by Linda Lovely
I smiled. “It’s my policy never to date a man prettier than me. Besides, most hunks our age date babes, not boomers. You say he’s from Ames? Wonder if Darlene knew him when she lived there.”
Our breakfasts arrived and we tucked into the impressive stockpiles of fat and carbohydrates. “Tell me again about the history of that old cabin on the Olsen estate.”
I figured the prompt would keep Ross yammering through breakfast and beyond. When we were kids, his aversion to book learning earned veiled threats from his mom. Hard to believe he now devoured any book, letter or diary he could lay hands on—provided it dealt with the Iowa Great Lakes. He loved recounting tales about Indian uprisings, robber barons and ghost stories.
His lips hitched up in a grin. “Boy oh boy, I’d love to have that cabin as an annex to our museum.”
Like a Jim Carey disciple, Ross could instantly transform his rubber-like face to reflect boyish glee, and he had Jerry Seinfeld’s gift for timing. The one-two punch made his love of the lakes contagious.
“Clarice Hunter haunts that cabin. She drowned in 1928 when the Miss Lively sank. Clarice’s beau saved himself, left her to drown. No one knows exactly how she got trapped. The boat went down at a spot where the lake’s one hundred feet deep. The wreck wasn’t recovered until scuba divers happened on it by accident.” He waved a forkful of biscuit. “The day after she sank, Clarice’s body floated into the bay near that cabin. Newspaper accounts speculated her foot wedged under a seat, sentencing Clarice to a very unpleasant death.”
“So why haunt that cabin?”
“She and her boyfriend rented it with two other couples. She’s searching for the friends and lover who abandoned her.”
“I can see why she’d be a little crotchety. I won’t hold any séance if I take a look inside.”
Ross reached for his wallet. “I know you said you’d buy, but it’s my treat today.”
I pushed my clean plate across the tattered oil tablecloth with a whimper of satisfaction. “I’m surprised May didn’t join us.”
“Mom seldom eats breakfast out. Claims she needs time to read the obituaries and make sure her name’s not there. She starts a little slower, but she should be raring to go by now.” Suddenly his smile evaporated. “Don’t tell Mom that Sheriff Delaney thinks you’re a suspect. She’d have a coronary—or he would after she cut out his tongue.”
SIX
Since May’s a tad hard of hearing, Ross rang the buzzer repeatedly before opening the door with a spare key wedged under a flowerpot—traditional Iowa security.
“Come in, come in.” May’s disembodied voice floated from her boudoir. “Just got out of the shower. Won’t be long—no sense gilding the lily.”
Ross wheeled my suitcase inside. “Want it in the guest bedroom?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He lifted the suitcase onto a cedar chest and headed back to the living room. “Think I’ll read the sports section. Didn’t have a chance earlier.”
Goosebumps sashayed up my arms. May cranked her air-conditioning to sub-zero. Weren’t older ladies supposed to like heat? Unzipping my tote bag to grab a cardigan, I spied Steve Watson’s package. Ross would get a kick out of a little show-and-tell.
Steve, an old Army buddy, runs a “Defend-U” Internet business. While he doesn’t sell machineguns, hand grenades or other weapons of mass destruction, he provides everything from bear repellent to Klingon “fantasy” weapons for people fearing terrorists, aliens, wild hogs or Goth teens. He relies on me and other retired vets to field test his gadgets.
I walked to the living room and dumped my beta testers at Ross’s feet. “Want to see my newest toys?”
My cousin peeked over his newspaper. “A cell phone? Thought you were as rabid about them as I am about jet skis.”
I laughed. “These are gadgets from my friend with the Internet store. The cell phone’s a disguised stun gun. That perfume atomizer holds pepper spray.”
Ross chuckled. “What’s with the gas mask, gloves and binoculars?”
“Worried about anthrax in your mail? Bio gloves are the answer. The binocs are night vision goggles—all the better to spy on neighbors. Not sure about the gas mask.”
A note from Steve was tucked in with the goodies. I read it aloud: Marley—Finally found a cell phone to your taste. P.S. Does the gas mask bring back fond memories?
Ross arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”
I smiled. “We tested chemical warfare battledress at Fort Bragg. The suits had two defects: one, you couldn’t pee; two, the built-in com systems made everyone sound like Donald Duck on helium. Orders were unintelligible. We had to resort to charades.”
My cousin rolled his eyes. “Sorry I missed the fun. Sounds right up there with belly-crawling through swampland.”
“Guess I’d better find a discreet location to try out these gizmos. Your mom doesn’t need neighbors phoning the cops about a gas-masked mad woman. I unnerved them enough taking my Tae Bo routine on the balcony.”
I stuffed the gloves, mock cell and atomizer in my shoulder bag and returned the bulky gas mask and night vision goggles to my suitcase.
A phone rang. By the time I reentered the living room, May had the receiver plastered to her ear. She cupped a hand over the mouthpiece—“It’s Darlene”—and handed me the phone.
A short cord afforded no privacy and May and Ross made no bones about eavesdropping. I tried to ignore them and keep my side of the conversation cryptic.
“Uh huh. Uh huh…You’re kidding!…How could they get lab results so fast?…Does the sheriff have a suspect?”
The receiver wasn’t back in its nest before May insisted on details. “Was Jake murdered?”
No point stonewalling. May and Ross would unearth the answers with or without my help. Spirit Lake’s a small town.
“According to current theory, someone filled Jake’s Visine bottle with something called cyclogel. When he put drops in his eyes, it shut his lungs down. Jake suffered from MG, an autoimmune disease, so he was especially vulnerable.”
My cousin leaned forward. “Wait a minute. This is Spirit Lake not L.A. We have no magical CSI lab to provide instant results. What gives?”
“The results aren’t official. Jolbiogen’s CEO offered expedited lab analyses. The M.E. gave Jolbiogen autopsy tissue samples, swabs from Jake’s champagne glass, and samples from a Chapstick tube and Visine bottle, the only items in Jake’s pocket. Gertie also sent samples to the state lab for parallel testing. It’ll be weeks before the official results come back.”
May’s forehead wrinkled. “Cyclogel. Well, I’ll be. Pretty ingenious, getting the victim to do himself in. Took me a minute to work it out. Never would have if I hadn’t taken care of a couple MG patients. ”
Ross sighed. “Okay, Mom, stop looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. What are you talking about?”
“Optometrists use cyclogel to paralyze and dilate patients’ eyes. That’s why Jake’s pupils looked so big. Did Jake use eye drops a lot?”
“He had allergies.” Ross shrugged. “Always carried a bottle. But back up—are you saying optometrists can kill patients with this stuff?”
May harrumphed. “Keep your britches on, I’m getting there. Marley said Jake had MG, a disease that tends to afflict men over fifty.”
I held up a hand. “But Darlene told me Jake’s MG was under control.”
My aunt gave me “the look” and I shut my trap. May didn’t cotton to audience cue cards. As a nurse, she’d spent years translating medical mumbo jumbo for dazed patients. Sooner or later, she’d dumb down an explanation for us.
“MG fries muscle receptors. It shrinks the number of healthy ones available to respond when the brain sends a message, like reminding the lungs to breathe. Undiluted cyclogel would muddle communication with the remaining receptors. When Jake’s muscles failed, his lungs quit. No air. Asphyxiation.”
Ross tugged on his moustache. “Would a dose of pure cyclogel have killed someone who d
idn’t have MG?”
May shook her head. “Doubt it. The killer must have known about his illness.”
My stomach clenched. That narrowed the suspect list. “Darlene said Jake was rabid about keeping his illness a secret.”
May’s eyes narrowed. “Someone could have taken a gander at his medical file, or Jake might have confided in a Jolbiogen researcher looking into autoimmune disease research.” She lasered me with her baby blues. “Then again, Marley, your long-lost friend could be involved.”
She held up a hand, anticipating my protest. “People change. I’m not saying Darlene did it, but you need to butt out. You’re tempting fate spending time with her before Sheriff Delaney looks into this mess. Even if she’s innocent, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts someone in Jake’s family of vipers is guilty as sin.”
I was sorely tempted to blurt out that Delaney’s suspect list included me. Maybe that little tidbit would remind Aunt May suspects are innocent until proven guilty. I kept my mouth shut. No point arguing. I’d yet to change one of May’s opinions. Not that I wasn’t equally pigheaded. Darlene needed a friend. End of story. I’d keep our afternoon date.
May lowered her recliner footrest and pushed to her feet. “I know that look, Marley. You’re going to ignore me so I won’t beat a dead horse. But it’s less than two weeks to my birthday and our overdue family reunion. Can you still drive me to Gull Point and take a look at the banquet menu before you go gallivanting off to the Olsens?”
“You bet.”
Ross saluted his mom. “Guess I’m dismissed. I need to get cracking on our Antique and Classic Boat Show. We’ve signed one hundred entries and I need to figure out what boat goes where.” He cut me a look of devilish glee. “Every one of them deserves the red carpet treatment reserved for ye old mahogany missionaries.”
I returned his grin. “Yes, I remember your motto—‘If God had wanted plastic boats, he’d have grown plastic trees.’”
“Right you are, Cuz. I fully intend to bamboozle the winners into showing off their wooden darlings in a rotating permanent exhibit.”
Aunt May sighed. “Lord help me, I suckled an idjit. How in blazes can you shoehorn more boats in that museum? You have to leave room for things women like—old photos, swimsuits, antique beach toys.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, that’s why they pay Captain Ross the big bucks. We just need a new exhibit wing.” He paused half way out the door. “Say, I promised Eunice to remind you both about dinner at the Outrigger. Six o’clock okay?”
“I can’t swear I’ll make it,” I answered. “I’m due at Darlene’s late afternoon. I may not finish by six.”
Aunt May rolled her eyes. “A mistake,” she grumbled. “You’re being a danged fool.”
***
Assuming my customary chauffeur duties, I headed May’s Buick toward West Okoboji and Gull Point State Park. The midmorning sun beamed at full wattage, boosting the temperature inside the vehicle to broil. May jacked up the air. Not a day for rolled-down windows. Strong gusts shook the car. The arms on the town’s Picasso-esque windmills twirled in a blurred frenzy.
Ross seized on blustery days like this to educate tourists about Spirit Lake’s perch atop a Great Plains ridge. The location makes the Iowa Great Lakes nirvana for summer sailors and a boon to insulation contractors come November. The area’s windy status also helped secure grants for two of Iowa’s first windmills.
Today’s westerly blasts were not auspicious. A big storm brewed over the plains. That meant we were likely to be watching natural fireworks come dusk.
As we turned on Highway 86, I glanced at May. A comment Darlene made about her first husband troubled me. Maybe I should ask another widow’s opinion.
“Darlene said she was angry after her first husband died. I sensed she truly was mad at Mike—not fate. Were you angry at Uncle John after his death?”
May doffed her glasses and polished away. “Felt sorry for myself, mad at being left alone. No one in her forties expects to be widowed. But angry with John? No. He certainly didn’t want to leave the boys or me. ’Course, struggling to make ends meet left little time to wallow in emotions.”
She paused. “Do you know how Darlene’s first husband died? Maybe he did something dumb that helped him wind up in a coffin. Could be he fought with Darlene, stormed out, ran a stop sign. Stupidity might make a widow feel anger along with other hurts.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.” Out of morbid curiosity, I’d look up a news account of Mike’s death.
As we approached the park, May studied her planner. “I’ve already reserved Gull Point for our Friday fish fry but I need to check out the lodge’s kitchen.”
May’s reunion plans also included a Saturday picnic, a Sunday cruise aboard the Queen and a finale banquet at Village West for sixty people—a number inflated by “shirttail relations.”
Though May was a relative-by-matrimony, I loved her as much as any blood kin. So had my mom. As working mothers in a June Cleaver era, they had plenty in common.
For years, my bond with Aunt May seemed flash-frozen. Whenever we visited, we slipped into adult-child roles and reminisced about the good old days. Then, once Alzheimer’s claimed Mom, we conversed as adults, giving our relationship a deeper dimension.
As May poked around the lodge kitchen, I strolled down to the sandy beach. The stone buildings and arbor of bur oaks looked just as they did in tintypes taken before I was born. I could almost see the ghosts of reed-thin Grandpa Carr lighting his pipe, his stout wife anchoring a picnic tablecloth as winds stirred whitecaps on the lake.
“Hey, give the woolgathering a break,” Aunt May called. “Come give me a hand with some measurements.”
Our Gull Point mission complete, we stopped by Mrs. Lady’s for lunch—hand-dipped ice cream—then popped into O’Farrell Sisters to order homemade pies. At our last stop, Village West, we picked up menus from a chatty group-meeting coordinator and my aunt inquired after three generations of her family.
“Now be sure to give my best to your grandmother,” she sang out as we reached the door. She didn’t add “the big twit” until we started down the stairs.
I rolled my eyes. “May, you’re incorrigible.”
“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything—until you’re out of earshot.”
After buckling her seatbelt, she slumped against the headrest and sighed. “I’m too pooped to pop. Time for a wee bit of shuteye.”
May slipped into her bedroom for a nap; I sauntered down the hill to fetch her mail from the community mailboxes. The haul proved predictable—AARP specials, optometrist bills and antique catalogs.
“Colonel Clark. I need to speak with you.” The thirty-something speaker loped across the lawn with an athlete’s easy grace. I envied her long strides, if not her height—over six-feet. We’d never met. I’d have remembered the angular face, patrician nose, and red-gold hair. Arresting.
The Colonel salutation and a nondescript sedan parked catty-corner from the condo entrance tipped me off. Military or law enforcement.
She flipped open her badge. “Sherry Weaver, FBI. Could you spare a few minutes? Maybe we could sit in the shade and talk?”
“Okay.” She’d raised my curiosity and my guard.
She led the way to a shaded park bench. “Hope I didn’t startle you. I needed to catch you in private.” She stopped, licked her lips and started again. “I’m looking into Jake Olsen’s murder.”
Most folks get nervous when an authority figure braces them. Even innocents think, “What did I do?” I wasn’t immune. A quiver of fear tightened my throat, but the FBI agent seemed even jumpier.
“You’re taking over the investigation from Sheriff Delaney?” I asked.
“Not exactly. We’re keeping the FBI and military roles quiet. I’ve been on the case three weeks. We hope to wrap up our investigation discreetly before the press gets wind and complicates our investigation.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I laughed. “Repo
rters already outnumber tourists. But I’m confused. Jake died yesterday. Yet you say you’ve been investigating for weeks. Was he getting death threats?” Then her military mention hit home. “And how’s the military involved? True, I’ve been retired two years, but I don’t recall Congress rescinding the prohibition against military involvement in domestic investigations.”
“Granted, the situation’s murky.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Let’s start over. Do you remember Laura Young?”
I nodded. Sure. A brainy Pentagon attaché. The young lieutenant didn’t make a huge effort to hide her sexual orientation. Never bothered me. I liked Laura, admired her work ethic, valued her intelligence. What she did in her bedroom was her business.
Weaver smiled. “Laura and I live together. She now works for one of the beltway bandits, an Intel consulting firm. When I mentioned your name came up in this investigation, Laura told me how much General Irvine respects you. She suggested I talk with him about bringing you in. The general agreed.” She licked her lips. “We know you’re friends with Darlene Olsen, and we need your help.”
I felt my face flush. “Sorry. You have the wrong person. I won’t take advantage of a friend’s trust—even for the FBI or my old boss. And you still haven’t explained the general’s involvement.”
“No, no. You have it all wrong. I think Darlene’s innocent—her daughter, too. Our investigation isn’t focused on Jake’s murder. At least, it didn’t begin that way. I specialize in intellectual property theft and corporate espionage. The FBI’s coordinating with the military because the Jolbiogen theft involves research that has bioterrorism implications.”
My head spun. I was in Spirit Lake, Iowa, not some War Games room. “You lost me.”
Agent Weaver squeezed my arm. “If I say more you’re bound to secrecy, you can’t tell Darlene—or anyone else—about this bioterrorism investigation.”
