As Ross slid the Queen into her slip with studied grace, I surveyed the reception committee gathered on the pier.
“There’s Gertie’s ride.” May pointed at a battered four-wheel drive truck. “She’s parked beside the ambulance.”
I knew Gertie. The county medical examiner played bridge every Thursday with my aunt. When May was Dickinson County Hospital’s Director of Nursing and Gertie was a new hire, my aunt took the young nurse under her wing. Later, May encouraged her protégé to return to medical school. The addition of “Doctor” to Gertie Fuerst’s name hadn’t altered their friendship.
May chuckled at the assembly of official vehicles parked catawampus along the pier. “It’ll be interesting to see who wins this pissing contest. My bet’s on Sheriff Delaney. He’s that string bean who looks like he withered on the vine. Not a man to underestimate.”
A rangy six-footer stood beside an SUV with Dickinson County Sheriff emblazoned on the side. I watched as the sheriff shook a finger in the face of a state trooper who’d just climbed off his motorcycle. In the background, a cop leaned against a City of Arnolds Park cruiser. He’d apparently conceded jurisdiction and was content to observe the fuss.
“We don’t get much excitement,” May said. “Guess that trooper figured to get his mug on TV by responding to the death of a celebrity.”
“What do you suppose killed Jake?” I asked. “A heart attack?”
“Doubt it was a heart attack.” Having completed his docking duties, Ross joined in the speculation. “At our museum board meeting last week, Jake told me he’d just had a physical—EKG, cardiac scoring, the works. Passed with flying colors.”
He turned toward May. “Yes, Mom, I know—some doctors don’t know a stethoscope from an enema tube.” Ross and I grew up listening to Nurse May grumble about know-it-all interns with book learning but no horse sense. In other words, idiots who paid nurses no heed.
“I’m sure we’ll get the lowdown if Gertie’s allowed to talk,” May added. “Nobody saw wife number three give Jake a little push, did they?”
My aunt must have seen the dismay written on my face. She backtracked so fast her tongue practically performed a somersault. “Sorry, sorry. Sometimes my mouth outruns my brain. I forgot Darlene’s an old friend of yours. I didn’t mean anything. Just a stupid joke. Work in a hospital long enough and black humor becomes a bad habit.”
Ross cleared his throat. “At least no one’s going to accuse this wife of helping her husband overboard. Two of my deck hands swear Jake wandered off and was completely alone when he doubled up and pitched over the side.”
A crewman jumped to the dock and secured the Queen’s lines. At a neighboring slip, two Iowa Lakes Patrol officers tied their speedboat. The Queen had towed even more law enforcement in her wake.
As soon as the gangplank was set, paramedics hustled aboard. Hardly a minute elapsed before they wheeled Jake Olsen’s body to the ambulance. A plaid wool blanket covered the body. Darlene trailed the official procession. “Can I ride with him? Please.” Her voice broke, her pain evident.
“No, ma’am. Sorry.”
The ambulance doors snicked shut, and the sirens emitted a few high-pitched burps to warn milling officials. A news photographer snapped pictures of Darlene staring after the vehicle as it peeled away. I lost sight of my friend when the sheriff clamped her arm and steered her toward the museum.
That’s when I spotted a tall interloper amid the confusion on the pier. He stood ramrod straight, watching Darlene. With his face averted, I could only see his salt-and-pepper hair, styled not barbered. The way his suit molded to his body proclaimed it wasn’t off any ready-to-wear rack. Definitely a Mr. Moneybags. He looked eerily familiar. I shuddered.
He turned to stare at the Queen, and my stomach clenched.
Quentin Hamilton.
What the hell is he doing here?
***
Titles by Linda Lovely
Marley Clark Mystery Series
Dear Killer ©2011
No Wake Zone ©2012
Romantic Suspense
Final Accounting ©2012
About Author Linda Lovely
A native of Iowa, Linda has called the South home for more than thirty years. She lives with her husband beside a peaceful South Carolina lake, where she regularly perturbs the geese and one honking big turtle by jumping off her dock for a swim or pedaling (yes, pedaling not paddling) her kayak. Linda is a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), Sisters in Crime, and the South Carolina Writers Workshop. She feels quite lucky to have found both close friends and exceptional critique partners—snarky, funny, talented and generous—through these organizations.
Linda can’t imagine going to bed at night without a book in hand. Thankfully her husband shares her passion for reading so she doesn’t have to use a miner’s light to indulge her nocturnal habits.
DEAR KILLER was selected as a finalist in the Golden Quill competition for best novels published in 2011. Her manuscripts have made the finals in 15 other contests, including RWA’s prestigious Golden Heart® and Daphne du Maurier competitions and mystery contests such as Deadly Ink, Murder in the Grove and Malice Domestic. Her stories dish up a main course of suspense, action and adventure with a generous side of romance.
For more information about the author, visit her website: www.lindalovely.com.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 30
