Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (12 page)

Twenty-Six

Tuesday, July 25, Fifty-Six Years Ago

“Get your head out of the oven,” her mother screamed.

Kate, drying her hair on low heat, was kneeling, her face resting on arms spread across the open oven door. She scrambled backward to get up.

“Have you gone crazy, Kate?” Maggie sounded like that might be a real possibility.

“My hair’s still wet, Mom. If it doesn’t dry before I leave, I’ll be the only fuzz-head in the Russian Tea Room.”

“We have almost two hours. Come on, we’ll towel-dry it and I’ll set it in bobby pins, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Her mother rubbed Kate’s arm. “You’ll have soft curls, honey, I promise.”

“I want waves,” Kate whined. Tired. Cranky. Anxious. She was behaving like a spoiled six-year-old. “Sorry, Mom. Thanks. Let’s get started.”

Maggie Norton worked magic. No waves, but Kate’s chestnut curls appeared glossy and smooth, not frizzy or dry. She liked the way they framed her face. And her mother said lots of young women would kill for those curls, for that thick hair.

Over tea, her mother had drilled Kate on table manners, focusing this morning on place settings. “Start with the fork farthest away from the plate.” She just nodded, though she could recite her mother’s Emily Post routine, chapter and verse.

Kate left the house feeling pretty good about herself. She wore a favorite sundress, dark green with a foil skirt, and a white-trimmed bolero jacket, white open-toe wedges, and carried a matching bag. Best of all, Mom had made her up. A smudge of eyeshadow made her green eyes bigger and brighter. A swipe of color on her cheeks, a light coating of coral lipstick, and her nails matched her lips. She’d bet she could pass for sixteen. Well, maybe, fifteen.

Sophie and her father were waiting for her at the bus stop on Ninetieth Street and Thirty-fourth Avenue. They’d ride to the Seventy-fourth Street terminal, then take the F train to the city.

Mr. Provakov appeared much more foreign in his well-worn tweed jacket, way too warm and out of season for the summer day. And the man had on Hush Puppies; his feet must be sweating. Could that be why his wife was seeing another man? Kate banished that idea. After all, Mrs. Provakov could have stayed late at the office, then stopped for a drink or a snack with her coworker.

She turned her attention to Sophie, who looked like the cover of
Seventeen
,
in a fitted, chocolate brown linen dress and matching patent leather sandals, her dark hair pulled into a loose twist at the nape of her neck.

Kate suddenly felt as out of style as Sophie’s father.

In the silence that had prevailed through most of the trip, they walked down the south side of Fifty-seventh Street. A canopy with big, bold, block letters signaled their arrival at the Russian Tea Room, slightly to the left of Carnegie Hall. Only the Rembrandt Building, that housed the Casino Russe, a Russian nightclub, stood between the restaurant and the concert hall. Kate once had seen a photograph of Yul Brynner sitting cross-legged at his sister’s feet, playing the balalaika in the casino.

Above a patch of black-and-white-checkered sidewalk, brass panels bracketed the restaurant’s revolving glass door. A menu in the window, displayed like a piece of precious Russian art, offered exotic fare, like zakuska, pojarski cotelettes, and lule kebab.

Kate could hear her heart pounding and feel her palms go clammy. She was about to enter a world she’d only read about, a world she yearned to see, touch, savor, and remember. She promised herself to order a dish she’d never tried, then giggled. That should pose no problem here.

“Something is amusing, Katya?” Mr. Provakov sounded gentle. Concerned.

“No, nothing. I’m just happy to be here.” Thrilled, actually. Kate sensed that Sophie and her father didn’t share her enthusiasm. Why? Here they were in the middle of Manhattan, about to celebrate Sophie’s thirteenth birthday in one of the city’s most famous restaurants. Why wouldn’t they be happy?

Mr. Provakov pushed the revolving door, followed by Sophie and Kate. They entered a red and gold room, unlike any Kate had ever seen, filled with huge urns holding spectacular flower arrangements, crystal decanters, and beautiful oil paintings. The long bar on the right had four red leather stools, matching the cushioned booths on the left.

Kate smiled. What a neat place. “Wow!”

Sophie nodded. “Even more than I expected.”

Behind a partition at the end of the bar, Kate could see the dining room. Red walls. Brass-trimmed, enormous, low-hanging chandeliers sparkled like jewels. Shelves held silver samovars. Tables, with their pretty pink cloths and napkins, were surrounded by more beautiful paintings.

A mustached waiter in a Russian tunic seated them. Kate felt overwhelmed, as if she’d entered a fairyland filed with grown-ups in business suits. “The young ladies, please to sit here.” The waiter pulled out two chairs at a table near the center of the dining room. “You can see my favorite mural while you eat.” The mural of two ballet dancers, the man lifting the woman into the air, delighted Kate.

Though nervous, she took Mr. Provakov’s suggestion and ordered the bilini with sour cream and caviar. The latter was so salty she wanted to spit it out. Maybe just having learned that caviar was made from fish eggs had colored her taste buds.

In such a festive setting and with such attentive service, Kate again puzzled over the lack of laughter or even good conversation. Both Mr. Provakov and Sophie seemed preoccupied.

Over a delicious Charlotte Russe and dark, thick, hot tea, served in a tall crystal glass with a sterling silver holder, she gave Sophie her birthday present.

Kate and her mother had shopped in New York City for two full afternoons, finally agreeing they’d found the perfect gift: a hammered silver Russian-style cross on a sterling silver chain. They bought it in a jewelry store near the Park Sheraton Hotel and her father’s office, and not far from the Russian Tea Room. Her mother had wrapped the box in silver paper and tied it with a baby blue satin ribbon. And Kate had searched for, and bought, what she considered a perfect, not corny, birthday card.

But now, as she fumbled in her bag, then handed Sophie the card and the present, Kate was no longer sure they were perfect.

“This is very kind of you, Kate,” Sophie said with no conviction, barely glancing at the card. “I’ll put it on right now.”

The waiter brought Mr. Provakov another vodka, and more tea and dessert for all of them.

“Will you please help me with the clasp, Kate?” Sophie asked, struggling with the two ends of the chain.

Kate stood behind Sophie’s chair, closed the clasp, then sat and dug into her second Charlotte Russe. The ballet dancers seemed to be looking down at her and laughing.

A dark-haired middle-aged woman, dressed in a navy blue suit, averted her eyes as she passed by their table.

“Katya,” Mr. Provakov said, “will you do me a great favor?” He reached into his baggy jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a white, sealed envelope. “Would you please deliver this note to the dark-haired lady who just went to the ladies’ room?”

Kate froze, a forkful of Charlotte Russe halfway to her mouth, and stared at him. “Now?”

“Yes. Our little secret, Katya. The lady is a cousin of my wife’s. They have had a falling out. In the note, my wife apologizes.”

As he handed her the envelope, Kate wondered how Mr. Provakov had known his wife’s cousin would be at the restaurant. And why Sophie couldn’t have delivered it.

In the gilt and gold ladies room, the woman smiled warmly when Kate offered her the envelope, then took it without a word, and turned away. Kate met her eyes, reflected in a mirror. In those dark eyes, Kate saw fear and sorrow. And she looked so familiar.

Kate started, trying to swallow a scream. She’d seen that face in the newspapers.

The woman bolted into a stall.

Oh my God! She was in the bathroom with
Muriel Goodman.

Twenty-Seven

The Present

Mary Frances seemed
determined to cry all the way to Ocean Vista. And on the radio, the broadcasters all cried hurricane.

Kate didn’t scoff; the weather service might have been off by miles with Harriet, but most of the time they got it right. Igor wasn’t due to land for several days, but he was picking up speed and, right now, they were predicting the greater Fort Lauderdale area would be ground zero. If Igor stayed on course, they’d be evacuating A1A from Miami to Palm Beach.

“Enough, already. This time
I’m
going down with condo,” Marlene said, then turned to Kate. “Hand the weeper a tissue, will you
?”

Kate reached into her bag and did as instructed.

Marlene beeped at the driver in front of her as the Neptune Boulevard Bridge came down and locked into place. “Move it, buddy!”

The driver gave her the finger.

Marlene retaliated, then whirled around to face the backseat. “And, for God’s sake, Mary Frances, stop that sniveling. Joe Sajak isn’t worth your tears, never mind your virginity.”

Kate had to laugh.

“What’s so funny, Kate?” Mary Frances asked, then blew her nose for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “I need more tissues.”

“Okay, but this is the last of my Kleenex.” Kate parted with the packet reluctantly. She felt insecure without her supply of tissues and Pepcid AC. But she was worried. Mary Frances, always so perfectly turned out, looked like hell: her Maureen O’Hara red hair disheveled, her khaki pantsuit wrinkled, and her beautiful face, minus makeup, revealing sags and wrinkles that Kate had never noticed before.

“Marlene, are you sure Joe has been seeing another woman?” Mary Frances gulped.

“Make that plural, sweetie,” Marlene said. “The man fancies himself a lady-killer. If you don’t believe me, just ask Rosie O’Grady. She’s seen Sajak in action at Ireland’s Inn too.”

“Is Lucy one of his paramours?” The former nun came across like the schoolteacher she’d once been.

“Paramours?” Marlene roared. “You make Sajak sound like Louis the Fourteenth.”

Good God. Could Joe be having an affair with Lucy? “Why do you ask that, Mary Frances?” Kate poked Marlene, hoping she’d get the message and keep quiet.

“Because Joe serves on Lucy’s bylaws committee.” Mary Frances sobbed. “The two of them are rewriting an entire section about not letting kids under three in the pool. The diaper issue. A real hot button. He’s been
working
at her place ’til all hours of the morning.”

Marlene kept her eyes on the bridge and her mouth shut. Kate, figuring that wouldn’t last long, changed the subject. “How about when we get home we change our clothes and take Ballou for a nice long walk on the beach?” Kate had been worrying about the Westie, home alone all day. And if Mary Frances tagged along on his outing, Kate could pump her. The former nun might know much more than she realized about Lucy Diamond, unlikely temptress and proven liar. “Maybe we can go to the pier and have the shrimp dinner at the Neptune Inn.”

“There’s a hurricane coming, Kate,” Mary Frances said.

“Oh, not for days. We have lots of time to get ready.” Why was she so driven to solve these murders? The need felt personal, physical, like an unquenchable thirst. But why? She hardly knew the victims. And what little she’d known about them she hadn’t liked.

Marlene pulled into Ocean Vist
a’s parking lot. Cops filled every corner. A tow truck, attached to Rosie O’Grady’s Lincoln, was headed toward the exit. Rosie protested loud enough to be heard in Cleveland. No one responded. A young policeman waved Marlene to the far end of the lot next to the fence on the beach side. They lucked out—a snowbird’s spot was empty; otherwise they’d have been driving up and down Palmetto Beach’s side streets for hours, trying to find a place to park.

Rosie ran after the truck, yelling, “Stop, thief!”

If Rosie weren’t so frantic and appearing so vulnerable in a faded blue robe, it might have been a funny scene. Instead, Kate felt outraged. Where was Carbone? Why hadn’t he been here to oversee this mess?

“Can they seize her car like that? Isn’t she protected under the Bill of Rights?” Mary Frances demanded, as they hurried toward Rosie, who was hurling expletives at the tow truck driver.

“It’s a crime scene,” Kate said. “They need to process the evidence.”

Marlene reached Rosie first, putting an arm around her. “I’m marooned here without my car, Marlene. They’ve stolen my independence and they won’t even tell me when I’ll get it back.” Rosie sobbed. “And God knows my Lincoln will never be the same after them bums get finished ripping out its guts.”

“You’ll come with us to dinner at Herb’s tonight,” Kate said. “And I’m going to call Nick Carbone and tell him that you need your car returned as soon as possible.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” Rosie said. “When are we eating?”

One of Palmetto Beach’s finest winked at Kate. Marlene and a bit mellower Rosie led the way into the lobby with Mary Frances, who’d stopped crying, and Kate trailing behind.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” Miss Mitford checked her watch. “Welcome home, Miss Costello.” Mitford moved on. “Ms. Friedman, the other board members have been trying to contact you to discuss hurricane emergency preparations. Both Mr. Seeley and Ms. Diamond asked me to call them the minute you showed up.”

“Oh, hell,” Marlene said. “I’ll be tied up for a while. I’ll catch up with you later at Herb’s.”

“As vice president, shouldn’t I be included in the discussions?” Mary Frances asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Marlene said, checking her watch. “It’s five thirty now. First, I’m going to shower and change. Then I’ll call a quick meeting. Mary Frances and I will try to be at the Neptune Inn by seven. Get a table with an ocean view and order me a double martini.”

Kate sighed. Damn, after all her great plans to question Mary Frances, she’d be stuck with Rosie.

A very excited Westie jumped up, almost making Kate lose her balance, then jumped again, licking her hand. “I love you too, Ballou. Now, if you behave and be patient a little longer, you’re going out to dinner with me and Rosie O’Grady.” Kate didn’t dare say
walk
or she’d never get into the shower.

Throughout her toilette, a matinee-idol, thirty-something weatherman—Weatherwise’s replacement?—kept updating dire predictions of a Category Three Igor, turning into a Category Four, then heading in a direct path toward Fort Lauderdale. The young man’s words chilled, yet annoyed, her.

By six fifteen, Kate, Rosie, and Ballou were on the beach, walking north toward the Neptune Boulevard Pier. White-capped navy blue waves rolled ashore a few feet away. The sky, as muted as an impressionist painting, brushed against the horizon.

The happy Westie led the way, pulling Kate along. Ballou’s happiness proved to be contagious. Kate’s mood improved. She couldn’t question Mary Frances about Lucy Diamond, but she could get some answers from Rosie. Make a few waves of her own.

And she wouldn’t pussyfoot around.

“Rosie, someone told me you had a weather vane in your tote bag on the night Weatherwise was murdered. Is that true?”

“Son of a gun. Old big-mouth pansy Bob, told you that, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Is it true?” Kate tried to rein in Ballou, who’d picked up his pace.

“Yes, damn it, it’s true. I saw
Bob poking around my stuff. Do you suppose he told the police too?”

Well, if Bob had told Lee Parker, Rosie would have had good reason to want the detective dead. Wait...she’d have needed Bob dead too. “I don’t know, but somehow, I don’t think so.”

“Damn. And double damn.” Rosie kicked a pile of sand, sending it flying.

Ballou yelped with indignation.

“Why did you have the murder weapon in your tote bag?”

“See,” Rosie spoke through her teeth, “that’s why I didn’t tell nobody. You right away jumped to the conclusion that, because I had a weather vane in my bag, I musta killed Weatherwise. I didn’t know it was a weapon, did I?” Kate waited.

“Walt asked me to hold it for him. When we was on the bridge, crossing to the mainland. He couldn’t hold the weather vane and hang on to the rope. I put it in my tote bag.” Rosie shook her head. “Someone must have spotted it at the shelter later and decided it would make the perfect murder weapon.”

So maybe, if Rosie spoke the truth, Weatherwise’s murder hadn’t been premeditated. “Any idea who that someone might be?”

“Well, duh, his cheating business partner, Bob Seeley.”