Hair Raiser Page 4

  “You haven’t been around for a while,” she remarked.

  “I’ve been busy.” He stuffed the notebook back in a pocket. “But I’ve been meaning to ask you... Brianna wants to see Rent which is playing at Broward Center next weekend. I bought three tickets for Saturday night. I realize it’s short notice, but if you don’t have any plans yet, wanna go?” A hopeful expression sprang into his eyes as he regarded her expectantly.

  Marla’s lips parted. This was the first time he’d asked her to do anything involving his daughter. Mixed feelings assailed her. Did this mean he was getting more serious? She met his earnest gaze and smiled.

  “Okay, that sounds nice. I’ll look forward to it.” In the meantime, she’d see what Cynthia had to say. No doubt her cousin would be upset about Ben’s demise. Considering the Board of Directors’ animosity toward him, she wondered if anyone else among the group would be distressed by the news. This latest tragedy meant another jinx on their fund-raiser. She hoped Cynthia would provide reassurance that all was well event-wise.

  ****

  Marla enjoyed the drive past the main gate into her cousin’s oceanfront estate. Framed by a row of malaleuca trees with their papery bark, the packed-earth road wound through grounds as close to a jungle as you could get in this part of South Florida. She slowed the car so she could enjoy the tangle of thick-trunked mahogany trees, sable palms, seagrapes, and gumbo limbos. Among the spreading branches, she caught sight of a spider monkey chewing on a green rose apple. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the foliage. Cynthia claimed raccoons hid among the palmetto fronds and philodendrons, but Marla had never spotted any. Not that she’d been here that often. Her cousin usually invited their extended family over for Passover. This year, Cynthia and Bruce were doing Thanksgiving instead.

  She pulled around a circular driveway in front of the mansion and put the gear into park. After shutting off the ignition, she threw her keys into her purse and emerged into the bright sunshine. She was a little early, fifteen minutes to be exact, but she’d been chomping at the bit all morning to get there. Cynthia had told her to come at two o’clock, but it didn’t matter if she arrived sooner. Bruce, a real estate developer, was abroad on one of his business trips, so she and her cousin could enjoy a private chat.

  Her gaze swept approvingly over the Spanish architecture of the main house. The original buildings were constructed by Bruce’s great-grandfather who’d bought the land in the late 1800s. Successive descendants had put their own stamp on the property, so that now it was fully modernized. The red barrel-tile roof complemented the sand color of the house’s stucco exterior. Hot pink and tangerine bougainvillea climbed walls shaded by spreading ficus trees. Built around a central courtyard, the bottom floor had windows protected by green awnings. Ironwork on the second-story balcony balustrades came from New Orleans.

  When Cynthia opened the door to usher her inside, Marla felt she was entering a museum. Niches held whimsical wood sculptures of brightly painted animals, African masks and New Guinea artifacts. Standing on a brick path, she overlooked a central garden framing a stone fountain where clear water cascaded into a blue-tiled pool. Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich but not-so-famous.

  Marla turned to her cousin, remembering the distress in her tone at their last meeting. Was there trouble brewing in Paradise?

  She’d always felt Cynthia had everything: a wealthy husband, beautiful home, attractive children, and a leisurely life. Was it any wonder she felt so distant from this world? Not that she’d want it for herself. She’d had the chance with her marriage to Stan, a rich attorney. He’d wanted a woman he could control. Thankfully, Marla had regained her self-esteem in time to escape his domineering clutches. She needed to be useful, to make a difference. And being a hairstylist was a calling she’d found impossible to resist once she struck out on her own.

  Still, she wished she could look as svelte as Cynthia. Her cousin appeared sophisticated in an ankle-length flowered gown with her bleached blond hair teased atop her head. Feeling underdressed in comparison, Marla smoothed down the khaki pants she wore with a brick red embroidered long-sleeved top.

  “You’re looking cool and comfortable,” Cynthia said, a warm smile on her face. Crinkles appeared beside her cornflower blue eyes, the only lines in an otherwise wrinkle-free visage. For a woman in her forties, Cynthia maintained herself well. “I had a table set up on the back porch. We can talk there before my guest arrives.”

  “What guest?” Marla had thought she was the guest. Who else was her cousin expecting?

  “Oh, someone who wants to get to know you. He won’t be here until later, and we’ve got a lot to discuss. Did you hear about Ben? I’m so upset.”

  “Yes, I was shocked to hear the news.” She peered curiously at her cousin. “How does his absence affect your plans?” Trailing Cynthia, she entered the house beyond a bamboo-paneled bar and exited through a screen door to the back.

  “He’d arranged for a jazz band.” Cynthia led the way to a clothed table elegantly set for three with English bone china, sterling silver, and a Baccarat vase filled with peach-colored roses. “I have the information, so we should be okay.”

  Marla wasn’t particularly hungry, having eaten lunch an hour earlier, but she took a seat and crossed her legs while waiting for Cynthia to settle opposite her. “Do you have any theories about who might have killed him?” Thankfully, his demise wasn’t putting any crimp in their fund-raiser.

  Cynthia leaned forward, her gaze darkening. “I’m beginning to believe what you said about a jinx.”

  Marla’s interest peaked. “Huh?”

  “I got a call from Max at the Seafood Emporium. A number of his regular patrons became sick this week, presumably from eating tainted fish at his restaurant. The place has been closed down temporarily while an investigation ensues. Max pulled out of Taste of the World.”

  Marla felt the color drain from her face. “Why didn’t he call me? I just saw him last weekend.”

  Cynthia grimaced. “Probably was afraid of your reaction, so he called me instead. What’s the difference? He thinks someone in his kitchen staff substituted contaminated seafood.”

  Like someone on Pierre’s staff added an explosive substance to the rum bottle? Now it would be even more difficult to find chefs willing to participate in Taste of the World. Was a rumor going around that the event was cursed?

  She focused on her cousin’s troubled countenance. “If this is a conspiracy against Ocean Guard’s fund-raiser, who do you think is behind it?”

  “Not Ben, he’s dead.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them, and Cynthia fell silent, plastering a polite expression on her face.

  “Would you like tea served now, madam?” asked the butler, suited rather formally for a warm afternoon, Marla thought.

  Cynthia’s clear blue eyes locked on hers. “We’ll wait until my gentleman friend arrives. Marla wants to see the beach first. Right, darling?”

  Getting the hint, Marla sprang to her feet. “Oh, sure.”

  At last they’d be alone to exchange confidences. Eager to hear what Cynthia had to say, she tossed her purse onto the chair before joining her cousin along a gravel-strewn path leading toward the lagoon. Its murky surface made her shudder. Unprotected bodies of water were hazardous to small children. She’d become even more nervous when Thanksgiving approached. Her young niece and nephew needed close watching, and Cynthia’s house had a pool as well as the lagoon. But those worries weren’t warranted right now.

  A spicy scent tickled her nostrils as she descended ancient steps hewn from coral and headed for the plank bridge ahead. Lilies floated on the water, disturbed by darting schools of fish. On the opposite bank, acres of forest stretched east to the shoreline. Adjacent to the estate on the south side was the natural habitat preserved under Popeye Boodles’s trust.

  “Cynthia, tell me again how you and Bruce ended up living next to the preserve. I’m still fuzzy about the details.” She watched her footin
g as the path skirted a lofty fig tree.

  Her cousin’s gaze narrowed. “Let me see. Bruce’s great-grandfather and his friend, Angus Fairweather, were on a trip to Florida in 1898 when their boat blew ashore during a storm. They liked the territory here so much that they bought over three miles of land along the coast for less than one dollar per acre.”

  Cynthia brushed a strand of blond hair off her face, flushed from the heat. In the dappled light of the woods, worry lines on her face became pronounced. Marla noticed with concern that once her cousin relaxed, she appeared more tired and less carefree. Her chin sagged, and the corners of her mouth drooped. Perhaps not everything was golden in the land of the rich. The thought occurred to her that Cynthia’s normally disdainful attitude might be a cover-up for more profound feelings. Marla sensed her cousin’s concerns went deeper than the upcoming fund-raiser.

  “Go on,” she encouraged.

  “Angus passed his portion to his daughter, who bequeathed it to her son, Popeye Boodles. Popeye never had any children.”

  Marla tripped on a root on the gravelly path and stumbled forward. Regaining her balance, she continued on, her shoes crunching on dead leaves, twigs, and brown pine needles. “Popeye founded Ocean Guard, right?”

  Cynthia nodded, gesturing at the surrounding trees. “He loved the sea and used his fortune to promote conservation. Except for building a boardwalk, he never developed the land. Popeye remained in contact with Bruce’s family, who built our house on the adjacent property. Bruce became caretaker for the preserve sort of by heredity, if you get my meaning.”

  Black ironwood trees mingled with mangroves as they neared a slough. Marla caught sight of a green heron sitting on a log. Something stung her arm, and she swatted it away. Mosquitoes. Annoying pests. They were supposed to be gone by November, but the cool air from up north hadn’t swept in yet. At least it wasn’t as humid now as in the summer, or this place would be a steamy jungle. Dense vegetation blocked the sunlight as they proceeded farther into the woods.

  “Who did you say inherits Popeye’s territory if Ocean Guard fails to meet its commitments?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Whoever established the trust would have that information.”

  “Meaning the attorney who drew up the agreement?” They both halted at the same time. Marla knew her face must have registered the wild direction of her thoughts.

  “N-No,” stuttered Cynthia. “You can’t believe—”

  “That Ben Kline was murdered because his firm’s name is on that trust agreement? I’d say it’s a distinct possibility.”

  Chapter Four

  Cynthia’s eyes grew round in her pale face. “Wait until you see what I have to show you. Follow me.”

  As they neared the shore, the tangle of mangroves thickened into a gnarled web of roots reaching from thin tree trunks down to a layer of muck inches deep. The tide was out because the mud was moist rather than flowing with seawater. By the coastline, rippling waves lapped onto sand littered with dried coconut husks and dead seagrape leaves. Air roots hung off overhead branches like giant spider legs. Except for faint sounds of scurrying creatures, Marla felt they were very much alone.

  She breathed in the scent of brine mingled with the rich odor of humus. It was a heady mixture, this primal combination of earth and sea. No wonder Popeye had wanted to keep this area in its pristine natural state. Much of the coastline had been lost to splashy hotels and boxy condominiums. Other than state parks, it was rare to find undisturbed habitats by the beach. Too bad Ben Kline’s murder sullied her reason for being there.

  Not until Cynthia led her a few paces along the boardwalk did she notice the desecration. “What’s this?” Bile rose in her throat as recognition dawned. “Lord save me, those look like empty syringes. Oh, how gross.” The corners of her mouth turned down as she surveyed dirty gauze pads, used needles, test tubes, and broken specimen containers strewn among the cigar-shaped seedpods on the ground.

  Cynthia gave a grunt of disgust. “I couldn’t believe it myself when I saw this for the first time last week. I figured the stuff might wash back out to sea on the tide, but it’s gotten worse.” Her voice lowered. “Even a smidgen of pollution invalidates Ocean Guard’s chance to gain the property.”

  Marla turned an astonished gaze on her cousin. “What do you mean?”

  “The preserve is supposed to be maintained in its natural state to meet the terms of the trust. Now that we’re coming down to the mark as far as timing goes, everything seems to be going wrong.” Cynthia’s eyes darkened to indigo, and her jaw clenched. “I think you’re right, Marla. Someone intends to make sure Ocean Guard fails. I’ll bet whatever happened to Pierre with that explosion wasn’t an accident.”

  No kidding. “Don’t forget Max. They’re not the only chefs who have withdrawn from Taste of the World in the last few weeks. I’m afraid ticket sales will be down if any more celebrity chefs cancel out.”

  “In that case, Ocean Guard won’t make its monetary quota to fulfill the requirements of the trust, and we’ll still lose.”

  “Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions,” Marla said, squinting at the debris. “It could be washing ashore from somewhere else.”

  Cynthia’s face folded into a worried frown. “I doubt it. There hasn’t been any trash on our estate. See how the tide is out now? Whoever is doing this must have come through last night. My guess is the scum brought a small boat in via the slough and dumped the stuff where it wouldn’t wash back out.” She referred to a waterway leading to the coastline. “High tide would help carry the contaminants further inland.”

  Marla stared at a land crab crawling from its burrow in the muck, realizing the extent of damage that might result from one individual’s malicious acts. Mangroves harbored many forms of life and were necessary to South Florida’s environment. Their tangle of arching prop roots trapped organic debris which, when decayed, built up the soil and prevented erosion. Without this protection, the fragile balance of ecology would be disrupted and habitats destroyed. While Marla didn’t consider herself a nature person, she appreciated the benefits of her surroundings. How dare someone defile such beauty!

  She scratched at a bug bite on her forearm, anger heating her blood, which undoubtedly made her tastier to the insects. Getting riled won’t solve anything, she told herself. But it sure as hell made her want to know who’d done this. The sight of a soiled bandage turned her stomach, and she reversed direction on the boardwalk to march back toward Cynthia’s terrain.

  “Let’s think about it rationally,” she said, suppressing her rage. “Assuming these events are due to sabotage, someone close to Ocean Guard has to be involved. Who else is familiar with the terms of the trust?”

  Cynthia fell into step beside her. “The Board of Directors. My husband Bruce, because he’s caretaker for the mangrove preserve. The trustee, Morton Riley. And whoever inherits the property if Ocean Guard loses out.”

  “I suppose you could include the lawyer who drew up the trust agreement,” Marla added.

  “We’ll have to get this mess cleaned up before Riley comes for his next inspection,” Cynthia muttered half to herself.

  “When is that?”

  Cynthia grimaced. “Usually in January after Ocean Guard makes its contribution. Bruce will know what to do. I’d better come out here more often to see if any more junk gets dumped.” A shudder wracked her well-proportioned frame. “Medical waste. I can’t think of anything worse.”

  Their eyes met and locked. “Dr. Russ Taylor,” Marla said, remembering the surgeon on the Board.

  “For all we know, he could be Popeye’s heir,” Cynthia suggested in response.

  “He? Excuse me, but is that gender bias I detect?” Marla smiled, but there was no mirth in her expression. “The beneficiary could be female, but you have a point. What better way to keep tabs on Ocean Guard’s status than to volunteer for a directorship?”

  It didn’t seem feasible that a prominent surgeon such as Dr. Taylor
would stoop to carting off his own medical waste, but greed was a great motivator. Hadn’t she learned that you couldn’t trust anyone? Her own staff members had betrayed her, and yet she persisted in believing in an individual’s worth. If she didn’t subscribe to that precept, her soul would have been destroyed years ago subsequent to Tammy’s tragic death. Without faith in her own innate goodness, she couldn’t have survived.

  Tally said past mistakes drove Marla to prove herself worthy and to expunge her guilt. Well, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Building a reputation from blood and tears to where she stood today hadn’t been easy, but she was stronger because of it. Having risen from the ashes, who was she to judge anyone else?

  Dalton Vail wouldn’t agree with her. He saw everything in black-and-white, guilty or not guilty. In his mind, you were a suspect until proven innocent. Marla couldn’t accept his negative view of the world. Better to have faith in mankind’s nature than to consign everyone to the devil. Perhaps Dr. Russ Taylor was involved in dumping medical waste on Popeye Boodles’ property. But that was only one possibility, and until Marla learned more, she wouldn’t blame him.

  “Hurry, Marla. My other guest should have arrived by now,” Cynthia urged, gesturing.

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.”

  “Isn’t there something else you want to talk to me about? I got the impression that Taste of the World wasn’t the only thing on your mind.”

  “It’s Annie,” Cynthia replied, sighing. “I don’t know why I thought you could help.”

  Neither did Marla. While she didn’t have kids of her own, she was accustomed to hearing clients talk about their offspring. Maybe Cynthia realized she’d be a good listener.

  Her cousin developed a pinched look on her face as they approached the house. Too bad she won’t let me fix her hair, Marla thought absently. Those harsh facial lines would be softened by a more natural cut. “So what’s the problem?”