by Linda Lovely
May raised her coffee cup, took a sip. “Bob asked, I considered. I think he popped the question because he felt obligated. I doubt he wanted to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. We liked our arrangement. I could spend time alone whenever I pleased, but I was never lonely. With my own bank account, I could splurge on anything—antiques, my boys, grandkids—without fretting I’d be chastised for going overboard. Plus, if I got a hankering to visit my far-flung chicks, I could hop on a plane. Bob had children, too, a tight-knit family. Neither of us needed a new spouse. We needed a friend—a special friend of the opposite sex.”
Was that what I wanted from a relationship? No children complicated my equation. Like May, I treasured my independence and relished occasional solitude.
A doorbell interrupted my mental meandering.
“Morning,” I greeted Weaver before she could push the bell a second time.
“Hello, Marley.” She strode across the room to greet May. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Carr. Sorry your family’s been dragged into the Olsen troubles. I’m sure you’ve been worried about Marley. I’m pleased to report we should have this business wrapped up soon. Would you two like to join me for breakfast?”
Clearly Weaver played to hidden microphones. She knew May’s schedule.
“Wish I could,” May replied. “You two go ahead. I have to leave for my office shortly and won’t be back till after two. Marley, that means you won’t have wheels. You’ll have to call Eunice or Ross to play taxi driver if you need to go somewhere.”
“Not a problem, May. Have a great day.”
With a round of waves, we parted.
Weaver speed-walked toward her government-issued sedan. I stayed on her heels. She shot out of the parking lot. I assumed we were headed for what had become “our spot”—the Kettleson Hogs Back Wildlife Refuge.
The FBI agent swiveled her head my way. “Wait till we get there.”
The cleared straightaway leading to the refuge made it impossible for a tail to go unnoticed. Our empty rearview mirror bolstered Weaver’s confidence we were alone. The rendezvous spot’s only inhabitants were perhaps a hundred squawking trumpeter swans.
She climbed out of the car. I joined her. “Jolbiogen ran the DNA tests,” she began without preamble. “Your hunch was right, we found a genetic shocker. Kyle Olsen and Quentin Hamilton are half brothers, and Jake Olsen didn’t come up as daddy for either. How on earth did you know?”
“What! I didn’t. Kyle and Quentin Hamilton are brothers? You’re kidding. There’s no resemblance beyond some nasty personality traits. I knew Jake wasn’t Kyle’s biological father. I thought there was a remote possibility Hamilton had an illegitimate kid working at Jolbiogen. Who do you think Glaston blackmailed?”
“My bet’s on Kyle. He had the most to lose,” Weaver replied. “Maybe Kyle enlisted his half-brother’s help. They were friendly even before the DNA test. I assume Ansley Hamilton was our indiscriminate sperm donor. The notion that Kyle and Quentin are both bastards with the same phantom father is too big a stretch.”
I shook my head, mystified. “I don’t see this as fodder for blackmail. What’s the big deal? The sons aren’t at fault. Neither was Jake. Ansley Hamilton’s the jerk, and he’s dead. Who cares? Ancient history not even worthy of a reality show.”
“I’ll bet Kyle and Hamilton care—maybe enough to kill over it,” Weaver countered. “We’re talking money and prestige. Maybe Kyle figured Jake would disown a son who was the issue of a friend’s traitorous fling. Hamilton wouldn’t want his precious family name besmirched either. He revels in his blue-blood genealogy and lofty perch among Washington’s elite.”
I shoved my hands in my pocket. “Too bad Hamilton’s vulnerability to blackmail seems iffy. He’s a better candidate for criminal mastermind. He knows how to stage crimes, manufacture evidence and hire black-op types. Since Thrasos protects big shots from rock stars to foreign royalty, he can access Interpol and other intelligence on the world’s top assassins.”
It was hard for me to imagine Kyle pulling off the complicated murders alone. “The sad part is Jake knew from the get-go that Kyle was his ‘adopted’ son. He kept it secret because he wanted to protect their relationship. Jake loved him.”
The FBI agent jingled the keys in her pocket. “Sad but irrelevant. What Kyle believed is all that matters. He probably figured the DNA report would devastate his old man.”
“I guess,” I admitted reluctantly.
Weaver straightened from her slouch. “How about this?” Her choppy hand gestures communicated excitement. “Let’s say Jake discovered Glaston was the thief and gave his son-in-law a small window to turn himself in. Instead Glaston blackmailed Kyle into helping him kill Jake. Then, once he had one murder under his belt, Kyle decided murder wasn’t all that difficult and whacked Glaston.”
I wasn’t buying. “Glaston I can see. But would Kyle murder his own sister and wife in cold blood?”
“Hey, he’d just received a news flash that Gina Glaston wasn’t even a half-sister. The drunk would take millions out of his pocket if she lived longer than Jake. Remember the terms of the will? And Kyle was boinking this Vivian woman, a classic reason to off the missus.
“Or maybe Olivia listened in on the wrong conversation. We do know that Kyle didn’t waste any time shacking up with Vivian Riley, his long-time lover.”
“Any evidence to support your theories?”
“Not a shred,” she admitted. “Just my gut. We’ll find evidence. Kyle isn’t as smart as he thinks. Hamilton either, if he’s in the mix.”
Now that we’d moved from speculation to evidence gathering, I asked why Weaver hadn’t tried to locate and capture May’s eavesdropper. “Even if it’s a hired hand, couldn’t you tie him to Kyle or Hamilton?”
“Our equipment tells us the receiver’s located inside a five-mile radius. Doesn’t narrow things down much. It could be in a rented house, a hotel room or a vacant unlocked cabin. Dozens of second homes sit empty, especially during the week.”
“What’s your next move?”
Weaver kicked at some gravel. “I’m disappointed your chat with Ross about new evidence didn’t panic our targets. We’ll pull the plug on this phase of the operation. This afternoon we’ll do a sweep and electronically block the eavesdropper who’s tuning into your aunt’s condo.”
My relief wasn’t complete. “I’d feel better if you had concrete proof Kyle’s your killer.”
“Me, too. Guess I’d better get to work and make that happen. I’ll stay in Spirit Lake one more day. If we don’t get a break here, I’ll head to Omaha and follow other leads. I’ll contact you when I have something new to share.”
“I hope that’s soon. Darlene must be going crazy, wondering if and when she and Julie can reclaim their lives.”
***
I checked our refrigerator bulletin board and, sure enough, found a scribbled note from May: “Be home three p.m. latest. Call 555-1875 if you need me.”
Poised in front of the refrigerator, I opened the freezer and helped myself to a Dairy Queen Dilly Bar, my favorite summer breakfast.
Having decided to run ten miles to atone for recent caloric transgressions, I snagged a tourist map from May’s hoard of real estate giveaways and calculated a Spine Trail route that would deposit me close to Ross and Eunice’s doorstep. They’d given me a key so I could shower and change clothes at my alternate vacation base.
Hmm, wonder if Eunice might want to join me for a late lunch at Arnolds Park. Using May’s speed dialer, I punched the button labeled with my cousin’s name. Eunice picked up on the fourth ring. A yawn preceded her response.
“You know how I hate mornings, breakfast and cooking. One o’clock sounds perfect. You sure you want to run over here on the Spine Trail?”
“Yep, I need the exercise. I’ll change at your house.”
“Okay, I’ll let Ross know we’re coming. You know how he is on the first day of a show. The big parade isn’t till Saturda
y, but all the boats go on display at noon. He practically needs a towel to mop up his drool.”
The boat show offered a fun finish line for my run. My first post-Tipsy House visit to Arnolds Park would be in broad daylight. Good. On this sunny June day, there’d be no shadows to hide imaginary bogeymen.
My jog generated more than a few extra huffs and puffs, payback for a few days’ layoff. The exertion performed its usual mind-scrubbing magic, allowing me to think clearly about the merits of Weaver’s hypotheses.
I had trouble imagining a well-off executive—filthy rich by my yardstick—killing four people to protect an inheritance. Yet the half-brothers appeared to have inherited the same arrogance gene. Maybe Kyle considered himself too intelligent to be caught.
Were Kyle and Hamilton in cahoots? Hamilton’s company hired plenty of ex-CIA and FBI agents. Corporations called on Thrasos to salvage computer records deleted by embezzlers. If Hamilton wanted files to permanently disappear, he only needed to reverse the process.
An unholy alliance between the half-brothers made a certain sick sense. The pair had opportunity with a capital O.
Weaver’s problem. Like it or not, I was out of the fray. Truth was I liked it. I was ready to enjoy my relatives—and Duncan, lust willing—for the remainder of my “vacation.”
I rounded a corner and saw a man in the distance. He stood perfectly still. Not a runner. After a few more steps, recognition dawned. General Irvine.
“General.” My greeting came between pants. I’d been running flat out.
“We can walk and talk,” he said. “Looks like you’re ready for a cool down.”
I squinted at him in the bright sunlight. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Weaver told me. The bug was still operational when you made the lunch date with your cousin. I figured you had to run down this section of path, and I wanted to see you in private.”
“Have you identified the terrorists who bought from Glaston?”
“Yes, thank God. Knowing Glaston was the seller was a big help. The doctor flirted with right-wing groups for decades. I feared the buyers were Middle East terrorists targeting our troops with deadly diseases. Given Glaston’s profile, we started poking at different viper nests and got lucky. We traced a Glaston email to a Bo Quigley disciple. Bo’s a racist nutcase—a very charismatic one. Homeland Security’s been watching his group a couple of years.”
“Have you recovered the stolen materials or made any arrests?”
The general shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. Homeland Security arrested the man we believe is responsible for infecting those farm workers. They’re sweating him, and we’re getting close to having enough evidence for a raid. I’m contacting you because he had a scrap of paper with your name on it and your aunt’s address.”
My stomach dropped and the sweat on my arms turned to ice. “Do you think I’m a target? I’m not about to spend a minute more with May or my cousins if it puts them in danger.”
General Irvine seized my shoulders and held tight. “Don’t overreact. We’re watching May’s condo. My guess is Glaston’s co-conspirators enlisted the terrorists to monitor conversations in May’s condo. That’s why the guy had your name and May’s address. They’re not interested in you, just in tracking down any evidence Jake scared up.”
I wrapped my arms tight to my body to ward off a wave of chills.
“Weaver still thinks her trap will work? That they’ll come after her?”
“Yes. We just figured you ought to have the complete picture. It doesn’t look as if any of the villains are foreigners. They’re WASPs who’d blend in anywhere.”
My head reeled. “So what does this Bo character want with a targeted virus? And where’s his money coming from? Glaston’s journal indicated he was getting ten million for the theft.”
“Hispanics are Bo’s newest focus for hatred. The recent downturn in the economy helped his recruitment big time. He blames illegals for stealing jobs, grabbing freebies that bankrupt our government, and sabotaging the American way of life. Bo has a pile of money and he’s mad as a hatter.”
“That’s why the field test targeted seasonal farm workers?”
“If we’re right, yes. We think the grand plan was to ‘cleanse’ the American population by releasing a virus targeted to kill Hispanics in cities across the country.”
“My God. These people are crazy. Are they even human? Their plan would kill millions of innocent civilians, bona fide citizens as well as undocumented workers.”
Before we parted, the general promised he or Weaver would contact me if they made progress or any change suggested my family might be in danger. “My purpose wasn’t to frighten you,” he added. “I just believe forewarned is forearmed.”
Walking up the path to Ross and Eunice’s house, the silence felt ominous. Typically, Queenie and Empress—my cousin’s Shelties named for excursion boats—get so wound up they hurl themselves against the low picture window and yap with ecclesiastic fervor when anyone approaches. Tomblike silence, never.
My heart hammered. Sweet Jesus, the general had made me jumpy.
I tapped out a “Shave and a Haircut” jingle on the doorbell to alert Eunice. A Chevy Blazer parked out front indicated Eunice hadn’t motored away. Walking the dogs?
I strolled around back to claim an Adirondack chair and enjoy the view from the high bluff while my sweaty body cooled. Once I rounded the bend, I spied Eunice and her Shelties on the dock. Simultaneously, the dogs spotted me and brayed like lunatics as they raced up and down the boardwalk’s narrow confine. For once their racket was music to my ears.
“Be right down,” I bellowed. Since the dock was too far for shouted conversation, I trucked down the hillside’s sixty-one stone steps. Ross claimed there were sixty-one steps going down, two hundred and one coming back up.
Eunice held what looked like toddler life jackets.
“Expecting youngsters?” I asked.
“They’re for Queenie and Empress. The UPS man just brought them.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding.”
Eunice didn’t crack a smile. “You know Ross. He gets in the water and teases the dogs until they jump in. He can’t stand it if he doesn’t have playmates. But the girls are getting up there. One day they won’t be able to paddle to shore.”
I stifled my grin and helped Velcro Queenie into a stylish lifejacket decorated with racing stripes.
“Okay, Queenie, honey.” Eunice leaned over the dock to immerse Sheltie number one. “Let’s see how this works.”
The straggly-haired dog flipped and bobbed like a cork—upside down. Her wee feet pedaled with madcap frenzy above water. “Oh, no!” A swell threatened to carry the submerged dog away from Eunice’s outstretched arms.
Already soaked from my run, I jumped in to right the feisty mutt. Queenie rewarded my valor with a nip. Eunice heaped more praise on me than a Medal of Honor winner.
She cradled the writhing mop in her arms. “How’s my baby? Don’t you fret.”
“I’d say that lifejacket needs a little refining.” Eunice ignored the hint of amusement in my voice.
Before we left, I noticed a sleek cabin cruiser anchored perhaps two-hundred feet offshore. No one on deck. How odd.
***
Volunteer handyman Nels had outdone himself. The museum’s entry showcased three classic wooden boats on raised platforms. Two 1950s-era Chris-Crafts leaned like fancy struts at thirty-degree angles to the passageway’s sides, while a locally built 1932 Hafer claimed top billing above the archway. Ross had tipped the runabout on its side so everyone could covet its cherry red leather seats, gleaming mahogany decking, and shiny brass trim.
“Wow, impressive. Who did Ross coax into hoisting the Hafer up there?”
“Don Henderson,” Eunice replied. “He’s building a three-story timeshare on East Okoboji and Ross sweet-talked him into burning a little midnight oil with his crane.”
“Looks terrific.” I marveled as
always at what Ross accomplished through jocularity. Everyone who meets my cousin—men and women, young and old—are eager to find ways to bask in his hundred-watt smile. Ross is the exception to the rule that good guys finish last.
Unfortunately, his bonhomie seems nontransferable. This week alone, I could name a dozen folks who hadn’t taken a shine to me. For some reason, the Hamiltons, Kyles and Olivias of this world have little affinity for lippy broads.
As Eunice and I craned our necks to admire the boat show’s come-hither arch, one of the museum’s part-time workers greeted us. “I’m heading over to Godfather’s Pizza for a little breather. Wait’ll you see what Ross is up to now!” She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.
The tinkling sound of children’s laughter greeted us inside the museum proper. Ross had donned a tattered, old-time canvas dive suit, complete with a bell helmet that looked as if it were bolted—and rusted—in place.
It had to be one hundred degrees inside. Ross didn’t seem to notice. He’d recorded “Monster Mash” as background music and performed a lurching jig in the sand surrounding the Miss Lively—the 1928 recovered wreck displayed near the museum’s entrance. Ross’s merry blue eyes danced with more zeal than his clunky dive boots could manage.
Two-dozen six-to eight-year-olds wearing bright aqua Tshirts from a lakeside church camp giggled, wriggled and clapped to the music. They gasped en masse as Ross plucked two giant bones from the wreck’s interior.
Once he had them spellbound, the curator-showman doffed his heavy bubble helmet. “These aren’t human bones. They’re buffalo bones unearthed at the bottom of West Okoboji. This takes us back to a time when Indians called our region home. Believing Big Spirit Lake had evil demons waiting to destroy them if they ventured upon the waters, they never risked crossing any of our Okoboji lakes. No boats, canoes or rafts of Indian origin have ever been found—”
Having all but memorized the upcoming segment of Ross’s history lesson, we waved farewell and sauntered down the center aisle of the airplane-hangar sized museum. Ross had scootched around permanent exhibits to make room for the most valuable and fragile participants in this year’s Antique and Classic Boat Show. A red carpet runner and an overhead banner proclaimed we’d entered the realm of wooden boat royalty.
