Hair Raiser

by Nancy J. Cohen

He came to a standstill. “He shouldn’t have done that. Poor, helpless creature. Grasping its neck and then—”

  Excitement coursed through her. “You saw someone kill the duck?”

  Grimacing, Goat shut his eyes. “He put the remains in a bag.”

  “Who did?”

  “Stupid punk who drove by and tossed the bag at your door. What are kids coming to these days?” Slapping a hand to his mouth, Goat glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, I wasn’t referring to your children, Becky.” A loud baa sounded from within. A guilty flush rising on his face, Goat snatched the sheepskin cap from his head and clutched it between his hands.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a real goat in there.” At his silly grin, Marla shook her head. “What did this guy look like?”

  “Light brown hair with a buzz cut, decently dressed dude. Might be in his early twenties. Drove a blue Chevy. I was too rattled to mention it before.” He peered at her curiously. “Why do you look so sick? You think you can identify him?”

  Slowly, Marla nodded. “I believe so. From your names, you’d think both of you were animal lovers, but I doubt he shares your affinity for furry creatures. His name is Shark. He’s more the carnivorous type.”

  So why would Shark stalk her while playing up to Annie and hanging around Cynthia’s house?

  Later, after completing her chores, Marla sat in her small family room curled up on an armchair. Sipping a mug of hot coffee, she reviewed the details from the few times she’d met the youth. Shmoe, isn’t it obvious? He’s spying on us.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced Marla became. Shark had seduced Annie in order to get closer to Cynthia and keep tabs on her cousin’s movements. Whoever wanted their fund-raiser to fail was attempting to upset them both, hoping to disrupt their plans for the big event. Likely the culprit was Popeye’s heir.

  Could Shark have been the person who followed her and David to the Bahamas? Chilling logic followed on this trail. Could he be the killer as well as the saboteur in their midst?

  She brought the steaming brew near her face, seeking comfort in its warmth. If Shark had pushed Rebecca over the edge of the pool as Marla suspected, clearly he was capable of dire deeds. Afraid for Annie’s safety, she put down her mug and snatched up the telephone to call Cynthia. Their voice mail service came on, inducing a swell of disappointment.

  “Cynthia, please call me as soon as possible.” Thoughts racing through her mind, she wondered what she might say to alert her cousin without arousing Shark’s suspicions if he was present. “I’m hoping you’ll have those photos ready for me when I pick up my clothes. If you get home late, it’s okay to call.”

  Her anxiety didn’t abate through the night as she waited futilely for a return phone call. In the morning, she tried again but received the same response. Perhaps her cousin had gone out of town. Or maybe Cynthia was tired after coming home late the night before. Marla could always accomplish a few of her chores and run over there.

  Mondays were hectic because she saved her errands for this one day off during the work week. She’d taken care of Spooks, done the dishes, and changed the linens when the telephone rang, making her jump. Calm down, or you won’t help anyone. The caller ID listed an unknown number. Her clammy fingers gripped the receiver.

  “Yes?” Her heart hammered. Hopefully, it would be Cynthia saying everything was fine.

  “Marla, this is Babs. I need to see you.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach sank. It wasn’t her cousin after all. “You want to make a hair appointment?” Sometimes favored clients called her at home.

  “No. I mean, I want to talk to you in private. This isn’t easy for me, but there’s something I have to say.”

  Marla’s curiosity blossomed. “All right. When and where?”

  “How about if we meet at Barnes and Noble? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Ten o’clock okay?”

  Precise and to the point, that was Babs. “Sure. See you later,” she agreed.

  What could Babs possibly want to tell her? Maybe the woman’s guilty conscience had nagged at her until she was ready to confess her sins. Was Babs sneaking off to Orlando to meet a lover? That’s the only thing that made sense, especially if she was hiding these trips from her devoted husband.

  At ten o’clock, Marla waited inside the bookstore by a display of bestsellers. A smile lit her face as Babs rushed through the entrance, but it quickly faded at the woman’s obvious distress. Dressed in a navy suit with an ivory shell, Babs might have looked her usual svelte self except that her blond hair was in disarray and her cinnamon lipstick was smeared. Presumably, she’d completed her toilette in haste, or else she’d been so distraught she hadn’t cared.

  “What’s wrong?” Marla asked after they were seated in the café. She sipped a cup of hot coffee while Babs stared unblinkingly at her espresso.

  Babs glanced up, her hazel eyes clouded with anxiety. She reached for a paper napkin and twisted it while a range of emotions crossed her face. “I want to tell you about Orlando because you probably have the wrong impression. But you must promise never to reveal a word about this to anyone, least of all to Walter. I love him, Marla, and I don’t want to hurt him.”

  Marla put her cup down, leaning forward to glean the juicy details. She’d heard so much in her venue as a hairdresser that very little surprised her.

  “You know, Walter and I never had any children. We’d so hoped for a family, but it turned out we couldn’t... he couldn’t... conceive. We swallowed our disappointment, but mine was a lot less than his.”

  Folding her hands on the table, Babs focused downcast eyes at an imaginary speck on the table. “I’d had a daughter when I was young and gave her up for adoption. She found me, thanks to the lawyer representing her.”

  “Ben Kline.” Marla knew it instinctively. A surge of sympathy hit her. This confession must be torture for her friend and client.

  Babs nodded, her knuckles white. “I agreed to meet the girl where she lived in Orlando. She understood when I said it would destroy my marriage if Walter discovered her existence. He’d missed out on having children and I hadn’t. Not to mention the fact that he thought I was a virgin when we met.” Her lips curled in a cynical smile. “Poor Walter, he was so naive.”

  “What’s her name?” Of all the confidences Babs might have revealed, a secret baby wasn’t on Marla’s list.

  “Jennifer. She’s twenty-seven, single, and works as an office manager. Her adoptive parents are still alive, and she keeps in close communication with them. She hasn’t told them about me, so our arrangement suits us both fine.”

  “Other than fearing Walter’s reaction, how did you feel about meeting her?”

  Babs lifted her gaze, and Marla noticed her lashes were tipped with moisture. “Wonderful. Amazed. Grateful. I’d never dreamed I would see her again.”

  “I won’t give away your secret, but I’ll bet Walter wouldn’t be as upset as you think.”

  “Thanks, Marla. It’s helped me just to talk to you about this. I didn’t want you to believe I was cheating on my husband when you learned about my trips to Orlando.”

  “Did you hold a grudge against Ben because he was the one who revealed your identity to Jennifer?”

  “He should have contacted me privately first. But you can take that speculative gleam out of your eyes. I didn’t kill him. And in the long run, I’m extremely grateful. Anyway, I’m glad you know about this now. How are you doing with the fund-raiser? Is everything okay with the chefs? I’ve sent the recipe book to the printers. Our guests will love getting one for a table favor.”

  Marla sighed, tired of their troubles with the event. “No one has resigned this week yet. I’m still wondering who was responsible for chasing away Max and the others. Either it was Alex Sheffield being spiteful, or whoever stands to inherit the mangrove preserve. I can’t shake the feeling that Ben’s murder is mixed up in all this.”

  “You may be right. It’s such a tangle. I gather you’re no clos
er to identifying Popeye’s heir?”

  “I did learn one piece of news that may interest you. Were you aware Darren gave a weapon from his knife collection to Ben in return for a favor? The killer used that weapon to murder the lawyer.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that tidbit.”

  Leaning forward, Marla lowered her voice. “I went to Darren’s house, and I saw the long, curved knives that he owns. They’re really heavy. Darren has muscles, too. He could easily lift one and swing it. A neighbor said Darren goes out every weekend without his wife. There’s a lot of shouting coming from their house. Marital discord can be a source of hidden rage. Do you think Ben was involved in divorce proceedings between Darren and his wife?”

  Babs waved a hand in dismissal. “Your imagination is running wild, dear. Darren has a perfectly good reason for possessing those knives. I couldn’t believe it when he told me.” Her lips curved in a sly smile. “You want to know where the man goes on weekends? Check out the show at the Polynesian Revue.”

  Marla puzzled over this remark, but she didn’t have long to think about it. Errands kept her busy the rest of the morning until her stomach rumbled in protest. Her itinerary led her to Alex Sheffield’s restaurant for lunch. After requesting to speak to the chef, she ordered a chicken Caesar salad. She’d just finished her meal when Sheffield came out to greet her.

  “I’m Marla Shore,” she said, rising.

  Outfitted in a white chef’s uniform, he accepted her brief handshake. His eyes, brown and hard as acorns, stared into hers. Irrelevantly, she thought his limp hair could use a bit of mousse and a shorter trim.

  “I thought I made it clear during our phone conversation that I want nothing to do with Ocean Guard,” he stated in an icy tone.

  She smiled in what she hoped was an appeasing manner. “So I understand, but I have some concerns I’d like to share with you. Pierre Chevalier had an accident during his cooking class last month. Someone added a volatile substance to the bottle of rum he was using for a flambé dessert. Later, he told me that his assistant, Felipe, used to work for you. Pierre dropped out of Taste of the World, and so did Max from the Seafood Emporium. Someone’s been scaring off our star chefs who have signed up for the fund-raiser. This has to stop.”

  His scornful gaze raked her. “And you think it’s me?”

  “The idea has crossed my mind.”

  “I wouldn’t be so stupid. For your information, I learned Felipe was being paid to spy on me.”

  “Paid by whom—a rival chef who hoped to discover your secret recipes?” she said in a half-joking manner.

  “Someone wanted to make sure I stayed out of Ocean Guard’s path,” he replied. “Felipe was feeding me information about Jerry Caldwell, the organization’s president.”

  Alex gestured for her to take a seat, and then he lowered his brawny body into a chair opposite her. “After you called me, I phoned Jerry Caldwell to clear the air. It’s true that Ocean Guard supports legislation to regulate commercial fishing, but Jerry denied he’d been the one who ratted on my menu practices. I realized it must have been Felipe who’d substituted a cheaper product for mahi mahi and then cast the blame on me.”

  “Did you find out who’d paid Felipe?”

  “Nope. I’ve asked my colleagues about him, but no one’s seen him recently. I’ll bet he’s skipped town.”

  Collecting her purse and the bill which the waitress had left on her table, Marla stood. “Well, thanks for the info. I’m sorry you won’t be joining us for Taste of the World.”

  He rose agilely to his feet. “I’ve been a real shmuck. I realize it’s short notice, but if you get an opening, give me a call. Otherwise, count on me for next year.”

  Her conversation with the chef reminded her of David’s recent request for Mustafa’s phone number. Tuesday morning, after checking supplies in the storeroom, she opened the drawer containing the envelope Ben had scribbled on. Grasping it in her hand, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Maybe David would be in his office. Removing the business card he’d given her, she dialed his number.

  “Hi, I’m Marla Shore, and I’d like to speak to David Newberg please,” she said to the secretary who answered.

  “Sorry, he’s not in the office right now. May I take a message?”

  “He requested some information from me, but I’d like to give it to him personally. Is Mr. Newberg still at home? If so, I can call him there. We’re friends,” she explained.

  “Oh, I don’t know, miss. I’m new here, and he seems to come in at different hours each day depending on his appointments.”

  “I see.” David hadn’t mentioned hiring a new secretary, but then he never discussed his work with her, Marla realized. “Well, I’ll try again later, thanks.”

  Hanging up, she stared at the envelope in her hand. Slit open at the top, it held a return address from Morton Riley. A letter from Popeye’s trustee addressed to Ben?

  She pried it open and her fingers had just grasped the folded paper inside when the phone rang. It was Cynthia. Dismissing the letter, she stuffed it into her purse for later examination.

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried about you,” Marla said.

  Cynthia’s voice sounded sleepy. “We went to a party last night and got in late. What’s the matter?”

  Marla expounded her theories concerning Shark. “Did you get the investigative report about him yet?”

  “No, but I’ll give the man a call today. Did you want to stop by and pick up your clothes? My maid washed them, but they’re still soiled. I’ll reimburse you, Marla. Whoever attacked you is Ocean Guard’s enemy, and you’re working for us. Regarding the preserve, I have the photos you requested.”

  Marla did some rapid calculations. “I’m tied up all day. Will you be home around six? I can swing by after work.”

  “Okay. Bruce is hunting down a copy of Popeye’s trust agreement. There must be one in Ben Kline’s office. His legal assistant is still there helping to straighten things out. But if that’s not successful, Bruce will go to Morton Riley’s colleagues to plead his cause.”

  “Good, maybe we’ll get some solid information for a change. I called Charlene earlier. Rebecca is home and doing well. Thank goodness, we averted a potential disaster.”

  “You did, Marla. I haven’t forgotten about the pool fence. A man is coming to measure the patio tomorrow.”

  “Good move. Well, let’s hope your photos shed some light on who is dumping medical waste on the preserve. In the meantime, please keep an eye on Annie.”

  Marla’s first client walked in the door, and she pushed aside her worrisome thoughts to find comfort in routine. Her busy schedule didn’t permit any other pursuits until a quick break in the afternoon.

  “I have Mustafa’s number if you need it,” she said to David on the phone. He’d left a message earlier.

  “Did you find Ben’s envelope?” he replied in an oddly strained voice. “We could have dinner later, and I’ll relieve you of the burden.”

  “Yes, the paper is here. I put it in my purse, so I won’t forget it next time. Thanks for the dinner invitation, but I have to run over to Cynthia’s house after work. She took some photos of the stuff that’s being dumped, and I’m hoping that will help identify the culprit.”

  “Great, I’ll meet you there.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I have some other things to do afterward.”

  “When can I see you then?”

  “Probably this weekend. How about if I call you later in the week and we can make plans?”

  “Okay. Anything else new that I should know about?” David asked.

  “I feel as though we’re getting closer to learning the identity of Popeye’s heir,” she confided. “I’ve spoken to Babs and have pretty much eliminated her from the list. It can’t possibly be Cynthia, so that leaves the men. Remember, it was a man who assaulted me in the mangrove preserve.” She didn’t mention Shark’s role, because she couldn’t be certain who’d hired him.
“That leaves Stefano Barletti, Darren Shapiro, Digby Raines, and Dr. Russ Taylor. Oh, and you,” Marla added with a chuckle.

  “Well, we know it’s not me. What have you got on the others?”

  “Besides the possibility that one of them is Popeye’s heir and wants to hide his identity? Barletti, Raines, and Taylor all had reason to resent Ben Kline. Darren inadvertently provided the murder weapon.”

  “You mean, he knew it was there, hanging on the wall in Ben’s office.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Babs said I should go to the Polynesian Revue if I wanted to learn more about Darren.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m not really sure. Maybe we could check out the restaurant this weekend. It’s a cool place. I’ve been there once before, although I can’t conceive of how Darren might be connected.”

  Marla asked Cynthia when she stopped by her house later.

  “I haven’t any idea,” Cynthia said, handing her a pack of printed photos. “But I do have other news for you. I spoke with my private investigator. It took him some time to trace Shark’s background, because the boy didn’t give his real name. Shark is actually Angelo Barletti. Stefano’s son.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marla’s stunned mind attempted to assimilate the news about Shark. Stefano’s son! Did that mean Stefano was to blame for their mishaps? Could it be that he was Popeye’s heir? Perhaps so, but don’t jump to conclusions, she warned herself. A few loose ends needed to be tied off before she could target the man.

  “Look what else I discovered,” Cynthia said, gesturing for Marla to follow her inside the house. In a room designated as the library, she pointed to a faded photograph in a tarnished silver frame that sat on a dusty bookshelf. “It’s a picture of Popeye Boodles.”

  “Who’s that woman?” Marla peered at the youthful couple standing under a cluster of palms on a sandy beach. Barefooted, they wore carefree grins on their tanned faces. “I thought Popeye never married.”

  “That’s his sister. I’d forgotten all about her.”