“What’s that?” She tilted sideways, attempting to glimpse inside his house to see if those bird sounds were real. Probably not, she figured, recalling the whale cries from before. His taste in sound tracks was certainly distinctive, and that was putting it mildly.
“Come on in and join me in welcoming the spirits. The leopard is in ascendancy. His appetite must be appeased.”
How, by feeding him a feathered friend? “Uh, do you have many pets in there?”
“Lots.” He stroked his scraggly beard, regarding her with a sly expression. “I could show you Junior. He’s way cool, although I removed his fangs.”
“Ha-ha. What is he, a vampire?” Marla’s throat tightened. This guy was one egg short in the hen house.
“Nah, Junior is my pet snake.”
“No, thanks. I just wanted to know if you saw anything unusual outside in the past hour, like somebody driving by and throwing a package on my front doorstep.”
“Sorry, didn’t see no car.” He jiggled his body. The drumbeat accelerated, and he began gyrations that dipped his antlers perilously low over his forehead. “Ugamaka, ugamaka, chugga, chugga, ush!” he chanted. “One bird in the heather, one in the bush! Grab it, twist it, until it goes squoosh!”
“Oh, I’ve got to go. Here comes my friend,” Marla said, gratefully spotting Vail hustling in her direction. “Thanks, Goat. Have fun with your ceremony. Maybe you can show me your menagerie some other time.” Yeah, right. Like, she’d have marbles in her head to enter his abode unprotected.
Apparently, Vail guessed what she’d been up to. “Learn anything new?” he said.
“Not really. How about coming inside for a cold drink?”
“Sounds great, but I have to return to the station.” Patting her shoulder, he smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this, Marla. It was probably some delinquents getting their kicks.”
A flurry of trouble settled in her stomach. “Or?”
His expression clouded. “Or, it smells like voodoo, and I don’t mean literally. Could be someone wishing you harm.”
She’d heard of santeria rituals involving animal sacrifice. In most cases, chickens were used and not ducks. “Then it could be anyone who doesn’t like me,” she replied, mentally running down the short list. Stan, her ex-husband. Carolyn Sutton, a rival beauty salon operator with whom she’d had a run-in fairly recently. And then there was the heir to Popeye Boodles’s estate, possibly willing to stop anyone who got in the way of his inheritance. As liaison to the chefs, Marla imagined she scored high on the hit list.
“Anything new on the case with Ben Kline?” she asked, curious to know if the attorney’s death could be attributed to his position on Ocean Guard’s Board of Directors.
“Nothing I’m at liberty to say.”
Her gaze cast downward. The man’s professionalism went too deep for him to confide in her, but knowing the reason didn’t lessen her disappointment. “Are we still on for Saturday night?” She kept her tone neutral.
“Sure, I was going to call you. The show starts at eight o’clock. How about if we go out to eat first?”
“Sounds great.” As long as his twelve-year-old daughter didn’t mind an evening out with her elders. Not that her dad was so ancient. He looked damned good for a man of forty-two.
His eyes darkened. “Marla, I’m only going to say this once. Be careful around those Board of Directors people. If you get any more warnings, assuming this dead duck was one, let me know immediately.”
She shuffled her feet, wondering what he wasn’t telling her. “I’ll look forward to Saturday,” she said. Maybe by then, she’d have something more definitive to pass on to him.
****
None of the chefs she hoped to contact were available on Monday, so she put off the rest of her phone calls until the next day. Because Tuesdays were always slow in the afternoon, she should have time to take a break and complete her tasks.
Easier said than done. Marla was checking the appointment book at the front desk when Babs Winrow walked in the door. She looked harried, with her normally coiffed hair in disarray and papers sticking from her handbag, which she was trying to stuff back inside. Her face flushed, she appeared warm in her camel blazer and short black skirt.
“Marla, I know you’re busy, but you have to fit me in. I’m going out of town today, and my hair’s a mess. I can’t wait for my appointment next week.”
Marla gazed into Babs’s frantic hazel eyes, and her mouth curved upward. Here was a perfect opportunity to interview one of Ocean Guard’s board members without any of the others being present. “You’re lucky you came in just now,” she said. “I have a half hour before my next client, and I was going to use the time to work on our problem with the chefs. But I can do that later. Why don’t you go ahead and get washed?”
As Marla waited by her station, Nicole signaled her over. “Hey, isn’t that the lady from your volunteer group?”
“She’s Chairman of the Board,” Marla said with a nod. “We have a lot to discuss.”
Ten minutes later, Babs seated herself in the chair. “So how are things with you, Marla?”
“Good, thanks. How’s Walter?” She knew Babs’s husband kept busy with his golf buddies during her business trips.
“Oh, he’s great. You know, he goes to the office all day and then spends his evenings in front of the television. I keep trying to get him interested in computers, but he could care less. Thank goodness he’s into golf, or that man would drive me nuts.” She laughed, crinkle lines evident around her expertly made-up eyes.
“Come on, you two have fun together.”
“That’s true. We eat out and attend art shows and concerts on weekends.”
“I’m going to see Rent this Saturday night.”
Babs grimaced. “Lord, I hope you bring your earplugs.”
“Why, is it loud?”
“It’s like going to a rock concert, but the kids love that type of music, and the story appeals to them.”
Oh, joy. Brianna should be in kid heaven. Marla hoped it would be a meaningful experience for her and Dalton.
Lifting several strands of damp blond hair, Marla felt their texture. Slinky smooth from the conditioner, and not too many split ends. “You want the usual?” she asked. Babs rarely deviated from her preferred style, a short flattering bob.
“Naturally. You know, Marla, I’m so upset.”
“Oh? Why is that?” Marla hesitated to turn on the blow-dryer in order to hear more clearly.
Babs stared at her from the mirror. “Ben Kline is dead. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Tell me about it. I was shocked when I heard the news.”
“Not that it was such a surprise, considering what a lowlife he was. I mean, Ben possessed secrets that could harm a lot of people, in addition to taking on criminal defense cases that no one else wanted so he could get media attention.”
Marla switched on the blow-dryer, leaning forward as she applied her brush to the wet strands. “Aren’t lawyers supposed to keep secrets? It’s called client privilege.” A frown creased her forehead. “Didn’t Ben mention that term during our board meeting?”
Babs raised an eyebrow. “So he did. We were talking about the heir to Mr. Boodles’s property.”
“So if Ben claimed client privilege, that means—”
“He knew who would inherit if Ocean Guard defaults on its obligations.”
“Could Ben’s signature be on the trust agreement?”
“No, the trust was drawn up years ago, but Ben had joined a group practice. They drew up the original document for Popeye, who was their client. After the group split up, Ben became his legal representative and maintained possession of his papers.”
“Which might still be in his office.” Wheels of thought spun in her head. “Do you think the heir doesn’t want his identity known? And that’s why Ben was murdered?”
Her client’s mouth dropped open. “Marla, really!”
Marla switched her position to wor
k on the other side of Babs’s hair. It was good that she was adept at lip-reading over the sounds of a dryer because she didn’t want to miss anything Babs said. “It’s possible that one of Ocean Guard’s board members is the heir to Popeye Boodles’s estate. How else could someone be thwarting us using inside information?”
Babs’s expression clouded. “I’d considered that angle, but Ben’s death might have had nothing to do with Ocean Guard. At least, not in the sense that you mean. Certainly some of our members were not too happy about Ben sitting on the board.”
“Why is that?” Marla schooled her features into a look of mild interest, not wishing to show her eagerness for juicy gossip. Given the right situation, almost anyone could be coaxed into ratting on their associates. It was one of the baser qualities of human nature, but it sure led to some wild stories.
Babs tilted her head, and Marla danced around to complete the section of hair she was working on. “You’ll never believe what I heard about Digby. He was involved in some kind of sex scandal that only came to light because Ben Kline exposed him. The whole thing was covered up, and most people don’t remember it today, but Digby still bears a grudge. This happened about eight years ago. Now Ben is dead just when Digby is running for mayor. I’m sure he wouldn’t want this old laundry hung out on the eve of election. He probably jumped for joy when he heard about Ben’s death.”
“Or he caused it himself out of revenge and fear of discovery,” Marla muttered, examining her handiwork. Babs’s hair had a nice sheen now that it was dry. “What about Dr. Taylor?” she asked, thinking about the polluted mangrove preserve. So far Cynthia hadn’t informed anyone else on the board about their newest problem, planning to let her husband deal with a cleanup.
Babs raised her hands heavenward. “I love that man. He really helped me when my shoulder went out. His specialty is sports injuries, which is a popular field today. I don’t begrudge him his Rolex watch or his Lexus, either. He’s a skilled surgeon, although his bedside manner could use improvement.”
Feeling a crick in her neck, Marla straightened her posture. “He struck me as being rather cold.”
“I think that’s because he expects so much of himself. He measures others by his own standards, and that might make him seem standoffish.”
“How did he get along with Ben?”
Babs’s gaze leveled on hers. “Since his manner can be curt, I can’t be sure. But I noticed he avoided speaking directly to the man, so maybe there was something between them.”
Marla lifted a curling iron from its holder on the counter, wondering how to phrase her next question. Seeking a reason for someone to be dumping medical waste, she’d thought financial need might be a motivator. But if Dr. Taylor drove a Lexus and wore expensive jewelry, maybe she was barking up the wrong tree.
“Does Dr. Taylor have a family?” Maybe his wife urged him to live above their means.
Babs smiled. “Susan is a lovely woman. They have a teenage daughter, and Russ dotes on her. That girl will want for nothing.”
Despite his evident wealth, Marla still thought he was the best bet as a source of medical waste. She wouldn’t give up on that angle yet.
“Your cousin had it in for Ben, too,” Babs blurted. “You could see it in her eyes whenever she looked at him. They had something going on, but I can’t say what it was. I don’t suppose she told you?”
No, and you can bet your boots I wouldn’t squeal on Cynthia, even if I knew what her beef was with Ben Kline.
Tightening her mouth, Marla applied the curling iron a bit too long on one strand until the smell of heat warned her off. Rather briskly, she wound the next section of hair.
“Darren seems very respectable,” she said about the banker. “Did he have anything against Ben?”
“He leads a boring life, in my opinion,” Babs replied. “Such a bland exterior.”
Ah, but still waters ran deep. Beneath the calm pool of his dark eyes could lay a seething cauldron. “What do you know about his background?”
“He grew up in Brooklyn, so I guess he can’t be the heir.”
“I wouldn’t discount anyone.” Including you, she added silently. “Last but not least, what can you tell me about Stefano Barletti, the funeral director?”
Babs’s gaze cooled. “We went to his place for a Pre-Need plan, and then someone recommended a different funeral home. Stefano’s estimate was way higher than the other place. I don’t know much about his relationship to Ben, so I can’t help you there.”
Finished with the curling iron, Marla picked up a comb. Babs didn’t like her hair too poofed up, but she still needed height. Teasing gently, she considered what else to ask.
“Did you contact the chef from the Riverboat, Alex Sheffield?” Babs demanded.
“Not yet. Dr. Taylor said Alex had participated in Taste of the World before, but he’d dropped out.”
“I can tell you why. Sheffield got angry because our president exposed his practice of charging high prices for expensive fish and serving cheaper substitutions. Alex lost a lot of customers over the fiasco. You can ask Jerry Caldwell for more details.”
Having met Ocean Guard’s president only once before, Marla didn’t remember much about him. “Can you give me his number? It’s worth checking into, although you’d think the chef would be mad at Jerry rather than Ocean Guard.”
“Oh, yeah? One of Ocean Guard’s goals is to promote stricter regulations regarding the commercial fishing industry, and Alex has invested in that sector.”
“So you’re saying he might be trying to derail Ocean Guard over this issue?”
“It’s always possible. But then he wouldn’t have anything to do with Ben’s murder, would he?”
Marla shook her head. She still had a feeling they were missing something significant. She’d better clear things up fast in order for the fund-raiser to go smoothly. Cynthia couldn’t manage these problems on her own; she needed Marla’s input. But the way things were going, they might only be seeing the tip of the iceberg.
“Marla, how are ya, hon?” An elderly lady with a cane hobbled past on her way to the shampoo chair.
“Okay, Rose. You hanging in there?”
“Sure thing. Got my grandkids visiting this week.”
“Super. I’m almost ready for you.” Familiar sounds permeated her awareness—spraying water, whirring hair dryers, soft music playing in the background. The pungent smell of chemical solutions hung in the air. Comforts of home, she thought happily, banishing Ocean Guard’s troubles from her mind.
“Are you going anywhere special this week?” she asked Babs.
“Just Tampa again on business. Remember, I don’t like too much hair spray,” Babs cautioned.
Pressed for time, Marla finished her quickly. At the front desk, she scribbled Babs’s bill and was handing it over when her elbow collided with Babs’s purse. Before she could grab it, the handbag tumbled to the floor.
“I’m so sorry.” Kneeling, Marla stuffed the contents back inside the purse, hesitating as she caught sight of a hotel reservation printout. The location given was Orlando. “I thought you were going to Tampa,” she said, puzzled.
Babs snatched it from her fingers. “I am. See this?” Babs withdrew another item, shoving it in front of Marla’s face. Sure enough, the brochure was for a hotel in Tampa. “Bye, Marla. Thanks for fitting me into your schedule. I’ll see you again next week.” Handing her a five-dollar bill for a tip, she gave a conspiratorial wink.
A flush warmed Marla’s cheeks. Obviously she’d seen something Babs hadn’t intended to show her. “Have a good trip,” she ended lamely.
Time flew by until four o’clock. Taking a break, Marla dashed into the storeroom to call the chefs. She had no trouble getting a substitute for Robbie, the Cajun cook, having had the brilliant idea to contact Carmel Corvinne from The Creole Palace. A rival from New Orleans, Carmel was eager to take Robbie’s place and showcase her cuisine. Alex Sheffield was less than enthusiastic, however. If any
thing, the restaurateur was downright hostile.
“You think I’d support this organization after what it did to me?” he shouted on the phone.
Marla lowered her voice. “I understand you had a problem with Ocean Guard’s president, but that shouldn’t influence your decision to join us for the fund-raiser. Participating in Taste of the World presents an opportunity to display your skills to an appreciative public. Doubtless your clientele would increase as a result. I can’t see why you’d let a personal matter get in the way of such an exclusive invitation.”
Bless my bones, if he doesn’t buy that bullshit, I’ve lost my touch.
Marla had been a good student of expository writing during her two years of college before she’d quit to attend cosmetology school. If it hadn’t been for Tammy’s drowning, she might never have made that career choice. In retrospect, being a teacher had been Ma’s idea, not hers. After the accident, it had been an easy decision. Marla couldn’t bear to work with children who would remind her every day of the guilt she carried in her soul. She chose instead to make people happy by improving their looks and by listening to their problems. Going to your hairdresser substituted for seeing a therapist, or at least that’s how she viewed her profession.
Raucous laughter sounded on the line. “You’re funny, lady. I’ll never forget what Jerry Caldwell did to me. If I can screw him in return, believe me, I will. As for your so-called conservation group, they’re just trying to strangle the commercial fishing industry with unnecessary rules. You’re seasoning the wrong pot if you think I’d help you.”
He slammed the phone with a loud crash, then the line went dead.
Chapter Seven
“Marla, it’s me, David Newberg. How are you?”
His familiar voice on the phone brought her a measure of comfort. David’s call had come through just as she’d hung up from the chef, and her blood still boiled from their conversation.
“I just had an aggravating talk with Alex Sheffield,” she said. “Alex holds a grudge against Jerry Caldwell, Ocean Guard’s president, and he isn’t too supportive of our organization. I think I’ll contact the Moroccan chef, if I can find the paper Ben gave me with the man’s name.”
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