be fitting sex in between hot flashes.” Her index finger traced the Iowa State logo on the red mug. “The first time I felt horny after Mike died, it came tinged with shame. But grief doesn’t kill desire.”

  Amen to that. This spring, two years after Jeff’s death, I received my own libido wake-up call. Nothing like a handsome forty-year-old homicide detective to rekindle banked embers.

  “Think you’ll stay in Spirit Lake?”

  Darlene shook her head. “I don’t know. I sold my catering business, and I can’t imagine moping around this place with nothing to do.”

  “There’s plenty of time to decide.”

  I didn’t add that moping would require a fat bankroll. If she inherited this mansion, she’d better hope Jake left cash for taxes and upkeep—no mean feat on a multi-million dollar spread.

  Chimes sounded, and Darlene jumped. “What the hell? Those security bozos weren’t supposed to let anyone through the gates.”

  She walked to a kitchen intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Quentin Hamilton.”

  She hesitated. “What do you want?” Her hand trembled. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

  “No. I need to speak to you now.” His booming reply vibrated the intercom grid. He sounded peeved.

  “Just a minute.” She released the button. “Now I’m doubly glad you’re here.”

  “It might be best if I hang in the kitchen. I don’t exactly have a calming effect on the man. If Hamilton sees me, he’ll become even testier.”

  “You know him?” Her eyebrows shot up.

  “Afraid so. I’ll explain after he leaves.”

  “Okay, but please listen in, and if I call out, charge in like the cavalry.”

  As Darlene ushered her unwanted guest into the great room, I skulked a few feet away, my ear plastered to the kitchen door. Hamilton didn’t waste time on condolences.

  “My men will be here first thing tomorrow to secure Jake’s papers. You need to show them every place your husband kept important documents. And I need a complete guest list for your party.”

  Darlene jumped in. “That’s not going to happen.” Her tone suggested gritted teeth. “I will not let a bunch of strangers paw through Jake’s personal things on your say-so. If I happen to find any Jolbiogen documents, I’ll let Tom Brooks know.

  “And why do you need a guest list, Mr. Hamilton? I don’t want you harassing Jake’s friends. Frankly, I can’t see how any of this is your business. The sheriff’s investigating the accident. I had to put up with your pompous ass when Jake was alive. I don’t now. Get out of my house.”

  “As the grieving widow, I thought you’d be happy to cooperate.” Hamilton’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Since you’ve refused, it’s my duty to share my impressions with the sheriff regarding you and your daughter.”

  “Marley, would you join us, please?” Darlene raised her voice. “I want Mr. Hamilton to see I have a witness in case he makes more threats.”

  I stormed in like a thunderclap, the kitchen door swinging wildly in my wake. I wanted to deck him.

  Hamilton’s jaw quivered. “Stay out of this, Colonel Clark. I don’t know how you’re involved, but I’m going to find out. Maybe you helped your friend cook up this little sendoff for her husband.”

  “Get out.” Darlene made her demand in a controlled voice. “Now.”

  He marched to the front door and slammed it as a punctuation point. For a moment, we stood dumbstruck.

  “Well, that went well,” I said.

  Darlene turned to me in surprise and then laughed. A second later, I joined her. Our laughter grew until tears rolled down our cheeks.

  Steam escaping from the day’s pressure cooker.

  In Darlene’s cheerful kitchen, our laughter ebbed and a feeling of gloom descended.

  “I can’t believe his nerve,” she muttered. “Jake retired three months ago. What papers could possibly justify Hamilton coming on like a storm trooper? And why bring my daughter—and you—into this?”

  She shook her head. “Hamilton’s never disguised his opinion of me. Thought Jake was slumming. I cooked for a living and graduated from Iowa State, not Haa-vuud.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “So tell me. You’ve apparently crossed swords with the butthead. Should I be plain mad or worried?”

  I offered a brief synopsis of my encounters with Hamilton.

  Darlene raked a hand through her pixie-cut hair. “There’s no way Tom
Brooks authorized Hamilton to pull this.”

  “You mentioned him before. Who is he?”

  “Jolbiogen’s president. He’s worked with Jake forever, almost from day one.”

  “Call him,” I suggested. “Ask him to put a choke chain on Hamilton.”

  I gave Darlene more detail on Thrasos International. Hamilton knew he needed big names in his stable to dazzle corporate America. He used family clout to recruit retired Army generals, FBI and Interpol specialists, computer and technology gurus. The firm not only offered protection for bigwigs, it built a reputation for making problems disappear—the kind of problems companies and governments don’t want public.

  Darlene’s fingers fastened on a saltshaker. She twirled it back and forth. “What kind of problems?”

  “A foreign official trying to extract a bribe in exchange for a mega-bucks contract. A CFO suspected of insider trading. A security breach inside a DoD contractor’s organization. ”

  I paused to consider the types of secrets Jake’s firm might hire Thrasos to hush up. “Jolbiogen’s a pharmaceutical firm, right?”

  Darlene nodded.

  “That opens other possibilities. Maybe some gang in Chechnya is counterfeiting pills and selling them as genuine Jolbiogen cures. Patients swallowing harmful fakes isn’t good for business. Or maybe someone’s selling trade secrets.”

  My friend frowned. “I know Jolbiogen has a big military research contract. Jake said the project made him nervous because something horrific could happen if the research fell into the wrong hands. He never talked specifics, but it had something to do with DNA sequences.”

  Darlene’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose that’s it? That Jake kept documents about that research here, and that’s why Hamilton’s being such a bastard?”

  “I honestly don’t know. That man doesn’t need a reason to be a bastard.” I stood. “We’re not going to solve this tonight. Let’s go to bed. You have to be exhausted.”

  She nodded. “I am tired though I doubt I’ll get much sleep.”