by Linda Lovely
At two o’clock sharp, I entered the Spine Trail at the Mile 4 signpost. General Irvine scanned the trail in both directions to make certain we were alone. He’d stowed his church smile. “This is bad business, Marley. Guess you figured I didn’t come to Spirit Lake to pay my respects. According to the CDC, a dozen seasonal workers have dropped dead on farms just south of here. They all caught colds, then died within twenty-four hours. Their symptoms suggest they’re victims of a bioterrorism cocktail.”
“Oh, my God. Why would a terrorist target farm workers? It makes no sense.”
“Probably a field test. They wanted to see how quickly the cocktail worked and if deaths would be limited to people with a targeted DNA sequence. All the victims are Hispanic. If they consider their little trial a success, they could decide to launch in earnest anytime. But we still don’t know who ‘they’ are, what population group they’re targeting, or where they’ll strike.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe your contact with the Olsen woman and her daughter will provide a lead.”
General Irvine grabbed my forearm and squeezed. “Marley, I recognize that quiver in your jaw. You’re upset. If the stakes weren’t so high, I wouldn’t involve you. But I’m hoping you can ask Julie a few questions without tipping her—or anyone else—off. I don’t think the girl’s involved, but if she is, we can’t afford for her to warn her buyers we’re on their tail. If Julie’s not involved, she may still give you some information that would point us in the right direction.”
***
Wanting to scrub my mind of the potential horror a terrorist could wreak, I ran flat out. Sweat coated me head-to-toe by the time I unlocked Aunt May’s condo. After a quick shower and a snack, I headed to the Maritime Museum.
No need to phone Ross before dropping by. He’d be up to his elbows in chores designed to reassure skittish boat owners that their vintage watercraft would be treated like royalty.
I turned into Arnolds Park, and nostalgia overwhelmed me. Despite inevitable changes, the amusement park remained comfortingly familiar. The grand dame held onto her majesty through her periodic facelifts.
How many hours had I spent riding the tilt-a-whirl and trying to ram and slam my sister and cousins before they could wedge my bumper car into a dark, embarrassing corner? May had chauffeured me to dozens of dances at the Roof Garden, including the night Gary Lewis and the Playboys rocked the place. Gary Lewis called me out of the audience to sing with them and kissed my cheek when the song ended. Would I be as thrilled today at winning the lottery?
Ross spotted me as I pulled May’s Buick into the lot and motioned me over. Ross and Nels Jacobs, a carpenter who volunteers at the museum, were engaged in an animated discussion.
“We need something dramatic.” My cousin’s hands danced as he drew imaginary entrances for the boat show. “I’d love to put a few boats on pedestals. But how in tarnation could we hoist them?”
Nels cocked his head to the side. “The road crew has a pretty big forklift.”
My cousin’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, yeah.”
Ross turned to me. “You remember Nels, right?”
I shook the carpenter’s leathered hand. “Don’t let me interrupt. If you’re busy, I’ll drive over to your house and chat with Eunice.”
“She’ll be here any minute.” Ross consulted his watch. “Nels and I are about to take a late lunch. He’s made me happy as a clam. Says he can build exactly what I want. Let’s get some pop and sit by the lake a spell. Too nice to be cooped up inside.”
We sauntered down to the boardwalk, and Ross bought a round of soft drinks while Nels staked out a table under a giant umbrella.
Last night’s passing storm had scrubbed the sky a crystal blue. A rainbow of spinnakers curved across the lake as sailboats played the zephyrs on West Okoboji.
Ross slid a large to-go glass in front of me. “Mom filled me in on your dawn romp. The Glaston murders are topic numero uno. When TV crews couldn’t get inside the Olsen estate, they used the Queen as a backdrop for live updates.”
I shrugged. “Surprised they didn’t opt for a waterfront stakeout. The lakeshore bordering the estate is public property.”
“Took ’em a while to manage logistics. The last Queen cruise ran into an armada anchored off the Olsen cove—mostly numbnuts who don’t know how to drive a boat. Gus over at Parks Marina is flat out of rental boats. Asked if I’d rent my Hafer. Said media types were offering hundreds for any boat.”
Nels jumped in. “Guess that safe room didn’t do them folks any good.”
My cousin and I shared a look. Huh?
Nels picked up on our bafflement. “Dad helped build it. Made his living framing houses in Sioux City. They used his South Dakota construction crew to build the safe room. Didn’t want locals who might blab.” He stopped and grinned. “Guess Old Jake should have asked if the workers had relatives in these parts.”
“What are you blatherskiting about?” Ross asked. “What safe room?”
“In the Glaston house. A year after Jake bought that property someone tried to kidnap his grandson. So he retrofitted his daughter’s house with a hidey-hole. Wanted his kin to have an ace up their sleeves if some no-goodnik got past the private cops. Carted everything in from out of town so no one ’round Spirit Lake would know. ’Course back then Jake had cause to keep things hush-hush. Locals were real riled at Jolbiogen for shafting that local lab.”
Ross tugged on his moustache. “I’m impressed. Jake was mighty good at keeping secrets. I never heard any gossip about the construction. In our little burg, that’s saying something.”
Was Sheriff Delaney equally clueless? I wondered if my newfound FBI friend or General Irvine would consider this a valuable inside scoop. Surely some member of the Olsen clan had already disclosed the hideaway’s existence.
I frowned. Jake’s penchant for secrecy made his choice of a local attorney seem out of character. “If Jake was uptight about locals knowing his business, I wonder why he asked Duncan James to prepare his will?”
“That was his wife’s idea,” Ross answered. “Jake was set to use some hotshot estate planner in Des Moines when Darlene championed Duncan. Once Jake thought it over, he agreed.”
“That’s funny,”—actually I didn’t find it at all amusing—“I had the impression Duncan was Jake’s friend not Darlene’s.”
“So?” Ross shrugged. “Jake needed someone versed in Iowa probate law. Darlene had to know Duncan was Dickinson County’s only estate planner. No need to be buddy-buddy with the guy to suggest he’d be more convenient.”
Eunice squeezed my shoulder, then leaned down and kissed Ross’s cheek. “Hi, guys. Did I hear Duncan’s name? Am I missing out on juicy gossip?”
My cousin gave his wife a mock salute. “The admiral has arrived. I’m officially outranked.”
Eunice slipped into the chair beside me. “Have fun with Duncan after we parted?”
“He’s got a great sense of humor.” I didn’t mention his lip-lock skills. “We’re having dinner tonight.”
“Oh boy, romance is in the air.” Eunice grinned. “Captain Ross always wanted to officiate at a wedding aboard the Queen. ’Course you’ve got to give him time to get certified.”
I laughed. “He’s certifiable, all right.”
My cousin ignored me. “Reverend Ross—it has a certain ring to it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop already. I have enough fits with May milking me for details.”
“Okay, you’re off the hook.” Ross stood. “We have displays to build. Eunice, didn’t you want Marley’s opinion on an exhibit?”
The exhibit turned out to be a collection of old-fashioned beach toys. A donor had offered the museum an antique sand shovel painted with a likeness of the original Queen and a century-old tin pail embossed to give a busty mermaid perky size-D cups. Though Eunice asked my advice on placing the acquisitions, it was only a polite gesture. She had an artist’s eye. I have trouble matching
my socks.
While fussing with the display, Eunice made a few lame attempts to ferret out my level of interest in the eligible attorney before we settled into our usual routine, swapping stories about May’s rambunctiousness.
Crossing my fingers for luck, I voiced my hope I’d be equally ornery at age eighty.
I left a message on Darlene’s cell. She returned my call in a flash.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I feel like a prisoner. When I go to the toilet, a deputy leans on the doorjamb. He can report every fart if he’s so inclined. I’ve a notion to cook beans. I’m in my bath with the exhaust fan cranked to warp speed for a little privacy. I want the deputies for Julie’s sake, but having minders gives me indigestion.”
“Has Hamilton pestered you again?”
“Nope. Duncan, bless him, waylaid the dipwad and fibbed that I’d taken to bed due to exhaustion. He stressed that as far as Olsen security was concerned, I was his new boss. That pissed Hamilton off, but what could the blowhard say?”
“Hooray for Duncan.” I wanted to kiss him. “You need to start shopping for a new security service and nudge Jolbiogen’s president to do the same. The Thrasos track record doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
I wished I could mention the firm’s failure to safeguard military secrets on Jolbiogen’s turf.
She sighed. “I’d love to fire Hamilton. But that would just escalate the conflict with my stepson, Kyle. He’d scream that I was playing fast and loose with his family’s safety—especially after his sister’s murder.”
“Any other new developments?” I asked.
Darlene said she’d entertained plenty of visitors, including FBI agents and a toxicology team from Atlanta’s Center for Disease Control. “The sheriff admitted he’s out of his league,” she said. “It looks as if the FBI will claim jurisdiction. Something about a serial killer.”
Son-of-a-Glock, the FBI had stepped out of the shadows even though the military had yet to stand up and be counted. Too bad the jurisdictional shift didn’t promise to make Darlene’s life easier.
“The CDC took samples of residue on Gina’s respirator,” she continued, “and swept the estate looking for other contaminants.”
“So they think Gina was poisoned when she used her respirator?”
“It sounded like it. I overheard one guy describe a toxin that’s lethal in almost any form—inhaled, swallowed or absorbed through the skin. Victims die within a few hours of exposure. Based on that tidbit, Julie suspects the murderer used a mushroom toxin. She keeps one in her lab.”
Uh-oh. Another finger pointed in the young researcher’s direction.
“Julie tags the stuff—think she called it phalloidin—with a red or green fluorescent molecule. She says if authorities test samples from Gina’s liver under a special light, they’ll know for sure if someone used a tagged phalloidin. The cells would glow.”
“How long will the tests take?”
A sigh punctuated Darlene’s silence. “I warned Julie to keep her mouth shut. I can’t shake this heebie-jeebie feeling someone’s trying to pin these murders on us. Why help them? What if tests prove the stuff came from Julie’s lab?”
I frowned. Darlene wasn’t thinking straight. “If your daughter suggests the tests, it won’t look like she’s trying to hide a connection to her lab. Sooner or later, the authorities will discover Julie uses the stuff—if, indeed, that’s what killed the woman.”
A chill raced up my spine. Had we blabbed too much? Could Hamilton be eavesdropping on Darlene’s calls? He had the technology and zero ethics. Not wanting to hand the snake more ammunition, I didn’t mention the safe room. I wouldn’t put it past Hamilton to plant evidence if he gained access before the FBI.
“Can you come over for supper?” Darlene asked.
“Sorry, no. I already made other plans.”
I didn’t mention Duncan, even though my reticence mystified me. Years ago Darlene and I had shared intimate details about our love lives. Why did I sense my budding relationship with her attorney might prove sensitive?
Leaving the museum, I turned May’s Buick toward Big Spirit, a vast, shallow lake capable of summoning up tsunami-sized waves whenever stiff winds blew north to south. Just beyond the Gingham Inn Restaurant, I made a mental note to take the right fork next time I ventured north. I wanted to see how many baby fish now swam in the Spirit Lake Fish Hatchery’s raceway incubators.
Ross and I visited the hatchery during the spring spawning season. In the musky, cave-like sanctuary we’d watched guys dressed in slickers milk sperm and strip eggs from strapping specimens. Outside we strolled beside the spillway connecting Big Spirit and East Okoboji. Fattened by Minnesota snowmelt, a torrent of water rushed full force through the narrows.
Walleye—a fish that thinks like a salmon but lacks its death wish—choked the passageway. They numbered in the hundreds, twenty-to fifty-pounders valiantly attempting to leap up the cascade. Never again would I doubt Okoboji fish stories.
The wistful faces of anglers, banned from fishing in the vicinity, amused us. Had any of those spectators slipped back in the dead of night to gaff a trophy fish? Was there a parallel with Jake’s murder? Perhaps the killer had seen the billionaire and the Glastons as fat fish flashing their silver and wriggling out of reach? Maybe money, not bioterrorism, was the motive.
Beyond Spirit Resort’s stone entry pillars, few touchstones hinted at the property’s one-time glamour. Pilings that once supported a dance pavilion cantilevered over the water, and cracked concrete stairs led to a shallow beach. I spotted no other remnants.
Even in Darlene’s and my day, Spirit Resort had begun its descent into seedy. Built in the 1800s, when castle-like resorts were the rage, the stuccoed walls, mullioned windows and clay roof tiles looked majestic. I’d seen Ross’s collection of photos.
Unfortunately, the fortress-like walls repelled most renovation efforts—from enlarging the size of guest rooms to introducing twentieth-century plumbing. Over time, the dark interior became an incubator for mold, and hallways oozed a musty perfume.
While several developers floated ambitious schemes to transform the sizeable acreage, none materialized. The buildings were razed and the state bought the grounds, even though its location off the beaten tourist path hindered its popularity.
Fine by me. I had Spirit Resort all to myself.
I made a beeline for the beach. As cooks, we prepped food for all three meals in the morning, which freed our afternoons to soak up sun and splash in the lake. I discarded my tennis shoes and waded into the cool water. Smooth, rounded pebbles massaged my soles. Eyes closed, I could almost hear the squeals of delighted kids splashing in the cove.
To plump my summer earnings, I taught swimming. The venture afforded mad money I spent guilt-free on junk food, Arnolds Park rides, putt-putt golf, and other teen lures—if we weren’t lucky enough to have dates pick up the tab. Yes, we were feminist hypocrites. What can I say? My consciousness hadn’t been fully raised.
An unpleasant memory niggled. Darlene and I doubledated with two Ivy Leaguers. During the matinee portion of our outing, the college boys were funny. After dark, they guzzled beer like soda pop. My date suggested a stroll. Intending to move from first-base to home plate, he pinned me against a tree. I didn’t fret. I’d handled drunks before.
Then I heard the scream. Darlene.
I pulled free. A keening sound followed a hiss like air escaping a punctured tire. I spotted Darlene. Her chest heaved. Blood ran from her nose. Her college date writhed on the ground, knees to chest.
She grabbed my hand. “We’re out of here.”
We plunged through a thin strip of woods. Angry shouts trailed us. We stumbled onto the lake road and hitched a ride with an elderly couple.
Back in our dorm, Darlene rattled out a story in machinegun bursts of rage.
“The son-of-a-bitch tried to rape me. Called me a cock tease. Said I’d signaled all night that I’d put out.
I told him he had his signals crossed. When he punched me, I slapped him. He hit me—harder. So I rammed my knee in his nuts, tried to shove ’em up through his nostrils. Wish I’d killed the bastard.”
Her dagger-like stare dared me to disagree. “I’m not kidding. Any man who hurts a woman like that deserves to die.”
I discounted her outburst as hyperbole. Did my friend have the flinty core it took to kill? What could make her feel someone deserved to die? A threat to her daughter?
I waded toward shore. A loud pop. A geyser erupted to my right. Another pop. Water exploded on my left. Holy crap, someone was shooting at me.
I glanced toward the embankment, saw sun glinting on metal. A rifle. A third pop. Water rose two feet in front of me.
Damn, damn, damn.
I dove. Held my breath. My kneecaps scraped sand. Too shallow.
My belly flop gained me nada. I now resembled a half-drowned ostrich, instead of a sitting duck. Still a juicy target. I staggered to my feet, slogged forward. A chunk of concrete, left behind when the cantilevered pavilion collapsed, promised shelter.
I splashed into place, hunkered down. A scan of the ridge revealed no sign of a shooter. A bird twittered. His song and my heavy breathing the only sounds.
Was the gunman waiting for me to abandon cover?
My teeth chattered. Long minutes crawled by. Should I shiver in the water until dark? Then, what? Would nightfall make things better—or worse?
A deep, calming breath. Okay, think. If the shooter meant to kill me, he was one piss-poor assassin. Maybe the potshots were meant to scare not kill. Keep a good thought.
I scrabbled up the bluff. Barefoot. Another pair of shoes sacrificed. Dirt attached to my sopping clothes like iron to a magnet. Mud’s good camouflage, right?
My head popped above the edge of the embankment. A tan car idled alongside mine. It shot forward, flinging gravel, hell-bent for the main road. Mud conveniently cloaked the license plate. I plopped on the grass.
Now what? I could get to a phone, call Sheriff Delaney. And tell him what?
The lake swallowed the bullets. Recovery unlikely. And why would Delaney bother searching? The only thing hurt was my dignity. He had bigger problems. Plus I was a suspect. I scuffled along the bank area, searching yards in every direction from the shooter’s perch. No shell casings. Nothing. Footprints erased by a piece of brush.
