Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (10 page)

Eighteen

“I have to
get out of Palmetto Beach.” Mary Frances sounded as if someone were strangling her. “I can’t stop thinking about Stanley and what a fool I’ve been.”

Kate, who’d been listening to some version of that lament during their entire walk to the pier and back, patted her hand.

They’d reached Marlene’s balcony, which hung low over the beach and the north side of the swimming pool. As usual, Ballou had stopped to bark—a happy, hopeful yelp—his eyes fixated on the balcony like a canine Romeo, willing Marlene to appear.

“Give it up, Ballou.” Kate yanked the leash. “She’s gone off with another guy. No treats today.”

Mary Frances smiled. “The not-so-merry widower, yet another suspect, right? I’m rooting for either Sajak or Fry to be the murderer, but God forgive me, I still want Stanley to suffer.”

Kate, feeling a bit ashamed of herself, admitted, “My exact sentiments.”

“My favorite author is signing at Murder at Del Ray
Beach, my favorite bookstore, this afternoon. Do you like mysteries?”

Mary Frances’s segue from real to fictional murder puzzled Kate. “I love them—though not the one we’re in the middle of. I cut my teeth on Agatha Christie.”

“So, what do you say, Kate? Want to drive up A1A, grab a late lunch, and meet Sue Henry?”

“Does she have a book out?”

“Yes,
it’s the first in a new series. Let’s blow this burg. We deserve an afternoon off, and besides, Marlene has absolutely refused to accept my help tonight or for tomorrow morning’s service, though God knows I’ve offered and I’m an expert on wakes, hymns, and flower arrangements. Come on, we’ll be back in plenty of time for Stella’s visitation.”

Kate, who hadn’t been in a bookstore since Charlie died, smiled, remembering how much she loved them. “Okay.”

“Meet me at my apartment in thirty minutes. It’s number 720. Go down to the lobby and take the south elevator. I have something I want to show you.”

As they turned to leave, Mary Frances said, “Look! There’s a note under the door. We can give it to Marlene when we see her.”

Kate reached her hand out. “Let me see it.”

“So what does it say?”

Feeling a little guilty, Kate read the note aloud. “Marlene, please call me as soon as you get home. It’s important. Timmy.”

“And this is the dance studio, where I perfect my tango.” Mary Frances, pretty in pink capris and a pink and white checked top, tied at the waist, was taking Kate, in khakis and a t-shirt, on a tour of her small one-bedroom condo: an immaculate and amazing one thousand square feet.

“You turned your bedroom into a dance studio?” Kate stared at the raised parquet floor, the ballet barre, the sound system, the three mirrored walls, the fourth covered with clothes racks, filled with colorful costumes, and at the baskets containing castanets, and the open shoe boxes, lined up like soldiers, holding sexy high-heel pumps that matched the costumes and the castanets. How had Mary Frances ever convinced the board to go for this?

“Isn’t it wonderful? A competitive dancer must rehearse. I just finished arranging the shoes late last night.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Mary Frances winked. “I’ll just bet you thought my Murphy bed was an armoire. Everyone does. Let’s go back into the living room, I’ll show you how it works.”

Swinging open the two doors of what, indeed, appeared to be an armoire, Mary Frances revealed a double bed then, with one hand, had it out of the closet and on the floor. On either side of the Murphy bed/armoire, floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered the wall; they were filled with dolls. All kinds of dolls, from Barbie, in every conceivable incarnation, to Raggedy Ann, to the six wives of Henry the VIII.

Kate glanced around the room: sparse. The ubiquitous off-white couch, two small wing chairs covered in a violet-patterned chintz, a white Formica coffee table—topped with neat stacks of
Cosmopolitan
and
Glamour
magazines, and several mystery paperbacks—and two matching Formica end tables. Other than a small entertainment center, holding a TV and a CD player, built-in bookcases—all displaying dolls—took up every inch of the remaining wall space. Most of the dolls wore elaborate, obviously expensive, outfits, and were behind glass doors.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Mary Frances said. “I think of them as my children.”

Did she sound defensive? Kate tried to keep her expression neutral and to hide her…what? Surprise? Shock? Distaste?

“I’m still a virgin, you know.”

That was more information than Kate needed. Or was it? If she could come up with the right questions, maybe this childlike side of Mary Frances might even, if inadvertently, provide some answers.

Kate drove her old Chevy Impala along A1A, thinking that with yachts on her left, and mansions on her right, complete with tennis courts and leafy green trees on lawns that led to the ocean, she could be in Southampton.

“I feel so sorry about Nancy,” Kate said. “Did you know her well?”

“Well, she was a member of our lonely Hearts club, so I saw her once a week, but no, I wouldn’t say I knew her well.” Mary Frances seemed to measure her words. “A really good card player. She and Stella almost never wound up with the Queen of Spades…that drove Marlene crazy. Nancy, like most reporters, asked a lot of questions, but never said very much about herself.” Mary Frances ran her fingers through her red curls. “I’ve been wondering two things. A, what did Nancy stumble onto? And B, how did the killer know that she’d discovered something?”

The child in Mary Frances must have stayed home with the dolls.

“Nancy’s piece about Fry never made today’s paper. Strange, isn’t it? And what about the obit? Could she have found something in Stella’s papers that led her to the killer?”

“I guess anything’s possible. But Nancy had all that stuff for months.” Mary Frances paused. Kate could almost hear her thinking. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Maybe—much more recently—Stella made a slip about her past and then, after her murder, that slip led Nancy to her killer.”

“But Stella tried so hard to hide her past. Telling everyone that her husband had died, that she’d lived in Chicago, that she’d attended Northwestern. All lies.”

“It’s tough to play a part every day, Kate. Even the best actresses can forget their lines…or say something that’s not in the script.”

Mary Frances’s words jogged Kate’s memory, just as she was forced to inch right to allow a southbound Mercedes, whose driver had drifted across the line, pass by.

And while concentrating on her driving, the chance to retrieve her lost memory had passed by too.

They rode in silence past the Boca Raton condominiums with their fancy French names and prices to match, then chatted about mystery books and their favorite authors, putting any conversation about real murders on hold.

The drive up A1A, though not as picturesque as the Riviera or as breathtakingly awesome as Big Sur, had its own charms. The Atlantic, often only a few feet away from the passenger side window, seemed so much more accessible than either the Mediterranean or the Pacific. Never more so than in Del Ray Beach, where A1A was literally steps from the ocean.

“Make a left here on Atlantic Avenue,” Mary Frances said.

Kate laughed. “If I made a right, we’d be in the sand.”

The cobblestone street, dotted with ethnic restaurants, sophisticated shops, and pastel art galleries appealed to Kate. Downtown Del Ray had been charmingly restored. She felt as if she were on the verge of an adventure, a feeling that she hadn’t had since Charlie died.

“Are we going to eat in one of these places?” Kate was hungry.

“No…
We’re going to take a sentimental journey. Turn left on Federal Highway.”

Everybody loves somebody sometime.

The words still made Kate shiver. What a crush she’d had on Dino. Now all these decades later, his voice, emanating from the juke box on their table, still brought goose bumps. Or maybe it was the diner’s air-conditioning.

A ponytailed fifty-something waitress wearing a poodle skirt brought their chocolate malts.

Mary Frances clicked her glass against Kate’s. “What were you doing forty years ago?”

“Expecting my first child. Kevin.” Kate smiled. “A new decade and a new life. I think that might have been the happiest time of my life.” She sipped the thick malted shake. “What about you?”

“I graduated from high school and entered the covenant. Mostly I was scrubbing floors or failing Latin. I missed my parents and my little sisters, but I wasn’t allowed to see any of my family that first Christmas. Definitely
not
the happiest year of my life.”

“Did things get better?”

“Oh, yes, I had a lot of happy productive years as a nun, but—”

“Quick, Mary Frances, look out the window at that man talking on the phone.”

Mary Frances craned her neck. “So?”

“It’s Timmy. He shaved and showered and has on new clothes, but that’s Timmy.”

“You mean the missing newsboy?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s that man standing next to him? He looks familiar.” Mary Frances glanced from the window to Kate, then back again.

Kate peered over the jukebox. “I can’t see his face.”

“Wait…he’s turning this way. Oh my God, Kate. That’s Wyndam Oberon!”

Nineteen

Kate knocked over
her malt as she raced for the diner’s front door, with Mary Frances right behind her.

“Hey,” the ponytailed waitress yelled, “are you two ladies skipping on the check?”

“We’ll be back,” Kate called over her shoulder as she dashed through the door. “Timmy,” she yelled, barreling by Wyndam Oberon, who jumped out of her path. Marlene had described him well; he did look like Clarence in
It’s a Wonderful Life.

Timmy, who’d just hung up what had to be one of the last remaining pay phones in Ft. Lauderdale, ran.

Kate ran after him, praying that Mary Frances would detain Oberon. Halfway down the block, Timmy darted into Federal Highway’s oncoming traffic, leaving Kate breathless on the curb. She watched as he kept running, dodging cars, then heading east toward the ocean. By the time the light turned green, Timmy had vanished.

Crushed, a still panting Kate walked back toward the diner, where Mary Frances had planted both her hands firmly on Wyndam Oberon’s shoulders.

“Woman, have you lost your mind?” Wyndam wiggled and squirmed, but couldn’t loosen her grip. Mary Frances, employing what looked like a graceful tango arm movement, shoved him against the wall. With her strong muscular upper arms, her right knee wedged in his groin, and her in-your-face attitude, the overweight, out-of-shape attorney didn’t have a chance.

Several of the diner’s patrons had come out to see the show; others pressed their noses to the windows. Rubbernecks slowed traffic—just a tad too late to do Kate any good.

The ponytailed waitress stood a foot or so behind Mary Frances, waving their bill and shouting, “Hey, you check-jumper, let go of Mr. Oberon, he’s one of our best customers.”

“Have you lost your mind, Miss Costello?” Wyndam sounded more frightened than angry. “I’ll have you arrested for assault!”

Even his threat fell flat. What was really going on here?

“You allowed a witness in Stella Sajak’s murder to get away.” Kate could see the tension in Mary Frances’s knuckles. “I’d call that aiding and abetting.” Perry Mason couldn’t have done better. “What were you doing with Timmy in the first place? Did you hire him to deliver that note to Stella on the afternoon of her murder?”

An audible
oooh
came from the crowd.

Kate reevaluated: Mary Frances’s cross-examination was much more aggressive than Perry’s.

“I never saw that man before in my life.” Wyndam Oberon’s drawl drooped like a weeping willow. “My cell phone died. I was waiting to use the phone when he ran, and that lady”—Oberon jerked his head toward Kate—“chased after him, and then you attacked me.” Indignation crept into his voice. “Now get your hands off me, woman!”

“Search him, Kate. Find his cell phone and see if it’s working.”

A man, whom Kate recognized as the diner’s cashier, stepped out of the crowd and closed in on Mary Frances. As Kate threw herself between Mary Frances and the cashier, Oberon somehow managed to reach into his jacket pocket and yank out his cell phone. Kate strained her arm, trying to intercept, but it fell to the pavement. Or had Oberon dropped it?

The pay phone rang. Everyone froze. As in Statue—a game Kate hadn’t played in almost sixty years, where one player would yell “Freeze!” and the other players would stop wherever they were and whatever they were doing and turn into statues.

On the second ring, Kate, her hand shaking, picked up the phone and, almost whispering, said, “Hello…”

“Who is this?” A shout not a whisper.

Oh my God. She must have entered the twilight zone. The caller was Nick Carbone.

A police siren jolted her back to reality.

“So do you want the hot fudge sundae or not?” The ponytailed waitress had gone off duty, and her replacement an elderly redhead, who’d missed most of the commotion, wasn’t
quite
treating them like the enemy.

After almost two hours of sitting through in-person interviews with a Del Ray detective, and separate phone interviews with an “angry at both of them” Detective Carbone, and threats of charges being pressed by Wyndam Oberon, and no proof of anything, since the attorney claimed that the fall had “jarred something” in the cell phone, causing it to work again, Kate and Mary Frances finally were finishing lunch.

Mary Frances nodded at the waitress. “Yes, please bring us two sundaes and two cups of tea. And you can clear these plates.”

Kate couldn’t believe how quickly they’d devoured their BLTs with slaw and fries.

“You didn’t buy that garbage that Oberon was feeding to the police, did you?” Mary Frances pulled out a small mirror and checked her teeth.

Kate shook her head. “No way, Wonder Woman. And thanks again, you were marvelous. Look, Timmy called Ocean Vista and left that pay phone’s number and, obviously, he’d been waiting for Marlene to call him back. Oberon
had
to be waiting there with him. I don’t believe in coincidences and I know that Nick Carbone doesn’t either.”

Kate shoved the Marlene-Timmy connection to the back of her mind.

“But we can’t prove that the cell phone…
”

“There’s a connection between Timmy and Wyndam Oberon and I’m going to find it.”

“Didn’t Detective Carbone tell us to go home and stay there?”

Kate, suddenly remembering one of Charlie’s cases, glanced at her watch.

“Let’s eat our sundaes and get out of here, Mary Frances. I’m really sorry we missed the signing, but I want to stop at the Neptune Inn on the way home. I need to ask the owner about Timmy.”

“Does anyone know where Stella went after she read the note that he’d delivered? Maybe whatever happened after he’d left the lobby on Tuesday afternoon is why she wound up on the beach that night.”

“You’re ahead of me.” Kate smiled. This gal was sharp. “I plan to do a timeline on Stella too. I’m sure Carbone checked out where she went, and I’m sure the note had something to do with her murder.” Why
hadn’t
either she or Marlene followed up on where Stella had gone?

“You’re investigating this case for real, aren’t you? No wonder the killer tried to shoot you.” Mary Frances, who’d devoured her sundae in three bites, put twenty dollars on the table. “Come on, let’s take I-95 back, we’ll get there faster.”

Kate, though nervous about driving on I-95, agreed. It couldn’t be worse than the Long Island Expressway.

It was. By Boca, Kate wished that she could trade seats with Mary Frances. The Florida drivers honked even more often than New Yorkers, exceeded the speed limits, and seemed to change lanes every sixty seconds.

Mary Frances had returned to complaining about Stanley while professing his innocence. Between the traffic and the tirade, and the fat heavy lunch, Kate’s mood was sour.

“Look, Mary Frances, I think we’ve eliminated Stanley as a suspect, and as a topic of conversation. Now I’d like to ask you a question.”

“When you’ve never had a boyfriend, Kate, even someone like Stanley Ferris seems appealing. He told me that I’m lovely.”

Kate sighed. “And you are. Far too lovely and far too smart for such a sleazy man.” She turned the wheel sharply to avoid a close encounter with an overly aggressive lane changer.

“Okay.” Mary Frances sounded more upbeat. “Ask away.”

“On our way up to Del Ray, you compared Stella to an actress who’d forgotten her lines, and that insight jogged my memory, and a senior moment I’ve been trying to recall almost surfaced. But then I had to move over to let that road-hogging Mercedes pass and—”

“Oh, I know all about senior moments. You saw how small my apartment is…yet sometimes, I walk into the kitchen and have no idea why I’m there, so I trot back into the living room, and then remember what I’d wanted from the kitchen.”

“Been there, done that…a lot.” Kate chuckled. “But this seems different, almost as if I’ve blocked it on purpose. I know that we were at Town Hall after the meeting, and Stella and the mayor were talking, and David Fry was standing there, looking superior, and Stanley had his arms draped—”

“Around Marlene and Stella.” Mary Frances sniffed. “That awful man, flirting his way through the crowd, when he had a date with me that night. And to think I went to meet him on the beach despite his bad behavior.”

Damn. Why had Kate said that about Stanley, getting Mary Frances all riled up again? Because it might be connected to her senior moment?

“Forget about Stanley, Mary Frances. I need you to focus. As we were leaving Town Hall, did Stella forget her lines? Say something out of character? Something not in her script?”

“Sorry, Kate. If she did, I don’t remember.” Mary Frances hesitated. “But there were other times. Stanley always said that for a gal from Chicago, Stella knew nothing about the White Sox.”

Kate clutched the wheel as the driver in front of her changed lanes without signaling.

“Well, no wonder. According to Joe Sajak, Stella never even visited Chicago.”

“Ah, yes, Joe Sajak, our grieving widower, the man who called Wyndam Oberon for advice and counsel when he was afraid that the police might arrest him.”