“Really? What happened to the girl?” Here she’d been thinking Popeye’s heir was some distant cousin, but it could be a closer relation.
“I believe she’s deceased. Bruce’s family lost touch with her, but I’ll ask him if he can get more information. What should I do about Annie? Shark has been using her, and I don’t want him around us anymore.”
“Tell her the truth. Maybe it’s time to assert some parental authority, cuz. He’s a threat to our family, especially if Stefano is behind everything.”
Marla couldn’t confront either man until she’d eliminated other possibilities. The next day, she ran out on her lunch hour to waylay Dr. Taylor at his office. The surgeon strolled in looking his usual debonair self, hair fluffed with mousse, conservative navy suit with a striped tie. His glowering expression told her he wasn’t pleased by her visit.
“What is it, Marla? You’re disrupting my routine.”
“You hate it when things get out of control, don’t you?” she mused, surveying the neatly arrayed writing instruments on his desktop.
“Look, I have a busy schedule. Patients don’t like to be kept waiting. Get to the point, will you?”
Whipping the photos from her purse, Marla shoved them at him. “See this? Someone’s been dumping medical waste in our mangrove preserve. I was wondering if you might have any idea who’s responsible. Your expertise could help us identify these items and perhaps the culprit.”
He gave her a shrewd glance. “Is that why you were here the last time? You thought it was me?”
Pausing, she ran her fingers lightly across a bookshelf surface. No dust. He must have a meticulous housekeeping staff.
“The notion had crossed my mind, especially when it was brought to my attention that your clinic was having financial difficulties.”
The doctor faced her directly, staring her down. “I don’t see the connection.”
“If you wanted to save money, you might dump the waste to avoid paying fees to the disposal company. That would make sense if your clinic wasn’t doing well and you needed funding for private expenses.”
His brows drew together like angry thunderclouds. “Who’s been talking to you?”
She smiled sweetly. “I’ve spoken to lots of people, but I never believe gossip. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me?”
Pacing the room, he threw her an annoyed glance. “I suppose you found out about Andrew. Well, I’m not ashamed of him. The institution can take better care of him than me and my wife. Our daughter requires our full attention if she’s to be successful. There’s no use wasting time on Andrew.”
Marla hadn’t been expecting this turn to the conversation. “Andrew is your son?”
Dr. Taylor stopped. “You’d never know it, would you? A blithering idiot, and there’s nothing I can do. Of course, I tried. We consulted the best specialists, but their advice was the same. Put him away, unless you’re willing to spend your life in his service.”
Something in his expression, maybe the twinge of pain in his eyes, gave away the depth of his feelings. “You couldn’t fix him, could you?” Marla asked, comprehending. “Broken bones, slipped discs you can repair, but you couldn’t fix your own son. He remains a symbol of your own imperfections, which you’d rather deny. No wonder you’re so obsessed with order. It must have really irked you when Ben screwed you on an investment prospect.”
Dr. Taylor’s gray eyes grew leaden. “Now I see where this is going.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “I’m not polluting the mangrove preserve, nor am I a killer. You’re wasting my time as well as your own if that’s what you think.”
“It’s more logical that Popeye’s heir is contaminating the land to void the provisions of Popeye’s trust.”
“Oh, so you think it’s me?” His nostrils flared. “First you accuse me of polluting the preserve to save money. Now I’m fouling the land because I hope to inherit Popeye’s estate. Which is it, Marla?”
“Neither. I’m just eliminating possibilities, but I really came to you for help.” She pointed to the pictures. “Where else could this stuff be originating? If not a medical office or hospital, veterinarian or dentist, what other place would generate medical waste?”
The surgeon sent her a piercing gaze, as though debating if he’d assist her. “Laboratories, nursing homes, diagnostic facilities. I don’t see how you’re going to track down the source.”
“Thanks, you’ve opened up some other avenues, even if I can’t see how they’re related. I’ll show these to the guy at the biomedical waste company. It was his idea to take photos.”
“I’m sure Cynthia appreciates your efforts,” Dr. Taylor said gruffly. “We all want Taste of the World to succeed.”
Marla hesitated. She might have pushed him too far and didn’t want to leave on a confrontational note. “I’m sorry if I offended you or brought up painful topics. Your patients and staff admire you greatly, so I wouldn’t be concerned about what they’d think regarding Andrew. I believe you really do care about your son, and your anger is directed more at yourself than him. It makes you overly defensive. Now please forgive me if I’ve been too blunt.”
He smiled wearily. “You’ve hit upon touchy subjects, but I understand your motivation. You’re trying to do what’s best for Ocean Guard. Just be careful whom you interview next. The cops seem to think Ben’s killer is one of us.”
His parting words lingered in her mind. As she drove along, she decided to stop by the police station to see Detective Vail. It had been a while since they’d compared notes, and she wanted to tell him about Shark.
Vail, surrounded by paperwork, glanced up from his desk when Marla strolled into his office, a visitor’s badge pinned to her camel blazer. Instead of the delighted grin she’d expected, a frown of annoyance crossed his brow.
“Hi, Marla. What’s up?”
You look like hell, pal. Been keeping some late nights?
“I was wondering how your case is progressing.” Smiling coyly, she dropped into the seat opposite his desk and crossed her legs. “I miss your impromptu visits to the salon. When do you expect to snag Ben’s killer? We’ll have more time to be together after you wrap things up.”
Giving a weary sigh, Vail leaned back in his swivel chair. “Why do I feel you’ve learned something I don’t know? You’ve been interviewing murder suspects again, haven’t you?” Her guilty flush made his frown deepen. “I don’t have time for this, Marla. I told you not to interfere.”
“I can help, Dalton. Listen to me.”
“No, you listen,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “I’ve assigned another detective to the case. We have accreditation this week, and I have too many other duties keeping me occupied.” Scratching his jaw, he studied her a moment, evidently reaching a decision. “We’re getting close to nailing the bad guy, but we still need final proof. What have you got?”
Marla glowed inwardly that he’d decided to trust her, however minutely. “Shark is Stefano Barletti’s son. I think he’s been spying on Cynthia and me. That makes his father my prime suspect as Popeye’s heir. Although,” she muttered, “that would make Stefano the guy who attacked me in the swamp.”
“What?” Vail’s brows drew together. “Shit, Marla, didn’t I warn you to be careful? What happened now?”
Marla described her adventure. “David saved me, despite what you think about him.”
“You’re not safe from anyone until the killer is behind bars.”
“What’s Darren Shapiro’s connection? The murder weapon came from his collection. His neighbor is concerned that something fishy is going on at his house.”
“Take my word for it, Shapiro isn’t your man.”
“Who is it, then? You must have a strong lead.”
Shaking his head, Vail leveraged his large body from the chair. “My department doesn’t leak information. Stay out of harm’s way, Marla. We’ll catch the guy soon enough. Now unless you have something more to add, you can go. I have a lot of work to do.”
He softened his words by rounding the corner of his desk, pulling her into his arms, and planting a light kiss on her mouth.
****
Marla finished the workday, her mind distracted by Vail’s words of warning and the lingering taste of his lips on hers. She managed to get through conversations with friends while part of her processed what he’d said. Unable to deny her curiosity any longer, she drove to Darren’s house after dinner.
To her dismay, his wife opened the door. “He’s not home,” the woman snapped in response to her inquiry.
“Will I find him at the Polynesian Revue?”
“I think you already know. He won’t be too happy if you show up there.”
“We have to talk. I’ll take my chances.”
Marla headed to the popular restaurant in downtown Fort Lauderdale. I should have waited to eat dinner, she thought after handing her car keys to a valet. Passing through the entrance, she admired the tropical decor inside enhanced by subdued lighting and lush greenery. Strains of Hawaiian music played in the background while a ginger scent pervaded the air.
“I’m looking for Darren Shapiro,” she told the hostess. “Maybe he’s a financial consultant for your administrative office?” She didn’t have a clue as to the banker’s association with this place.
“Oh, no.” The sarong-skirted woman smiled. She wore an orchid behind one ear. “He has a different role here. I believe you’ll see him best by being seated up front.”
“But I didn’t come here to eat.”
“This way, ma’am.”
Helplessly, Marla followed the hostess to a long table perpendicular to the stage. She was seated alone and handed a menu while other diners filed into the room. Ordering a Bushwacker and a pupu platter, she settled into her seat for what appeared to be the first show of the evening.
Marla was mesmerized by the swaying Hula dancers, energized by the hip-gyrating Tahitian girls, and stunned by the male Samoan fire knife dancers who twirled flaming baton-like knives to a ferocious drumbeat.
Hey, wait a minute. That dark-haired hunk was staring directly at her. It couldn’t be.
Yes, it was Darren Shapiro, dressed in a loincloth, his body oiled and muscular, a grass crown on his head. A warrior cry tore from his throat as he flung the blazing knife high into the air, caught it, and daringly put the flames to his lips. Stretching his mouth into a menacing sneer, he sank to the floor, balancing the fiery knife on his bare feet while he spun like a break-dancer. Springing upright, he shrieked a war whoop while he tossed the knife, its blazing ends smoking the air. Transfixed, Marla couldn’t move through his terrifying act, glad at last when he extinguished the flames and took his bows.
Soon after the finale, a girl in a sarong with a hibiscus flower behind her ear approached Marla to invite her backstage.
“Bless my bones, I couldn’t believe that was you,” Marla said as Darren rubbed himself down with a towel.
He mopped his forehead. “Why do you think I don’t tell anyone? I’m afraid I’ll lose my job at the bank if they find out. This is my passion, but it doesn’t exactly fit the conservative image required of me during the day.”
Fascinated, Marla watched the bustle of the other performers backstage. “How did you ever get interested in this?”
He shrugged his brawny shoulders, normally hidden beneath the sedate suits he wore. “When I was younger, my sister took hula lessons. I wanted to do something similar because it looked like fun, so my dad found a guy to teach me Samoan fire knife dancing. He gave me my stage name, Chief Pauahi. I love entertaining people, but I can’t give up my day job. That’s what puts bread on the table, you know?”
Picking up a shell lei, he hung it on his thick neck. “Anyway, why are you here? Somehow I can’t believe you wanted to see my act.”
She blushed under his frank stare. “The murder weapon. It was one of these knives?” Their shapes were similar to the items she’d seen on his cocktail table at home.
He nodded at the objects laid out on the floor. “They’re Samoan fire knives,” he explained, lifting the two-foot-long handle wrapped in vinyl tape. “You can get them in different lengths. The Samoans used to hang skulls on this hook.”
The knife was heavy, but she was able to heft it when he offered it to her. Its curved stainless-steel blade easily added another foot to the measurements. A good weapon with which to bash someone’s head, Marla reasoned.
“Before my act, I bond asbestos to both ends, then soak the cloth in lighter fluid and ignite them so each side is flaming,” Darren said, grinning with pride. “It’s an impressive sight. Fire knife dancing is a modern interpretation of ancient warrior dances performed by Samoans. It’s supposed to be very aggressive and warlike. I work on speed, twirling, and back tosses. My neighbors can probably hear me practicing at home in our fenced backyard.”
“So that’s what your yelling is all about. You’re practicing war whoops.”
The grin erased from his face. “Somebody used one of these for real. I’m not a detective, so you might want to tell your friend Lieutenant Vail that Stefano Barletti came in the bank today asking for a loan. His business is struggling, thanks to competition by the big chain funeral homes. But that’s not the point. Stefano said he had collateral to back the loan. It’s an inheritance he expects to gain early next year.”
The final nails are being put in your coffin, Stefano, Maria thought during her drive home. She needed to make one more visit before confirming her opinion, however.
Unfortunately, her work schedule didn’t permit any deviations until Friday, when she ran out the door during lunch break. The man at the biomedical waste facility was as cooperative as before. He took one look at the photos, and his expression brightened.
“You see this stained clothing? Funeral homes are the most likely source. They dispose of bloody clothes from accidents. Sometimes you can tell from the formaldehyde smell, but I don’t suppose being out in the swamp like this, you could sniff much.”
Marla wrinkled her nose. “Don’t nursing homes throw out clothing as well?”
“Relatives would probably take those items home. Sometimes we’ll get clothes from the sheriff’s office, evidence that has been released.”
“I see.” Marla took back the photos from his preferred hand. “Well, you’ve been exceedingly helpful. Thanks so much.”
****
Before beginning work on her next client at the salon, Marla ducked into the storeroom and put in a call to Stefano Barletti. “I’d like to make an appointment to see you,” she said in a smooth tone. “I’ve been looking over the figures you gave me, and some of them seem a bit high for a Pre-Need plan.”
“You realize we’re an independent funeral home? We provide more personal service than the bigger conglomerates.”
“Do you do price matching?” she asked bluntly.
“If necessary.” Papers rustled in the background. “When did you want to stop in?”
“I get off work at six today. How late will you be there?”
“I can see you at eight o’clock. Do me a favor, and don’t tell anyone you’re coming. I wouldn’t want word to get out that we’re negotiable about costs.” He chuckled, a false ring to the sound that alerted her like a warning bell. The man had something up his sleeve, no doubt about it.
After closing down the salon, Marla headed home. She wanted to change into comfortable clothes and contemplate her next move while she ate dinner. If Stefano truly was Popeye’s heir, was she being wise to visit him alone? She couldn’t call Vail to accompany her. He needed proof before bringing in Ben’s killer, and besides, he’d already assigned another detective to the case. Prudence told her to get backup, and Providence provided him.
David’s car was parked alongside her curb when she arrived home. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, though. She pulled into the garage, shut off the engine, and emerged from her car listening to Spooks’s excited barking.
“You’re home!” David rounded t
he corner from a side of her house. He must have finished work early, because he had on a polo shirt, slacks, and running shoes. Scratching his freshly shaven jaw, he regarded her with a curious gleam in his eyes. “You never called me back about this weekend, so I thought I’d pop over to see if you were free.”
Marla gestured for him to follow her inside. She unlocked the door and proceeded into the kitchen with Spooks dancing at her ankles. As soon as David stepped across the threshold, the dog growled menacingly, prowling as though ready to pounce on a squirrel.
“Come on, Spooks, I’ll let you out. What’s the matter?” The pooch was disturbingly reluctant to leave. She had to lift him bodily to get him beyond the patio door.
“Come with me,” Marla said to David, striding toward the study. “I have to check for messages.”
“So you’ve no plans for tonight?” he said in a hopeful tone, keeping pace with her.
“I have an appointment with Stefano.” Noting the blinking message light, she picked up the receiver and punched in the proper code to retrieve messages.
“Marla, call me the minute you get in. I have news.” It was Vail’s voice, sounding unusually urgent.
“Oh God, what am I going to do now?” Cynthia wailed in the second message. “We had a fire in the laundry room last night. It got put out, but now there’s smoke damage in the house. We need to have the drapes cleaned, and everything smells. I can’t possibly have a couple of hundred guests here in two weeks. Oh, and another thing. You won’t believe what Bruce discovered at Morton Riley’s office. What fools we’ve been. You have to—”
“I’m so sorry,” David said, stumbling against her. “I meant to straighten that pen. It’s about to roll off your desk.”
His fumble made her push the wrong button and disconnect. “Never mind, I’ll call Cynthia back later.” She replaced the receiver in its cradle.
“By the way, do you still have Ben’s envelope with Mustafa’s number? I can’t find the chef’s business card anywhere.”
Hair Raiser Page 20
