Hair Raiser

by Nancy J. Cohen

  David stopped and turned, his expression inscrutable. “I was getting changed.”

  “That wouldn’t have taken two hours or more.”

  “What are you implying, Marla?”

  “You came here, hoping to scoop me on Riley’s interview. He was already dead when you found him, wasn’t he?”

  Stepping forward, David took her hands in his large palms. “I was hoping to spare you the trouble,” he said earnestly. “If I could get the information from him, you wouldn’t have had to bother. So I set up an appointment once Riley answered the phone. I got here within thirty minutes, but it was too late.”

  “If you knew he was dead, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would you have believed me? You’d have insisted on coming yourself, and you’d have been angry with me like you are now.” He hung his head like a remorseful child. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake, but I was only trying to protect you.”

  “Dammit, David, I don’t want to be protected.” Stomping ahead, she fumed at the machinations of controlling men. Now their best lead was gone, and his killer might still be on the island. The residential district seemed deathly quiet for a Monday evening, and even the birds who were normally vocal had silenced their songs. Cedar pines scented the air, a light wind rustling through their branches. It sounded as though the night whispered against her, stealing her security and firing her blood with wild imaginings.

  “I’m going to notify the authorities,” Marla told David when they reached their hotel. “I’ll call from a pay phone and give an anonymous tip. That way, we won’t get involved.”

  She didn’t want to miss their flight home any more than he did, but it wasn’t right to leave Riley’s body lying there. The Bahamian police would carry out an investigation. Besides, it was only conjecture on her part that someone from the mainland was involved. Riley might have had other enemies unrelated to their concerns.

  Dinner at Café Johnny Canoe was a somber affair. Marla could barely eat her meal of grilled mahi mahi, pigeon peas and rice, and macaroni and cheese Bahamian style. Something was very spicy, either the seasoning on the flaky fish, or those green things in the square of macaroni and cheese with a crusted top. Tears sprang into her eyes, but maybe it wasn’t from the food. A lump clogged her throat, and she realized it was her reaction to Riley’s death. Hoping to allay her horror of the night’s events, she gulped down a rum-laden Goombay Smash.

  Feeling numb, she was grateful when David gave her a chaste good night kiss on her forehead outside her room.

  “Lock your door and go to sleep,” he urged, his eyes dark with concern. “We’ve still got another two days before we can leave. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping downtown. There should be safety in numbers, and I need to get gifts for a few people. It’ll be better if we pretend things are normal.”

  She saw what he meant by safety in numbers after they took the jitney downtown in the morning. East Bay Street was mobbed with cruise ship passengers bustling from one shop to the next. Glad she had worn her sweater as a cold front had moved in, Marla suggested they work their way down one side of the street first.

  Souvenir shops, perfumeries, china and crystal emporiums, and jewelry stores tempted her with their wares. Stopping in one of the latter, she bought a few trinkets for her staff. David showed her the heavy sterling silver bracelets he’d bought for his mother and sister as they strolled farther along the street.

  “Damn, the link just broke.” He showed her the damaged item. “I’ll have to return it.”

  In the store, he handed the receipt to a clerk. “I’ll take this other bracelet,” he proclaimed, “but see how you gave me fifteen percent off on both these items as they were priced the same? I think I’ll owe you money back if I get this other one.”

  Marla regarded him with admiration. “Not everyone would be so honest,” she said. “If the store clerk didn’t notice the discount, it would be her fault.”

  His jaw dropped in horror. “That’s being untruthful, Marla. I always tell the salesgirl when she’s made a mistake, even if it’s in the store’s favor.”

  “Of course.” But even as she agreed, Marla wondered why he’d been untruthful to her. David should have told her he’d been to Riley’s house and found him dead. Instead, he’d led her to the murder scene, where she had to discover the unpleasantness for herself. Nonetheless, she’d insisted on going despite his attempts to discourage her. She supposed he’d tried to protect her, although his approach rankled.

  Lunchtime brought them to the Conch Fritters Bar and Grill. She ordered grilled grouper, baked sweet potato, and steamed zucchini. Painted wood parrots dangled from a thatched-roof ceiling where fans revolved to the lazy accompaniment of island music. It was a respite from their worries, although she couldn’t dismiss the sensation that they were being watched.

  Aware of her disquiet, David suggested they take a taxi that evening to Traveler’s Rest, a popular native restaurant facing the ocean. Arriving after seven o’clock, they asked for a seat outdoors under an awning.

  “No one followed us,” she whispered so the other diners wouldn’t hear. “We rode in the only vehicle coming this way.”

  David, looking handsome in a striped shirt and navy trousers, visibly relaxed. “I hope you’re right.”

  As the sun descended, calm settled over the sea. It reflected her mood. She soaked in the peacefulness of the scene as though it were balm for her soul. No one had hassled them all day, and she felt relaxed enough to think clearly.

  “So what are your theories about the heir?” she asked David, purposefully avoiding the subject of Morton Riley. She couldn’t bear to think of the scene in his house.

  “I haven’t a clue.” He sipped a banana daiquiri, gazing thoughtfully at the darkening sky. “There’s Babs Winrow. It’s always possible the heir is a woman, you know. She strikes me as a determined personality who’s willing to do whatever it takes to achieve her goals.”

  “She’s been lying to her husband.” Marla swallowed a piece of warm bread that melted in her mouth. “Babs told him she was going to a meeting in Tampa, but she went to Orlando instead. Then there’s Digby Raines, whose political aspirations include flirting with every woman in sight.”

  David nodded vigorously, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Raines was involved in some dirty dealings with Ben several years ago. I don’t know if you’d heard about it.”

  “His porno flick? Yeah, I did, but I thought that was over.” She took a tentative taste of her grouper smothered in tomatoes, onions, and green peppers. It came with the ever-popular pigeon peas and rice along with coleslaw.

  “It wasn’t over if Raines held a grudge or was afraid Ben would remind the public about that fiasco in an election year.” He wagged a finger at her. “And don’t forget Stefano Barletti. I’ve heard things about him, too.”

  “The funeral director?” She sniffed the balmy ocean air, wishing they were talking about lighter matters. Until the fund-raiser took place, she supposed none of them could rest easy.

  “I heard Ben was suing Stefano on behalf of some clients.”

  “I need to talk to that guy,” Marla mumbled half to herself. “I’m seeing Dr. Taylor on Thursday,” she announced. They spent a few minutes discussing the medical waste problem Cynthia and her husband were handling. “I’d like to determine if Dr. Taylor is involved. He seems the logical choice.”

  David stuffed a barbecued shrimp into his mouth. “How about Darren Shapiro? He’s always so quiet. Maybe he is secretly Popeye’s heir, and he’s the one who’s been plotting against us.”

  Marla remembered what Vail had told her, that a weapon from Darren’s collection had killed Ben. “Who knows?” she said, suddenly edgy. “Anyway, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow? We have the entire morning before we head to the airport. Where can we go that’ll be safe?” Riley’s murderer might still be waiting for another opportunity to take a potshot at her, and she didn’t care to give him the chance.

&nbs
p; David’s expression brightened. “We’ll go to Crystal Cay. It’s an island park with an undersea exhibition where you can view the coral reef. Should be a good way to kill time.”

  Apparently someone else thought kill was the appropriate word. After she and David viewed the underwater observatory at Crystal Cay the next morning, they split up. The island, accessible via bridge from Nassau, had a beach, nature trails and a seafood restaurant.

  Marla went to check out the Marine Gardens, while David headed for the Shark Tank. Thick tropical shrubbery lined the walkways. Not many people were around, but that didn’t bother her until she heard a loud crack.

  Startled, she quickened her pace. The dense foliage made seeing beyond the winding path impossible. Another sharp noise sounded, and a whoosh of air flew by her cheek.

  Someone was shooting at her.

  She sprinted ahead, searching for David. Trees obstructed her view as she rounded one corner after the next. Finally, she spied him heading in her direction from the Turtle Pool. “Not this way,” she cried. “The killer is after me. He has a gun.”

  As though to emphasize her point, a crack sounded from behind, followed by a thudding sound on a nearby tree.

  David’s face blanched. “Let’s take this path,” he said, gesturing.

  They wound up at the entrance without further incidence. A mass of people milled about the ticket window, having been disgorged from a bus. The killer wouldn’t dare to fire at them here.

  “We’ll take a taxi.” David flagged the cab nearest to the curb, and they tumbled inside. “Marriott Resort,” he ordered, before turning to Marla. “Let’s get our bags and head to the airport, even if it’s early.”

  “I agree. I’ve had it with this place. It’s time to go home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The waiting room in Dr. Taylor’s office made Marla feel like a piece of metal in an assembly line. Rows of molded plastic chairs faced a wall-mounted TV set. Instead of playing the news, it showed a video by the good doctor of the various procedures he performed. Cool air blasted down from overhead vents, colder than the outside temperature. At the front desk, the receptionist displayed all the charm of an ice queen. Marla became a patient number waiting to be called, examined, and signed off on a list.

  Glancing at the table where magazines were tossed haphazardly, she perused the titles: Boating, Sports Illustrated, Skiing,—that was a good one in Florida—Popular Mechanics, and a three-month-old issue of Newsweek. Didn’t Dr. Taylor realize women had different reading tastes than men?

  After relieving her boredom by studying the hairstyles and clothing of the other patients, she turned her thoughts inward. Spooks had been ecstatic to greet her that morning when she picked him up from the kennel. She’d barely had time to take him home, let him out in the yard, and drink two cups of coffee before going to work at nine.

  The receptionist hadn’t been happy to learn Marla had an afternoon appointment, which would again mean rescheduling her clients. Marla felt guilty enough already, having ignored her voice mail in the rush to get to work that morning.

  Ma had called, eager for a report on her progress with David. She couldn’t help wondering what part her mother had played in Cynthia’s invitation to them both. Cynthia wanted to know how she and David had gotten along as well as what they’d learned. Tally was concerned about her absence, making Marla regret she hadn’t notified her friend that she was going away, and Dalton Vail demanded an immediate return phone call. From the fury in his voice, she’d prefer to avoid responding to him at all.

  Bless my bones, I’m making a mess of everything. Not only had she failed to learn the name of Popeye’s heir, but she’d left David with the impression that his courtship was on track. She had been so rattled by the disastrous events on their trip that she’d clung to him through the plane ride home and weakly promised to get together with him again soon. She’d even let him kiss her goodbye. Obviously, he had mistaken her numb state for something more, while part of her brain noted his embrace didn’t fire her senses the same as Dalton’s. Anyway, she’d sort out matters between them another time. David had a lot going for him: his looks, an easygoing manner and a secure position in life, but maybe that wasn’t enough.

  Or maybe she was a shnook who didn’t know a good thing when she saw it.

  A nurse called her name, scattering her thoughts. Grasping her purse, Marla followed the woman into a treatment room. Another long wait followed, during which time Marla studied the red plastic biomedical waste container, disposable latex gloves, gauze pads, metal instruments, and sterile solutions laid out on the counter.

  “Marla, what seems to be the problem?” Russ Taylor asked after an overly enthusiastic greeting. The surgeon wore a white lab coat over a shirt and tie and pair of navy slacks. Fatigue lines etched his face, but they were offset by a tilt to his mouth that indicated he possessed a sense of humor.

  Before her trip to the Bahamas, she’d debated what to tell him, but now she had some legitimate concerns.

  “I was a klutz and tripped over a curb last week.” She turned her hands up to show him her skinned palms, hoping he wouldn’t notice the scrapes were recent. “My wrists have been sore, so I wanted to make sure nothing else was damaged.” That much was true; she’d found herself rubbing her wrists on the flight home yesterday, and today they ached. With the volume of work awaiting her, she didn’t need any more delays.

  His examination was brief but thorough. “Those bruises will go away with time,” he said, combing his fingers through a thick head of hair. She liked his style, a reasonable length brushed off his forehead and groomed on his nape. “Your wrists are tender, but I don’t see any further problems developing there. Just give your hands a rest, and they’ll heal.”

  No, thanks. Been there, done that, she thought, remembering the hand injuries inflicted on her by Bertha Kravitz’s killer.

  “I was in the Bahamas the last few days to learn about Popeye’s heir,” she blurted, as he headed for the door. That stopped him cold. “David Newberg and I got word that the trustee for Popeye’s estate was there on business, so we went to see him. Since Ben died, I’ve been wondering who’s trying to sabotage Ocean Guard’s fund-raiser. The heir has the most to gain.”

  Russ Taylor regarded her impassively. “And?”

  “Morton Riley was dead when we arrived. Murdered.” She’d hoped by offering information, Taylor would react, but his heavy silence prompted her to continue. “I was there. I saw... the body.” She visualized Riley stretched out on the floor, a knife protruding from his chest. The coppery scent of blood fouling the air. David’s reassuring presence as they stumbled through the night to reach their hotel and safety.

  “Aren’t you wondering who killed Ben?” she demanded. “Don’t you want to know who’s been obstructing our efforts for Ocean Guard? Someone dangerous is out there, killing people to get his way. Any one of us might be next.”

  He lifted his nose. “You’re not a member of the board, so I don’t see why you’re so concerned.”

  “Cynthia asked for my help. Did she tell you someone is dumping medical waste in the mangrove preserve next to her estate? That contamination diminishes Ocean Guard’s chances of fulfilling the terms of the trust.” Casting a glance at the red sharps container on the counter, she lowered her voice meaningfully. “Whoever is guilty must have access to the stuff.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ll have to excuse me. My other patients are waiting.” With a brusque movement, he thrust open the door and marched out.

  Well, he’d sure given her the shaft. She still needed to know more about his personal background to determine if he might be the heir. Then there was the matter of his financial health. Maybe his staff could provide information.

  Outside in the hallway, she asked a nurse the way to Dr. Taylor’s private office. “He wants to discuss my treatment options,” she explained in a convincing tone.

  Directed to the end of the corrid
or, she hooked around a corner and entered a spacious room with a picture window overlooking tropical greenery. Mahogany and leather furnishings dominated the space, while her shopaholic-trained vision noted expensive accessories. Even if Dr. Taylor’s outpatient clinic was doing poorly, his practice must be successful, judging by the well-maintained carpet, painting and trim. Other doctors had been forced to give up their solo practices to join groups after managed care reduced their income. Or if they stayed, you noticed it in their increasingly shabby suite of rooms.

  Maybe Dr. Taylor cut his expenses by illegally dumping medical waste. That would make sense only if he paid high fees to the disposal company.

  Drawn to the photographs on his desk, she studied a picture of Russ Taylor flanked by an attractive brunette and a teenaged girl. Other photos showed happy family scenes with the three of them. In orderly fashion, the frames marched across his desk like troops lined up for inspection. Two pens, one black and one with gold, were aligned parallel to the desk blotter in neat precision.

  A cough from behind alerted her to someone else’s presence. Whirling around, she saw one of the nurses eyeing her curiously.

  “May I help you?” The pleasant-faced young woman had gold highlighted hair that needed a good trim.

  “I was just waiting for Dr. Taylor, thanks. These are lovely photographs, aren’t they?”

  The nurse, smoothing her tunic, smiled. “Dr. Taylor is devoted to his children. I-I mean his family,” she stuttered, looking faintly alarmed.

  “Really? He’s fortunate the HMOs haven’t affected his business. It’s expensive having a teenage daughter these days.”

  “No kidding. I have two preteens myself.” The nurse seemed amenable to chatting, for which Marla was grateful.

  She kept a careful eye on the doorway while she kept the conversational ball rolling. “The doctor is involved in that outpatient surgical clinic that’s near here, isn’t he?”

  “Sure, a lot of the doctors in the building were invited to participate. From what I hear, things aren’t doing so well over there because managed-care plans don’t want to pay. But Dr. Taylor has been doing all right, thank goodness. After all, he has to cover our salaries and benefits. He has a family to support, and then there’s his... well, he has extra expenses every month.”