by Linda Lovely
I gulped cool air. The nausea receded. Darlene and Julie had to be reeling from the tsunami of death and tragedy.
I straightened and turned to go back inside when Hamilton’s angry voice stopped me. Who was the lucky recipient of his latest tirade?
“You happy now, Weaver?”
Though I couldn’t see him, Hamilton’s voice crackled with fury. He was right around the corner.
“You had enough evidence to arraign Julie, if not Darlene,” he continued. “I am a lawyer, I know. Any judge would’ve said ‘yes’ to an FBI request. But, no, you stalled, and now we have another corpse. What’s your plan? Wait for every innocent connected to this case to have a toe tag so you can arrest whoever’s alive? I’ll tell you right now who’ll be left breathing—that conniving harlot and her daughter.”
Weaver barked back. “What is it with you, Hamilton? What makes you hell-bent to stick your nose in my case?”
“Why waste my breath? Thank heavens your boss has a brain. I’m confident new evidence will link Julie or Darlene to this latest murder. I hope you’re competent enough to find it.” Hamilton bulled around the side of the mortuary and almost knocked me flat. “Dammit, it’s you. Still trying to run interference for your murdering friend?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Weaver joined me at the porch railing. We watched the man march off.
“Gets under your skin, doesn’t he?” I asked. “Like a chigger. Wish there was a salt and Campho-Phenique cure for that pest.”
The FBI agent massaged her neck, slowly rolled her head to undo the kinks. The murders were getting to her, too. “This gets stranger and stranger. If you overheard Hamilton’s yell-a-thon, you know Olivia’s probably dead by now. Looks like she was poisoned with the same stuff used on Gina Glaston’s respirator.
“It’s bizarre. Olivia had sweaty feet—we’re talking buckets—and sprinkled foot powder in her shoes every day. Someone substituted phalloidin for her regular talc. It was absorbed into her system through her soles. Olivia started feeling woozy about the time the family left for the visitation. She told them to go ahead. An hour later, one of my men checked on her. When she didn’t answer the doorbell, he broke in, found her unconscious—all but dead. Her pulse was thready and erratic when the ambulance whisked her away.”
The news floored me. “Why kill Olivia? Could somebody have meant to kill Kyle and screwed up the attempt? A bad guess about who used the foot powder.”
“Not a chance. Olivia kept the powder in her private dressing area.”
“But why Olivia? I’d bet my Army pension she was no conspirator. It may be impolite to speak ill of the dead, but the woman was a nitwit. She wouldn’t have known a military secret from a raspberry douche. No way she’d have enough gumption to kill someone.”
“Hell, I don’t know.” Weaver gripped the railing tighter. Her gaze followed Hamilton’s car as it shot out of the parking lot, spitting gravel at an elderly couple trundling down the sidewalk. “Maybe Olivia heard or saw something she wasn’t supposed to. I plan to re-look at anyone who’s come near the Olsen estate. Thrasos kept a visitor’s log—at least for front-gate arrivals.”
I didn’t comment. Dripping water—ping, ping, ping—filled the silence. Finally the agent asked me if Ross had agreed to join in her bait-the-murderer skit.
“I haven’t asked yet. No time alone. I don’t want Aunt May to find out her condo’s bugged or that we’re laying a trap for a serial killer. She’d freak. I’ll pull Ross aside today. We’ll schedule the play for morning.”
Weaver’s eyes bored into mine. “Be careful. The Olsen family seems cursed. I’m sure this massacre’s tied to Jolbiogen, but the killer’s shown no scruples about slaughtering bystanders. My guess is that Olivia Olsen and Gina Glaston are dead because they stumbled across something. Not to sound melodramatic, but you may have come across the same information and don’t even realize it. Be extra cautious.”
“Hey, I’ll let my feet sweat, and I have no plans to powder my underarms for the duration.” My attempt at a joke earned no smile.
The FBI agent turned toward the mortuary’s front door. “I’m not sure what to do with the Olsen heirs—those left among the living. I don’t want anyone to return to billionaire’s cove tonight. For all I know, our killer’s planted more biological booby traps. But finding two safe houses on a moment’s notice won’t be easy. Most cottages are rented for the season, and motel rooms are too public and hard to secure. And I plan to make damn sure our Hatfields and McCoys aren’t within ten miles of each other. This killing spree is going to stop.”
Weaver patted my shoulder before she walked away. Now that made me worry.
EIGHTEEN
Back at my family circle, Duncan held everyone’s attention. “Sheriff Delaney says Olivia was poisoned. She isn’t expected to pull through.”
Eunice’s hand flew up to her mouth. “Will this nightmare ever end?”
“Darlene’s beside herself, worrying about Julie,” Duncan continued. “I invited them to stay with me tonight. They shouldn’t go back to their house.”
Time to interrupt. “Agent Weaver agrees. She’s trying to line up some lodging that will keep Kyle and Eric as far as possible from Darlene and Julie. She’s looking for anonymous safe houses. Your condo doesn’t quite fit the bill.”
“I have an idea.” May motioned us into a tighter football-style huddle. “An out-of-town owner just asked me to put his house on the market. It’s secluded, way up on Big Spirit—no next-door neighbors—and it’s vacant. Five bedrooms, fully furnished. No one knows it’s available but me. I can tell your FBI friend where to look for the spare key.”
I nodded agreement. “Sounds perfect. I’ll bet Weaver will jump at the offer.”
“Darlene’s really frightened,” Duncan added. “Given that many bedrooms, I’ll offer to keep them company. Marley, how about joining us for dinner? Make it seem more normal.”
“If you say yes, Marley Elizabeth Clark, you’re a lunatic or suicidal,” Aunt May erupted. She didn’t bother to lower her voice to the funeral parlor’s muted conversational level. Several heads swiveled our way.
“I’m counting four people dead or dying,” my aunt hissed in a quieter voice. “Now, I’m all for helping these folks hide where a killer’s less likely to find them, but why tempt fate? This killer strikes with impunity, day or night. All that razzmatazz security hasn’t been worth a tinker’s damn. For all we know, the killer’s an FBI agent.”
I tried not to smile at May’s ire. Her flare-up would burn itself out once she saw her outburst wasn’t yielding results.
She turned on Duncan. “I’m disappointed in you, too. Thought you had better sense!”
Duncan didn’t say a peep. Good judgment.
“What’s the sheriff’s role?” I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“The FBI’s asked him to assist with logistics and community PR,” Duncan answered.
I nodded. Smart move.
“Ross, can I borrow your cell phone?” I asked.
My cousin unclipped it. I walked to a deserted corner. Weaver answered on the first ring.
“What is it? I haven’t made it ten blocks.” Her tone sounded flat, weary.
I described May’s new listing and added that Duncan and I might join them for dinner and possibly the night, if she approved.
“The house is a big help. I don’t see a problem with you or Duncan visiting. Give me the address. I’ll arrange security. If you’re picking up pizza, save some for me. It’s been eighteen hours since I had a bite.”
I reported back to my family conclave. “Agent Weaver thanks you for the house, May. She’s doubling the number of FBI agents on the Olsen security detail, and she plans to personally spend the night holding hands with Darlene and Julie.”
I took a deep breath. “Darlene needs her friends more than ever. I’ll spend the night, too. It’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” May threw up her
hands. “From what I can tell, FBI agents are about as helpful as vampires. They never die, but folks around them have the life expectancy of a fruit fly. If you have so much faith in the FBI, you’re not needed.”
“Strictly moral support. You’d do the same for a friend.”
Concern for Darlene’s fragile mental state factored into my decision. And so did Agent Weaver’s throwaway comment about my personal safety. I didn’t intend to bring harm to May’s doorstep. Better to board with Darlene tonight. Tomorrow I’d decide if I should move out of May’s house—which would prompt my aunt to throw one doozy of a fit.
I walked Ross off for a private word about Weaver’s scheme to trap the killer. Since the plan didn’t endanger his mom, he readily agreed to his part in the subterfuge.
When Ross left to retrieve the car, Duncan and I headed to Sam Larsson’s private office to tell our beleaguered friends about their new digs.
I smiled at Darlene. “I told Weaver we’d pick up pizza, but I have a better idea. We’ll cook our own, like old times. Nothing like the smell of pizza baking to forget your cares for a spell.
Darlene glanced over at her daughter. “Thank God. Only one more night to get through. Tomorrow I’m putting Julie on a plane. I want her out of here until they catch the murderer. I tried to get her to leave tonight. She refused. Said the FBI might not let her go. I say bullshit. She doesn’t need their permission to take off.”
“Are you kidding?” Julie piped up. She’d caught the tail end of her mother’s rant. “Before they found Glaston’s journal, the Feds were a nanosecond away from arresting me. While his scribbling makes it clear I didn’t plan the Jolbiogen theft, I’m still a prime suspect. I had motive, means and opportunity for the Glaston murders.”
Julie snaked an arm around Darlene’s waist. “Mom, I won’t go anywhere without you.”
A brainstorm struck. Better late than never. “Why don’t both of you stay at my place in South Carolina? I’ll be here another week. You’d have my house to yourself. It’s on a private island so there’s a smidgeon of built-in security, and we could arrange more. Let’s talk about it tonight.”
Duncan and I walked out of Sam’s office together. “Hold on, a minute.” I scooted over to Jake’s tribute and palmed the photo Nancy added. Maybe the faded black-and-white print had a story to tell.
As we reached the porch, Ross tooted his car horn. May and Eunice sat buckled into their seats.
Duncan kissed my cheek. “See you in a bit.”
“Sounds good,” I answered.
We both had assignments. I’d change clothes and pack all my toys—stun gun, pepper spray, gas mask, night goggles. Duncan would purchase the list of groceries I’d prepared on the fly, then swing by to pick me up.
Ross met my gaze in the rearview mirror as I slid into the Chevy Blazer’s backseat. “That pizza idea doesn’t sound half bad, Mom. What’s say we order one, too? The three of us can watch a movie at your house. There’s a Cary Grant tribute tonight on AMC.”
God bless Ross. When May worked herself into a tizzy, she liked her family gathered round. With Ross and Eunice keeping her company tonight, she’d be less inclined to fret.
While I packed, my cousin shifted the conversation from murder to his mom’s eightieth bash and his fast-approaching antique boat show.
Duncan knocked and announced himself through the closed door. I crossed the room to kiss May goodbye.
“You call me,” she ordered. “Ten o’clock sharp. I’d like to know you’re still breathing before I head to bed.”
“I will, May, Scout’s honor. I’ll be back here by eight in the morning. Count on it.”
May doffed her glasses, pulled a hanky from her purse and started polishing. “You know I still talk with your mom, just like I do with Uncle John. So don’t you go getting yourself killed, kid. Sis would never, ever forgive me.”
I hugged May once more and whispered. “Not to worry. I’m too ornery.”
***
The garage door of May’s “for-sale” house sat open, just like Weaver promised. Duncan pulled the car in. We walked up three stairs to the landing of the out-of-sight mudroom entry. He hit a switch and the garage door lowered.
Duncan pulled me to him. His arms tightened. My head nestled against his chest.
“Since it’s group activity night, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.” Duncan’s warm lips seemed mighty insistent, and who was I to argue? If that man’s kisses didn’t wriggle a girl’s toes, her shoes were too tight.
“Maybe we can stop at your place for breakfast?” I attempted to mimic Cousin Ross’s exaggerated eyebrow waggle.
Duncan grinned. “Sounds perfect. I stocked up on Wheaties—good for stamina.”
An FBI agent flung the mudroom door open, gun in hand. We leapt apart. So much for canoodling.
With a curt apology, the agent patted us down and pawed through our belongings. I wasn’t sure he knew what to look for—fake foot powder? Meticulously he inspected every ration in Duncan’s grocery bags. In addition to fixings for pizzas, the sacks held all essentials of the slumber-party food pyramid—namely potato chips, French onion dip, cashews, chocolate chip cookies and ice cream.
My defensive weapons—pepper spray et al—were the man’s most provocative find. He extracted the contraband from my gym bag before returning it. He also confiscated Duncan’s cell phone.
“I’ll hold onto these till Agent Weaver gets here and gives an okay,” he said. “I expect her within the hour. I was told anyone who arrives stays. You will not be allowed to leave without an FBI escort, and any phone conversations will be monitored.”
Okay, prisoner status? Weaver took her protection responsibilities seriously.
As soon as we were cleared, Darlene rushed to hug me. “I’m so glad to see you.”
Julie took the grocery bags from Duncan and set them on the counter.
Darlene motioned toward a hallway. “You two can put your stuff in the first bedroom on the left. I assume you want to share.”
Heat crept up my neck. I hoped no one construed my goodwill gesture to spend the night as respectable cover for a roll in the hay. Duncan tossed our overnight bags on the king bed, while I dumped my purse on a chest of drawers.
He caught my arm and spun me for another kiss. “That agent and his gun kept me from finishing.” His marauding hands felt good, his probing tongue even better.
We came up for air. “I think they expect us to return,” I whispered.
As we walked toward the kitchen, I considered the rustic cottage’s layout. A long, scarred pine table filled a dining alcove. Scratches on the galley kitchen’s cabinets revealed multiple layers of paint. The vintage stove and refrigerator dated from the sixties. Quite a come down from the Olsen’s stainless steel Mecca.
Yet the house radiated charm. The picture window framed a pretty beach scene, and French doors led to a weathered screened porch with comfortable wicker furniture.
By rote, we headed toward the long pine table. Since Friday, I’d spent more time sitting at kitchen tables with Darlene than visiting with my aunt. Was it only Tuesday night? The days and nights blurred.
“Weaver called,” Darlene said. “Olivia passed away. Now there’s one more Olsen house roped off as a crime scene. I hope she has better news for us at dinner—like a lead on the killer. She said to expect her by seven.”
Hunger prodded us to start our pizza making. As we rolled dough, we argued over which ingredients would grace the entire surface of our pies and which should be confined to personalized taste zones. Onions, mushrooms and green peppers proved common denominators. Pepperoni, anchovies and hot peppers made the restricted substance list.
As we worked, Darlene and I bumped behinds in what Mom would have called a “one-butt kitchen.” Duncan announced the action as if it were a hockey game. Laughter and the aroma of baking pizza made the evening seem deceptively normal. Our FBI minders stayed out of sight.
Weaver arrived about
ten minutes before the pizzas were due out of the oven. Darlene wasted no time asking permission for her and Julie to leave town. One of our babysitters had allowed Darlene to call one of Jake’s long-time friends, who’d agreed to put a private jet at her disposal. It would arrive at the local airfield at six the next morning. Barring any objections from the FBI, the plane would touch down at the Beaufort County Airport by nine o’clock, just in time for a late breakfast at my island home. Though islanders nicknamed our local airfield Frogmore International, my pilot friends told me it was a decent place to land.
After Weaver blessed the escape plan, she accompanied me to the bedroom and monitored my calls to smooth the way. The head of island security agreed to hire some off-duty folks to provide added protection for my houseguests. My neighbor Janie, who has a spare key, volunteered to meet Darlene and Julie’s plane and ferry them to the island.
By the time the oven bell dinged, Darlene and Julie’s departure plans were set.
Darlene hugged me, tears in her eyes. “What a relief. I don’t know how to thank you.”
I snuck a glance at Weaver. She appeared happy, too. Two potential victims—or possible killers—would soon be subtracted from the confusing Spirit Lake arithmetic. Would the new math help solve the murder equation?
With the Olsens in hiding, there were no butlers, maids or other functionaries. No one seemed to mind or even notice. We helped ourselves to plates, paper towels and soda pop.
“I seldom say grace,” Darlene said, “but I need to offer a little prayer tonight. Let’s hold hands.”
Those of us already grabbing for slices withdrew our greedy mitts. Duncan, seated on my left, squeezed my hand. On my right, Weaver accepted my hand with the same enthusiasm she might have shown a request to fondle a rattlesnake. Handholding wasn’t one of her preferred customs.
“Thank you Lord,” Darlene began, “for providing good friends to see us through bad times. Please let no more evil befall this family or the friends who join us tonight. Amen.”
