by Linda Lovely
I smiled. “Small world. I was stationed at the same base.”
After determining our tours were a few years apart, we expounded on the joys of wiener schnitzel, apple wine festivals, flowers spilling out of window boxes, and how one’s adrenaline revs into overdrive when hurtling down Alpine slopes or cruising the Autobahn.
May sported the same smug look of satisfaction she wore after a real estate closing.
Our check arrived and so did new rumbles of thunder. Intermission was over. Time for the main storm event.
“Ross, why don’t I give these young ladies a lift?” Duncan nodded at May and me. “That’ll give you a chance to make sure the Queen’s bedded down. Things are getting mighty frisky.”
“What a nice offer.” May accepted before Ross could reply. “I’ve always wanted to take a ride in your convertible. It looks cute as a button. Too bad we won’t have the top down.”
Two blocks from May’s condo the deluge erased the world beyond the windshield. Sitting up front with Duncan, I peered through the curtain of water, vainly searching for some hint of a yellow centerline.
“Should we pull over?”
Duncan shook his head. “No shoulder here. I’ll take it nice and easy.”
He even managed an occasional question to restart May’s patter and keep her calm. I’d have been too busy swearing and strangling the wheel.
“I see lights at the condo entrance, May.” Relief colored Duncan’s tone. “Looks like we made it.”
Duncan grabbed the nearest parking spot, a few feet from the entrance to the four-unit cluster. He swiveled in his seat and smiled at my aunt. “Soon as I get my umbrella open, I’ll come round the car for you. Then I’ll return for Marley.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s a three-second dash.”
Though Duncan and I exited the car in unison, he reached May’s door before mine closed. He claimed one of her arms and I took the other. We moved with the speed and grace of a six-legged, arthritic bug. While Duncan’s umbrella gallantry sheltered my aunt, horizontal rain gusts soaked both her escorts.
Inside the vestibule, May shook a few drops from her London Fog raincoat, patted her hair and chuckled at her bedraggled guides. “I got the better of that deal. Being old has its rewards. Come in, come in, Duncan. Least we can do is fix you an Irish coffee. Can’t drive anyway. Might as well relax until it lets up.”
Thunder crashed and the lights flickered. “I’ll find candles in case the lights go,” I said.
Little rivulets of water forged paths down Duncan’s freckled cheeks. “Maybe a towel is a higher priority than candles,” I said. “But unless you want to strip and don May’s raincoat, we can’t offer the Olsen’s change-of-clothing options.”
He grinned. “Don’t want to impersonate a flasher. I’ll just towel off best I can.”
After supplying a towel and a hodgepodge of candles, I filled the coffeepot with water. “May, want decaf or regular?”
“Doesn’t matter, kid. The whisky’ll knock me out. Can’t hold my liquor like I used to. Doesn’t mean I want my drinks watered down. Now there’s a bone of contention with my sons. I keep telling the little stinkers I’d rather have one stiff drink that tastes like something than three diluted excuses.”
May snuggled into her recliner while Duncan lit candles, making the coffee table look like a votive altar. I puttered in the kitchen, assembling a tray of Irish coffees and a plate of May’s famous brownies—their secret an icing layer thicker than the cake.
Meanwhile my aunt entertained with tales of how she’d snared the room’s antiques. While the best-loved pieces came from her grandmother in Missouri, she was quite partial to finds she’d haggled over and won for a fraction of their value.
May seemed full of piss and vinegar. Yet, as soon as I served the drinks, she yawned theatrically and professed exhaustion. Yeah, right. She retired with her coffee in hand. As soon as Duncan left, she’d tiptoe back, wide awake and pester me for details. Did he see through her, too?
Moments after she toddled down the hall, thunder clashed with ear-splitting fury. All lights extinguished, shrinking the living room to an intimate envelope of flickering candlelight.
“Be right back,” I said. “Want to make sure Aunt May’s not stumbling around in the dark. Last thing she needs is to fall and break a hip.”
I grabbed a candle, cupped my hand to shield the flame, and hurried down the hall. “May, is everything all right?” I knocked. “Want me to bring some candles or help you to bed?”
“Don’t be a ninny. I keep a flashlight on my nightstand. I’m not in my dotage.”
I returned to the living room. A broad smile lit Duncan’s face. May’s sass tickled him. He patted the cushion beside him on the couch.
“Ross told me you were a widow.” His blue eyes searched my face. “I’m sorry. I’m divorced and even though the parting was sheer relief,” he hesitated, “it’s hard to adjust to being single. Dating after so many years is hell, isn’t it?”
The warm whisky and candlelight nibbled at my inhibitions.
“Yeah, when you’re over fifty, it’s tough to keep a straight face and claim ‘I’m saving myself for marriage.’ Nowadays the trick is to find a socially-acceptable way to exchange certification that you’re HIV-free.”
“Darn, I forgot to put mine in my wallet,” he quipped. “Tomorrow I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He added softly, “You really should get out of your wet clothes.”
Duncan touched my arm through the beige—and, I suddenly realized—almost transparent blouse molded to my breasts. Worse yet, the damp silk advertised my arousal. Might as well have taken out an “I’m horny” billboard. Even the most discreet gentleman would notice.
“Right you are,” I choked out. “Back in a jiffy.”
Mortified, I sprinted toward the guest bedroom, shed my wet clothes, and slipped on shorts and an oversized velvet pullover—thick enough to camouflage any eager salutes by my girls. Returning to the living room, I chose the chair adjacent to the couch. Away from temptation.
“Hey, come closer so we can talk without waking your aunt. I won’t bite.”
Unable to think of a comeback, I surrendered. A hand-crocheted afghan rested on the back of the sofa. Duncan draped it around our shoulders. A cozy cocoon. The candles sputtered down to nubs as we talked. I glanced at my watch—five after midnight.
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked in disbelief.
“Past time to do this.” He brushed his lips over mine. They felt warm, insistent.
Okay, if Duncan had a fatal flaw, it wasn’t his kiss.
The fantasy I’d squelched in the restaurant forced my heart into double time. I imagined his body sliding against mine. In my flight of fancy, Duncan’s dog tags swayed.
Where had the dog tags come from? Get a grip, Marley. Are you nuts?
Since Jeff’s death, I’d bedded exactly one man—and I hadn’t collapsed into Braden’s arms like a rag doll the day we met. Had that spring fling short-circuited my brain? When Braden left the South Carolina coast to return to Atlanta, we released each other of any romantic commitment. Still I felt obliged to ease off the gas pedal.
My brain dismissed the yellow caution light to focus on the teeth nibbling my earlobe. My reservations melted faster than chocolate chips in a double boiler. I think I refrained from purring. His hands sauntered lower, heating the skin beneath the velvet. My fingers joined the dance as I threaded them through his curly hair. Our tongues twined in exploration.
Duncan lifted his head and broke the embrace. A space opened between us. Cool air raced in, raising goosebumps on my heated skin.
“Sorry, Marley. Don’t know what came over me.” He trailed a finger down my cheek. “I’m fifty-five years old not a rutting teenager. I don’t want to give May a stroke by propositioning her niece on her living room couch.” He stood, pulled me to him, tilted my face to his. His thumb trailed along my cheek. “Can I call you? Tomorrow? I promise to be
more romantic.”
I squeaked out a ladylike, “sounds great” and squelched my desire to say, “the hell with romance, I’m ready any place, any time.”
I was on vacation, old enough to know better, young enough not to need a pacemaker. Life was good. Inside our candlelit cavern, our encounter seemed more fantasy than reality.
My brain argued it was good our necking halted a mile short of my erotic daydream. Reality never lives up to fantasy, right?
Yet I sensed I’d have been quite content with Duncan’s reality. Who needs swaying dog tags?
NINE
A phone rang, loudly and insistently. I groped the bedside table to still it. Oh, I wasn’t sleeping in my own bed. The bell tone cranked above humane decibel limits was in May’s room, not mine. The ringing ceased.
It was pitch black. The alarm clock’s fluorescent numbers flashed 5:05 a.m. No one calls at this hour unless it’s an emergency.
Was it some family crisis? I threw on a robe. My knock opened Aunt May’s door a crack. Phone to her ear, she motioned me inside. “You’re kidding. They’re both dead?” Her eyes went wide, all trace of sleep gone. “The sheriff’s there, right? Yes, yes, I’ll put Marley on.”
May handed me the phone and sagged against her pillows. She looked so fragile, her skin almost translucent with the veins at her temples visibly throbbing. Without benefit of a comb’s camouflaging efforts, her pink scalp played hide-and-seek through her wispy hair.
“Marley, it’s Darlene. I know I’m putting a real burden on an old friendship but could you come to the house? Now? I called Duncan, too. I’m petrified.”
A small sob forced a pause. “The sheriff’s next door. They’re taking the bodies away.”
“Bodies?” I interrupted. “What bodies?”
“Sorry, my brain’s scrambled. I told May, not you. Gina and Robert—the Glastons—are dead. Eric came home snockered and registered something wasn’t right. Lights burning at four a.m. in both his mom’s bedroom and his step-dad’s. He stumbled upstairs and found them dead. I’m really scared.”
I clutched the lapels of my robe and shivered. “I’ll come right away.” My promise earned a stern look of disapproval from my aunt. “Give me half an hour, but I’ll be there.”
May started her harangue before I hung up. “Are you crazy? Bodies are stacking up like cordwood, and you mosey into the fray like it’s a Sunday school picnic. Has to be some Looney-toon. I know, I know. You think you can take care of yourself, but nobody’s safe around crazies.”
“May, calm down, the sheriff’s there—heck, probably the whole Sheriff’s Department. No killer is going to try something right under Delaney’s nose.”
“Then answer me this.” May pinned me with a stare. “How did the Glastons get murdered with private cops scurrying around like cockroaches and a security system worthy of Fort Knox?”
Excellent question.
I shrugged. “Maybe it was a murder-suicide. The couple didn’t exactly impress me as America’s sweethearts.”
The upside of May’s excitement? No questions about Duncan. The reprieve gave me hours to prepare for her grilling and decide how I felt about the unexpected mutual attraction.
I kissed May’s cheek. “I’ll be careful. Promise. Go back to sleep. Odds are I’ll be home before breakfast. Is it okay if I take the Buick? What time do you leave for church?”
“The service starts at ten. But my neighbor can give me a ride. Go on, take the car.”
Despite my hurry in dressing, I took more care with grooming than the emergency warranted. I damn well knew the reason.
Would our first post-amorous meeting feel awkward? I hoped not. Even if last night’s heat proved the proverbial flash in the pan, it was nice to know a sturdy match could light my out-of-warranty pilot.
***
The estate’s gates stood open. An ambulance rolled past in the opposite direction. Its leisurely pace confirmed its destination—Spirit Lake’s now busy morgue. A pewter-gray sky cast a funereal pall over the landscape. The rain had halted and puddles glinted like black ice beneath the security lights.
I pulled up and waited for the Thrasos guard to approach. I’d spoken to the same sentry when I left on yesterday’s run. He remembered me. A glance at his clipboard and he motioned me ahead. “Please park to the right, Mrs. Clark.”
Waaaay back, when first inoculated with feminist furor, I corrected folks, let ’em know it was “Ms.” not “Mrs.” Never bothered nowadays. Political correctness means nada. Either people think women have brains and deserve independent status from the men in their lives, or they don’t.
Happily, my husband belonged to the first camp. We’d married late and neither of us could fathom why marriage should change my identity or last name. God, I loved Jeff and missed him. Nothing ever touched that compartment of my life. Not friends, not family, not a lover.
A gaggle of official cars cluttered the Glaston driveway. The catawampus parking angles testified to the hyped-up state of the drivers. Only one vehicle sat outside Darlene’s mansion. Duncan’s convertible.
The door opened before I could ring the bell. Julie welcomed me with a light-as-a-feather embrace. “Come in.”
The young lady wore what appeared to be her uniform of choice—baggy britches and a T-shirt, hot pink this time. I followed her to the kitchen.
Darlene sat like dejection’s poster child at the end of the butcher-block table. The floor-length robe wrapping her slim frame didn’t disguise the wilted posture. Puffy eyes and reddened cheeks testified to a lengthy crying jag. She stared vacantly at the table, while the hand at her throat worried the edges of her terrycloth robe. She glanced up, started to stand.
“Stay put.” I came round and kissed her forehead.
Duncan greeted me with a lift of a coffee mug. “It’s not Irish, but let me get you some.” A brief smile carried to his eyes. “Glad you’re here.”
His fingers grazed the back of my hand when he handed me the mug. A little tremor reminded me what those fingers had been up to a few hours ago.
Darlene lifted her head. “I wasn’t fond of Jake’s daughter or her husband. Frankly I disliked them. But I never wanted to see Gina and Robert dead.”
“How did they die?” I asked. “Does anyone know?”
“When Eric called 911, he triggered the security alarm,” Duncan said. “Thrasos bodyguards swarmed to the scene. As soon as the sheriff turned up, he sent a deputy to check on Darlene and Julie. When I arrived, I pumped the deputy for details. He said both bodies were stone cold, probably dead for hours.”
Duncan swiveled his coffee cup to and fro. “The Glastons slept in separate rooms. They found Gina in her bed, her respirator clamped to her face, and Dr. Glaston sprawled in a heap at the foot of his bed. If the dual deaths hadn’t screamed foul play, the guard said he’d have figured heart attacks.”
Recalling Eric’s rage-contorted face made me wonder. “Could Eric have killed them?”
“No.” Darlene sighed. “Gina was his mom. Eric’s a hothead, not a cold-blooded killer. I can’t see it—even if he was hopped up on some drug.”
My friend paused. “At least Julie and I won’t be suspects this go-round. Sheriff Delaney got an earful from Kyle. He claims Jake’s new will prompted me to kill my husband before he came to his senses. I have no incentive to kill Jake’s children. These new murders will expose his ravings as pure crap.”
Duncan’s hand covered Darlene’s and gave it a little squeeze. “I wouldn’t say boo about the will. You do benefit from Gina’s death. It ups your share of Jake’s fortune.”
Darlene’s eyes widened, and she yanked her hand free. “What? Surely Eric inherits his mom’s share. This is ludicrous.”
Duncan shook his head. “The will stipulates Jake’s beneficiaries must survive him by at least thirty days to inherit. If anyone dies earlier, the deceased person’s share reverts to the estate to be divided among survivors.”
“Why did Jake put that in his wi
ll?” Julie looked puzzled.
“In case there was a bad accident involving several family members,” Duncan explained. “If some heirs lingered briefly on life support, Jake didn’t want their shares to become windfalls to ‘money-grubbing leeches.’ His words. Specifically, he didn’t want Dr. Glaston waltzing away with dollars intended for his flesh and blood.”
“Good heavens, does that disinherit Eric?” I blurted.
Duncan shook his head. “Jake didn’t neglect his grandson. Eric claims a multi-million-dollar trust fund when he turns thirty. That trust is outside the will, and the trustees can advance money for any good reason—say, college or buying a house. The boy’s also a beneficiary in this will. His share will increase with other survivors. Plus Eric inherits the remainder of the trust Jake set up years back for Gina.”
Julie pushed back from the table. “The will doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the Glaston murders. All the heirs inherit millions. What kind of idiot risks killing two people for a few more million? They can’t spend it rotting in prison. Besides, Dr. Glaston didn’t inherit. Why kill him?”
“Good points,” Duncan said. “Just wanted to warn you the new murders don’t pare down the suspect list. The beefed-up security also argues against a stranger as killer, though maybe the electronic security system will confirm you and Julie were both here when the Glastons died.”
He nodded at Julie. “Too bad you told the sheriff Dr. Glaston wanted to fire you.”
Duncan absently tapped a finger on the side of his mug. “Darlene, you should hire an attorney. Immediately.”
My friend’s brows knitted in confusion. “Aren’t you my attorney?”
He massaged his temples. “I’m an estate attorney. I know beans about criminal law. I doubt Sheriff Delaney will jump to any conclusion. He’s too independent-minded to be bullied by Kyle or Hamilton. But it’s only prudent to be prepared. I’ll find you a good criminal lawyer.”
I’d been pondering motives. “Suppose the Glastons knew who killed Jake and planned to talk. If so, the killer had nothing to lose. He couldn’t be put to death twice.”
