by Linda Lovely
Darlene bracketed my face with her hands and pulled my head close so she could whisper in my ear. “Oh God! It’s so awful. We’ve only been married a week.” A sob caught in her throat. “I can’t tell you how much it means to have you here. Those people think I killed Jake.” Her breath felt hot, fevered.
I squeezed her hand and kept my voice low. “Everybody knows your husband was alone when he went overboard. No one could think you had a thing to do with his death.”
She bit her lip, straightened, and flicked her gaze to the back of our deputy-chauffeur’s head. “I can’t think straight,” she murmured. “I’m numb.”
Darlene’s wary glance suggested she was reluctant to say why she might be a murder suspect with the law eavesdropping.
I changed the subject. “Have you talked to Jake’s children?” Ross had mentioned the billionaire had a son with wife number one, and a daughter with wife number two. The siblings were almost as old as Darlene and me.
“I asked Sheriff Delaney to phone them. They didn’t bother to attend our wedding and we’re not exactly fond of each other, but I didn’t want them to learn about their dad’s death on TV.” Her eyes narrowed. “They’ll be here by nightfall. Carrion are quick to circle when there’s fresh kill.”
Uh-oh. The family dynamics signaled firefights ahead, and I had no interest in serving as peacekeeper. What had I gotten myself into?
“How about your daughter? Will Julie be here soon?”
“Tomorrow morning. You’ll like her. The minute she finished her doctorate, Jake offered her a post-doc at Jolbiogen. Called her a kindred soul. He loved her.”
Darlene massaged her neck. Her engagement ring’s walnut-sized diamond trapped sunlight streaming through a side window and practically blinded me.
When she caught me gaping, her lips curved up in a wry smile. “Kind of obscene, huh? This ring’s usually stashed in a safe. It’s only the second time I’ve worn it. Jake said, ‘humor me,’ so I put it on. It’s so big it looks like I pulled it from a box of Cracker Jacks.”
My friend collapsed in her seat. “I was so shocked to see you today, balancing a tray of champagne glasses, no less. I remembered Captain Ross was your cousin, but never dreamt you were in the area or I’d have invited you to the party.
“Last I heard you were a Lieutenant Colonel working at the Pentagon and married to a soldier. So I assume you’re not starting a second career as a waitress?”
This woman just watched paramedics pronounce her husband dead. How could she make polite chitchat?
“Hey, Darlene, we’re friends. You’ve suffered a big shock. Forget social etiquette. It’s not like we met by accident in a supermarket reaching for the same carton of eggs. You don’t have to make conversation.”
She shook her head. “I’m cried out. I just spent half an hour answering the sheriff’s questions. If I close my eyes, I still see Jake smiling, toasting me with his champagne glass. A minute later he was gone. I need normal conversation…a few minutes of sanity. Humor me, please. Just talk. About anything but this afternoon. Tell me about your life.”
“Okay.” I tried to remember the last time I’d sent Darlene a Christmas card and realized she didn’t know my husband was dead or that I now lived on a South Carolina island where I worked part-time as a security guard.
Hard to believe we’d once been so close we knew what the other thought without a word being spoken. We’d worked together as cooks at Spirit Resort the summer before I started Northwestern University. The workers, all high school and college kids, lived in dormitory cottages. Darlene bunked next to me.
We’d hit it off instantly. She was two years older—a lifetime of experience when those years span the gulf between high school and college. Darlene was tall, blonde and, in the parlance of the day, built like a brick shithouse.
In Spirit days, she was feisty, swore like a sailor and led search-and-pilfer raids on Chef Rudy’s stash of Kentucky bourbon. I adored her. During the school year, we traded campus visits and phone calls. A second summer of high jinks at Spirit Resort cemented our bond. Still it was the pre-internet, pre-Facebook era, and we only stayed in touch sporadically after the Army shipped me overseas.
As I told Darlene about my husband’s death in a car crash and my day-to-day life on the Carolina coast, her fidgeting fingers stilled. My monologue seemed to soothe her. By the time I completed a comic digest update of my life, the deputy turned off the main thoroughfare onto a winding private road.
Less than five miles from Arnolds Park, Jake’s estate fronted on West Okoboji, one of fourteen northwest Iowa lakes gouged out by retreating glaciers. Underground springs lent West Okoboji, the chain’s deepest gem, its aquamarine hue and sticker-shock pricing.
Darlene sucked in a breath. “Goddamn bottom-feeders.”
Two uniformed Thrasos guards had conceded squatting rights to reporters just outside the gate. However, the uniforms stoically defended the estate’s perimeter stone wall and evergreen hedge. The Olsen home was invisible from the roadway. Of course, nothing obstructed the view of lakeside gawkers, who routinely throttled down outboards to sidle past the tycoon’s spread.
As we approached the wrought-iron gates, a TV newswoman, excitedly motioned to her cameraman. His lens swung our way as our car idled, waiting for the gates to open. We slipped inside and a wall of greenery swallowed us. A moment later, the slate roof of Jake’s fieldstone and glass castle popped into view.
Guilty of scouting the Olsen compound in Ross’s Hafer runabout, I recalled my aunt’s offhand appraisal—“at least ten million” and her appreciative chuckle at Jake’s shrewd land grab. He’d used multiple agents to scoop up five adjacent lots before anyone knew the buyer’s true identity or what he might be willing to pay.
After razing houses in the center of the combined properties, Jake built a Frank Lloyd Wright-style fortress straddling two lots. The two lake homes flanking the manor were remodeled for his son and daughter. However, according to Ross, Jake’s offspring preferred swankier watering holes to Iowa’s meat-and-potatoes lifestyle and only visited on patriarchal command. The final piece of the Olsen compound made my history-obsessed cousin drool—a vintage cabin.
Gravel crunched and the police cruiser skidded to a stop. I snuck a look at my watch—ten after six. As the deputy helped Darlene from the car, I scrambled out my side. The day’s warmth lingered, a welcome relief from the car’s stale air-conditioned breath. Afternoon light bathed the stunning house in molten gold.
An older gentleman opened the front door the instant Darlene stepped on the porch. He wore black slacks with a sharp crease and a starched white shirt. The butler? Did anyone use that term anymore?
The man’s words rolled out in a low rumble. “Please accept my condolences. Mr. Olsen was a fine gentleman. He’ll be sorely missed.”
His voice caught, and Darlene threw her arms around his neck. His eyes squeezed shut, and a single tear meandered down a cheek pitted by acne decades before.
“I know how much you’ll miss Jake.” Darlene stepped back, releasing the gentleman from her hug. “I’d like you to meet Marley Clark. She’s an old friend, and she’s not expecting Jeeves, so lose the Mr. and Mrs. nonsense. Marley, meet Harvey Krantz. He manages our lake property. Jake calls him Handyman Harve.”
Darlene’s face crumpled as she realized she’d spoken of Jake in the present tense—the world of the here-and-now he’d never occupy again. She closed her eyes, took a ragged breath.
Harvey’s bushy white eyebrows bracketed the deep fissure of a frown. “Want me to talk to the caterers? I wasn’t quite sure what to do with all the food.”
His voice had lost all trace of its frosty formality, and I figured his relationship with Darlene came closer to fond uncle than obsequious butler.
“Oh, cripes,” Darlene swore. “I forgot about the buffet. Don’t worry, Harvey, we’ll figure something out.”
I trailed my friend through the great room. Her brisk pace barely gave me time
to appreciate the West Okoboji view framed by a two-story wall of glass. Breezing through oversized glass doors, she led me onto a trio of stone patios spilling down the hillside.
The sound of gurgling water drew my eyes to a rock-edged waterfall. Its meandering course fed an endless-horizon swimming pool on the terrace below before burbling its way to a lakeside catch basin I’d spotted from a previous boat idle-by.
“Just look at all this food.” Darlene waved a hand at a half-dozen buffet tables that practically sagged under the weight of accumulated delicacies. “It’s a shame to waste it.”
“How about one of the camps?” I suggested. “I’ll bet the girls at Camp Foster wouldn’t mind trading hot dogs and s’mores for a little lobster and cheesecake.”
“What a great idea.” A smile flickered across her face.
While working at Spirit, we’d discovered we were both alumnae of Camp Foster, a Y camp offering canoeing, archery, horseback riding and dorm-style bunk beds. A fixture on East Okoboji for more than a century, the camp was every eleven-year-old tomboy’s dream.
Darlene excused herself to arrange the food giveaway.
When she returned, she headed straight to the bar setup. “I figure we can both use a drink. You still a rum and Coke fan?” I nodded and Darlene chuckled. “Me, too. To Jake’s chagrin, I never acquired a taste for champagne or wine.”
Pouring with a heavy hand, she splashed rum over ice in two glasses before adding pop.
As the catering crew continued to bundle food, she led me down to the next patio level where we sank into poolside chaise lounges, sun-warmed and toasty. It would be almost nine o’clock before the sun set. We had hours before the night’s chill crept across the lake.
Darlene stirred her drink with a finger. “It’s not real yet. I can’t believe Jake’s gone. Three hours ago we were joking and laughing.”
She reached over and her fingers skated over my cheek. “I can’t believe you dove in after Jake. Thank you for trying to save him.”
She retracted her hand and stared out at the lake. “Doc Swann, one of our party guests, said he figured Jake was dead before he hit the water. Probably an aneurysm.” She looked up, her eyebrows knitted. “Was he dead? Did he say anything?”
I shook my head. “He was already gone. Whatever happened was mercifully fast.”
Darlene stared down into her glass. “Good.”
“Had Jake been ill?”
She took a generous swallow before answering. “A while back, he groused about eye fatigue. Then, he started getting short of breath for no reason. The company doctor diagnosed myasthenia gravis—MG. He got it under control and he’s been fine ever since. My husband,” she hesitated over the word… “My husband was such a bear about privacy, it’s a wonder he even told the doctor he had a problem. Jake never wanted anyone to suspect he had any weakness.”
“Do you want me to call anyone?” I asked. “Family? Friends? A minister or a doctor?”
Darlene sipped her drink. “As far as a doctor goes, forget it. I’ve been through this before. There’s not a drug in the world that helps. Tomorrow I’ll call our minister, but I don’t want to see him tonight. I do want to go to the house and check in with Julie. Find out what time to expect her. Do you want to stay here or go in?”
“Here,” I answered. “Is it okay if I take a walk?” Stone steps meandered toward an enchanting gazebo and flower garden. I could almost hear the buzzing of ecstatic bees.
“Of course, make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”
I ambled through the garden and stooped to smell a rose. The swing hanging from the gazebo ceiling was a pleasant surprise. I sat and rocked, staring at the tranquil lake. I knew all too well what it was like to lose a husband without a moment’s warning. Darlene wouldn’t have it easy.
***
“Ready for another rum and Coke?”
Darlene’s return startled me. I hadn’t heard her footsteps.
“Sure.” I took the offered glass.
As my fingers slipped round the icy refill, a shiver ran up my spine. Winds barreling out of Canada were hastening the mercury down its evening scale.
Darlene sat beside me. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and traced circles around the rim of the glass. She’d exchanged Donna Karan silks for roomy, well-worn sweats. Except for the paint splotches on my sweatshirt, we almost matched. She’d scrubbed away all traces of makeup, too. Stress etched delicate lines at the corners of her eyes. Up close, she looked haggard, almost our age.
“Julie says she’ll be here by ten.” Darlene’s feet pushed against patio pavers to restart our swing’s gentle rock. “I’m worried about her. Earlier, when I phoned to tell her Jake had died, I sensed she’d been crying before I broke the news. That’s not like my daughter. I pressed her and got nowhere.”
She turned toward me. “I forced myself to call Kyle and Gina—Jake’s son and daughter—too.”
“How are they holding up?”
“They may be half siblings but they both inherited a cold fish gene.” Bitterness laced her tone. “Can’t wait to bury him and cash in.”
A vein pulsed at the side of her temple. “Kyle informed me he’d make the funeral arrangements. Said I was ‘ignorant’ of how to handle a funeral for someone in his father’s social strata. I might have conceded except Jake gave me written instructions. He was determined not to lie in state and have Jolbiogen employees file by like peons at Stalin’s tomb.
“He donated his body to the Mayo Clinic and prearranged a simple memorial with our minister. I told Kyle to check with Jake’s attorney, Duncan James, if he didn’t believe me. That’s when I got what Jake called his son’s dry-ice anger—so cold it burns.”
Crap. I knew Jake’s Mayo bequest was a no-go. I’d checked the donation criteria for my mother. Bodies couldn’t be emaciated, obese or autopsied. Autopsy saws were a certainty for Jake.
I groped my way to the heart of the matter as diplomatically as possible.
“Oh, Lord,” Darlene moaned. “Can’t Jake even have the final say about his body? Money and power don’t mean shit when it comes to what matters. His kids never showed him affection. But they always walked the tightrope—spiteful but never quite nasty enough to endanger their precious inheritance.”
Darlene stood. “Guess I’d better find Jake’s letter. Are you still comfortable here or do you want to come inside?”
“I’ll wait here.”
I set my drink down and hugged myself, trying to ward off a chill as I visually inventoried the lakeside enclave. Paved paths connected the main house and the two houses that flanked it to the shared patios, swimming pool and a dock that stabled every manner of big-boy float toy from jet skis to a sleek, high-speed cruiser.
A flicker of light drew my eye. Jake’s adjoining lots occupied a cove, and the curving geography brought the rough-hewn cabin on the estate’s edge into clear view. I could swear firelight danced inside the deserted cabin. Probably a mirage—the sinking sun reflecting on the wavy antique windows.
Darlene’s return interrupted my speculation.
“Here’s Jake’s letter.” She handed me a sheet of textured linen paper, her husband’s signature scrawled at the bottom. “He had a fallback plan. See what you think.”
I scanned the notarized document. Should anything nix his Mayo bequest, Jake wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered without benefit of a graveside service.
He didn’t mince words: No funeral. One simple memorial service in Spirit Lake, which has given me a sense of belonging and peace.
I looked up at Darlene. “Sounds straightforward.”
“I think so, too.” She took a ragged breath. Her hands trembled.
“You’re exhausted. Why don’t you lie down?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
I was glad her daughter would be here by morning. I just hoped Julie didn’t arrive with more troubles in her backpack.
My friend stared off into space. I knew th
at faraway look. She’d escaped into memory. “Julie’s father died two years before I started seeing Jake,” she said after a while. “You never met Mike. In college, he was two years ahead of me—a forestry major—but he signed on as a firefighter after graduation to stay near till I got my degree. That was supposed to be temporary. When I got pregnant, it became permanent. I worried about Mike every time I heard a fire engine. Then one day he died in a freaking car accident.
“I felt so angry. Julie was finishing grad school and shared an apartment with friends, and the memories were suffocating. I’d inherited Mom’s old clapboard on Big Spirit so coming here seemed a logical choice. That’s when I started the catering business.”
“A good move?” I asked.
A smile flickered. “Yep, I called on Jake hoping for a share of his catering business. He used to throw quite the parties. Never imagined we’d end up together.”
“What was he like?” I probed.
She sighed. “A real sweetheart. Jake treated me like the heroine in a romance novel. We’d fly to Paris for the weekend, or he’d whisk me to Rio for carnival. His kids never understood what he saw in me. I don’t hobnob with the right crowd or have a standing appointment for Botox. Hell, I even chew my nails. But we laughed a lot.”
“Laughter is one of your special gifts, Darlene.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Another fairytale screeches to a halt.”
When she turned to me, she sported the wicked grin I remembered as a staple from our college days. “Actually it’s been a hoot to be cast as an evil, gold-digging bimbo. When you’re past fifty, it’s kind of flattering to be ‘the hussy.’ Kyle and Gina thought I’d cast a sexual spell over their father, when he dropped out of the party circuit.”
“And did you?” I grinned.
“Of course. Handcuffs and whipped cream all the way.” She smiled, then shook her head. “Jake was bored with the social scene. He preferred to stay home. We’d read, putter around the kitchen, watch old movies, go for a boat ride. Today’s party was a special occasion. Jake felt obliged to appear in public with his new bride to keep the tabloids from starting rumors about us.” Darlene flinched. “Dammit.”
