I took my usual ten-second shower, combed my short blond hair straight back off my forehead and left it wet, threw on a black T-shirt and jeans and black-and-orange Nike high-tops, slipped on my shoulder holster with my 9mm Glock snugly buckled in place, and clipped my badge to my belt. The lead detective was on the way in two minutes flat.
The lake at Lake of the Ozarks was formed in 1931, with the construction of Bagnell Dam, and was still impressive now, more than seventy years later. I drove over that mighty edifice, windows down and caffeine deprived. Nicholas Black’s resort was on a coveted point south of Horseshoe Bend, and I picked up speed on the deserted blacktop highways curving along the lakeshore. Later in the week the big Cedar Bend Regatta was supposed to begin, and crowds of tourists would venture out in the ninety-degree-plus July heat to watch. Just what we needed. A murder to get the race started.
I reached the stone gate of Cedar Bend Lodge in fifteen minutes and swung my black Explorer into the entrance road and accidentally ran over the end of a mammoth bed of pink and white impatiens and purple petunias. Uh-oh, a gardener 911 was probably going off somewhere. I guiltily regained the blacktop and drove through Doctor Black’s meticulously manicured 18-hole golf course, pure emerald splendor for tourists with fat wallets and low handicaps. The main lodge loomed a minute later, built with waist-size logs and glinting with a zillion miles of dark plate glass. The famous five-star restaurant Two Cedars was the star of the black-and-gold reception lobby, but the four ballrooms, with cathedral ceilings and crystal chandeliers dripping glittery spangles, offering breathtaking lake views weren’t too shabby, either.
Yes siree, Bob, Cedar Bend Lodge was impressive. The nine-by-twelve-foot front door with beveled stained glass in hues of ruby and emerald and topaz definitely welcomed people who had not come to Lake of the Ozarks to rough it.
I whipped under a portico the size of a basketball court and held aloft by flat, stacked fieldstone columns and slowed at the sight of a resort security guard. I stopped and wound down my window and flashed my badge.
I recognized Suze Eggers right off. She was the best friend of my next door neighbor, Dottie Harper. Suze strutted up to my car, all proud of the sharp black-and-tan uniform, which accentuated her lean, athletic body. I knew she worked security for Black, but to me, she had a gargantuan attitude problem. I sometimes wondered about her sexual orientation, although Dottie assured me she was as straight as the proverbial arrow.
“Well, well, Detective Claire Morgan, up with the birds and lookin’ fine.”
See what I mean? Maybe Dot was kidding herself about the gay thing.
“Hi, Suze, what’s going on? Dispatch said there’s been a murder.”
“Oh yes, ma’am, you got yourself a murder, all right. All cooked up for breakfast.”
Huh?
Suze grinned, made a deal out of pulling off her fancy tan hat with the Cedar Bend logo. She propped her palm on the roof of my car and leaned into the window. She smelled strongly of a unisex Calvin Klein cologne; I forget which one. I had to resist the urge to roll up the window and talk to her through the glass. She said, “Lady got whacked out at one of them fancy gated bungalows. You know the ones I mean? Out on the point goin’ for a coupla grand a week.” Suze seemed pleased about the murder. Not a healthy sign.
She stopped talking and ogled me a minute. It must’ve taken her a good long time to get her white-blond hair up into those stylish spikes that fell over just a little on the ends. She had thick, straight eyebrows over dark, nervous eyes. Maybe she was just excited. Uh-oh, not good.
“Fact is,” Suze lowered her voice, and I guess she thought we were real cop cohorts now, “weird ain’t near bad enough to describe this perp. He whacked her good, then came back for seconds.”
Gangster speak was flowing now. A regular female Tony Soprano. I pictured her in front of a mirror, plastic water gun in hand, muttering things like “Fuhgeddabout it, or You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to ME?”
“Did you find the body, Suze?”
Her eyes darted around some more. “Old lady found the body, one of the guests.”
I said, “What about the victim?”
“She’s a big-time VIP, just like the chick that found her. All them out there are loaded. They had condos next door to each other. The old lady says she gets up early and takes a swim out to that big floatin’ dock Black’s got out off the point, said she does the same thing every day. Anyways, minute she saw the dead girl, she went all hysterical and nearly drowned herself before she made it back to her place. She punched the panic button and held it down till I got there. Took me four minutes to get out there, and she was still screamin’ her friggin’ head off. I called in you guys right off. I did it by the book, Detective. I know procedures. I’ve been studying to be a cop.”
Great. “Did you touch anything at the scene?”
Suze frowned and ran her fingers through her gelled hairdo. We both looked to see how much goop she’d raked out. She wiped the stuff on her pants. “I told you, I know procedure. I ain’t touched nothin’. I went over and checked out the body to make sure the old broad wasn’t seein’ things.”
“And you secured the perimeter after you called dispatch?”
“You bet. Guarded the road myself right here till the first uniform showed up. Name’s O’Hara, I think. She got here in less than ten. She’s that hot new chick that Charlie hired on.”
I rest my case. I pulled the gearshift back. “Okay, Suze, where do I go?”
“Take the main road down ’bout a mile, I reckon. It dead-ends at Doctor Black’s private gate, and that’s something you can’t miss, trust me. It’s gotta big brass B on it. Hang a left there, and follow that road down to the water. It’s got its own security gate, but your partner said to leave it open until you showed up.”
So Bud beat me to the scene. That would cost me a dozen Krispy Kremes. “Listen, Suze, nobody goes down this road except for officers and the crime-scene team, got it?”
“Yeah, sure. Guests out here don’t drag outta bed till noon, anyways. Wild parties go on all night; then everybody sleeps in till their appointment with the doc.”
I told Suze not to talk about the crime scene and then accelerated down the shady blacktop road. Hundreds of red roses festooned the split-rail fences along the way, and I could smell them, sweet and summery and vaguely reminiscent of prom corsages. I only went to a prom once, but I did get a rose corsage. It was a fake one, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
It was still cool, but by nine o’clock, the sun would broil everyone alive. July was hot as hell in Missouri, unlike California’s paradise weather. I drove past closed private gates guarding luxury condos hidden in woodsy tracts.
Now I was invading the most exclusive area, where bungalows nestled in jeweled glades and thick woods touched the water. Black must’ve hired a hundred or so ex-Disney World gardeners to landscape the place. Flowering orange trumpet vines decorated security cameras, and there were plenty watching from tall poles. Strangers loitering here would stick out like Michael Jordan on a junior high basketball team. Black’s security, however, obviously had not done the trick. I’d have to interview every staff member to see if anyone had seen any unwelcome lurkers on the grounds.
Black’s gate loomed up, all ostentatious and gaudy. Somewhere on the other side of that mighty portal worthy of Buckingham Palace, Nicholas Black had magically transplanted a Hollywood-style estate smack dab to the Ozark hills. What I wanted to know was why? I’d actually seen it from the water once when I was fishing with Dottie. The sun reflected off three stories of plate glass windows in a migraine-inspiring glare. The original Cedar Bend was built in 1962, and about five years ago Black had bought it dirt cheap out of bankruptcy and then spent several million remodeling the place. Story was that he saw the view, liked it, and couldn’t rest until he owned it. A real Donald