Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

Twenty

“If
you can’t
drink, smoke, or dance, I don’t want to be there.”

Kate and Mary Frances were seated at the bar in the Neptune Inn. It was four thirty, well into the cocktail hour in Palmetto Beach, where most residents dined out on early-bird schedules that often ended before six.

Two old ladies—old by South Florida standards being anyone ten years your senior—were drinking Manhattans and discussing the shortcomings of the Methodist retirement home in Fort Lauderdale.

Though the stock behind the bar was even scarcer than the patrons, Herb Wagner had several bottles of rye and vermouth left on the shelves, along with a lone jar of maraschino cherries. Four of Herb’s five other customers were drinking Manhattans. Figuring, when in an about-to-be-demolished bar, do as the regulars do, Kate ordered a Manhattan. Mary Frances, much to Herb’s amusement, asked for a Scarlett O’Hara.

“You’ve never been here before, have you?” Herb gazed at Mary Frances with the eye of a happily married man who still appreciated an attractive woman—what Charlie had called window shopping.

Recalling that only yesterday he’d looked at her the same way, Kate smiled, “This is Mary Frances Costello, another Ocean Vista resident.”

Herb wiped his hand on his apron, then extended it to Mary Frances. “A real pleasure. You girls be
careful
over there. First Stella, now Nancy Cooper. Ugly business.”

One of the Manhattan cocktail-drinking ladies, who was wearing a smart peach pantsuit, said, “If you ask me, a serial killer is working his way through your building, targeting women owners. The cops have the wrong man. Stanley Ferris is no killer, he doesn’t have the balls.”

Mary Frances whirled around on her bar stool.

“Do you know Stanley Ferris?”

The second old lady said, “I made a vow never to wear lavender, they line caskets in lavender.”

“Stanley and I dated about ten years ago,” the first lady said, completely ignoring her friend’s non sequitur. “Great dancer. Lousy lover. My name is Jeanette Nelson.” She gestured to her friend. “This is Mildred Green.”

“I’m Kate Kennedy.
”

“And I’m Mary Frances Costello.” Her voice caught. “I might be the last date that Stanley will ever have.”

Mary Frances’s frankness surprised Kate.

Mildred had Ivory soap white hair wrapped into a loose chignon, and she wore a gauzy white caftan. She turned to Mary Frances and snorted. “Of all Jeanette’s boyfriends, the dancing dentist won the prize for most dreadful, and trust me, they were a motley lot. Did I tell you that I never wear lavender?”

“The Broward County Tango Champion.” Jeanette smiled. “What an honor to meet you, Mary Frances. I was third runner-up in this year’s Cha Cha competition, but we danced on different nights and never met. Of course, I read all about how you were there on the beach when Stanley stumbled over Stella’s body. Believe me, you’re lucky not to be planning a second date with that loser. And with all due respect to your murdered neighbor, Stella Sajak wasn’t one of my favorite people—a bossy busybody, wasn’t she? Still you won’t hear me speaking ill of the dead.”

Intrigued, Kate asked, “Have you stayed friendly with Stanley?”

“Well, I’m not going to be visiting him in jail now, am I? But I did have a dance with him at Ireland’s Inn last night.” Jeanette stabbed her Manhattan-soaked cherry with a stirrer and carefully lifted it to her mouth.

“Do you know what time he left there?” Kate asked, wondering if Stanley had planned to meet someone.

“Yes. Didn’t I tell Detective Carbone that Stanley took off, rather abruptly, around ten forty-five, in plenty of time to drive up to the
Gazette
Building in Palmetto Beach and hold a gun to that poor woman’s head.” Jeanette snapped the stirrer in half. “I also assured the detective that Stanley
wasn’t killer material and the cops should keep on looking.”

Biting her lip to prevent a grin, Kate thought Carbone must have loved that.

“Kate’s the woman who had the gun at her head,” Mary Frances said. “Maybe Stanley
is
innocent, but his presence at two murder scenes has persuaded the police otherwise.”

“My God, Kate.” Jeanette sounded outraged. “What a fright that must have been.”

Kate nodded. “Yes. For the first time in my life, I actually fainted.” She took another sip of her Manhattan, the alcohol soothing her nerves. She considered ordering a second, but more than one drink wreaked havoc with her stomach. “Tell me, Jeanette, what kind of mood was Stanley in last night? Did he say anything about Stella’s murder?”

“No, but he seemed jumpy. Off-center. Usually his samba is smoother than a sixteen-year-old girl’s stomach, but last night he kept stepping on my big toe. It still hurts.” Jeanette stuck out her left foot, shod in a peach leather sandal the exact shade of her pantsuit. The big toe appeared seriously swollen. “His mind wasn’t on the dance floor, that’s for sure.”

Kate remembered how Stanley had invited her to go dancing at Ireland’s Inn last night and with the memory came an involuntary shudder. “So he didn’t have a date?”

“No. At first he seemed a little sheepish about being out dancing—what with Stella being so recently dead and all—but as soon as the music started, he seemed to get over that. Guilt’s not Stanley’s style. Still he was stewing over something. And just before he left, he was off whispering in a corner with a big brassy blonde—kind of a Mae West type—I think she lives in Ocean Vista too.”

“Marlene?” Kate stammered, looking at Mary Frances.

“Yes. That’s her name.” Jeanette pounded the bar. “Another aggressive—”

“Marlene Friedman was at Ireland’s Inn last night?” Mary Frances sounded as crazed as Kate felt. “We’d been to her house for dinner. What time did she get there?”

“I couldn’t tell you. Sorry I called her brassy, I didn’t know she was a friend of yours. Let’s see—the bar was packed—I spotted Marlene with Stanley, then he left. And as I said, that was around ten forty-five. Eleven at the latest.”

“I never wear lavender,” Mildred said.

No one responded, but she didn’t seem to notice as she flagged Herb and ordered another Manhattan.

“Make that two, Herb.” Jeanette pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit up.

Kate found her voice. “Did Marlene leave with Stanley?”

“I don’t think so,” Jeanette said, “but I don’t recall seeing her after he’d gone.”

Mary Frances, backing away from the smoke, said, “How well did you know Stella Sajak?” She twisted a red curl. Kate had noticed that Mary Frances seemed to do that whenever she was concentrating. Or nervous. Or maybe when trying to veer the conversation away from Marlene?

“Stella was the one who tried to change the bingo rules at the Senior Center,” Mildred said. “Came on like a union organizer, didn’t she, Jeanette?”

Mary Frances laughed. “That sounds like Stella.”

“Did I mention that I never wear lavender? Will her casket be lined in lavender?”

Kate, tempted to explain that Stella wouldn’t be in a casket, decided not to go there. Yet she marveled at Mildred’s thought patterns, which leapt between logic and lunacy.

“I used to see her at the Senior Center and, occasionally, at Ireland’s, but I can’t say I knew her.” Jeanette shrugged. “I wonder if anyone really knew Stella.”

Kate, reeling about Marlene and wanting to tread easily with Mary Frances’s feelings, was certain that she’d stumbled onto something. “Did Stella ever come to Ireland’s Inn with Stanley?”

“No. She’d have a dance or two with
him,
but nothing more. Stanley’s ex-girlfriends are legion, but Stella remained a singleton. Came alone. Went home alone. For a woman who was always telling everyone else what to do, she seldom spoke about herself. And she never got close to anyone.”

“So Stella never dated Stanley?” Mary Frances raised her voice.

Jeanette smiled, forming deep crinkles around her shrewd blue eyes. “She was too smart to fall for Stanley’s line. I just wish I’d been as smart.”

Mary Frances flinched. “Herb, I’d like another Scarlett O’Hara.”

Kate, more than ready to address the real reason why she and Mary Frances had dropped by the Neptune Inn, said, “Herb, this is important: When Timmy had that last martini here last Tuesday, did he appear to be waiting for anyone? Or speak to anyone? Or use the phone booth?”

Herb shook his head, his heavy jowls swinging slowly from side to side, then flopping back into place. “Not that I remember.” Looking deep in thought, he mixed grenadine with Southern Comfort, stirred, handed the cocktail to Mary Frances, then gave Kate his full attention. “I didn’t see Timmy talking to anyone other than me. We were almost empty, so I would have noticed.”

“You mean Timmy the newsboy?” Jeanette jumped in, her voice high-pitched and excited. “Last Tuesday afternoon, right? That was the last time I saw him. He just disappeared, you know.”

“I know,” Kate said, “and I’m trying to find out why.”

Those shrewd blue eyes met and held Kate’s. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m convinced Timmy has information about Stella’s murder. Like you, I don’t think Stanley killed either Stella or Nancy, and I want to find out who did.”

Jeanette nodded. “So we’re on the same page, then?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “I believe we are.” She liked this spunky older woman.

“Well, I don’t understand how Timmy’s going missing could be connected to Stella’s murder, but I can tell you that he met someone on Tuesday afternoon. Not here in the bar—out on the pier. I arrived a little after four and the pier was deserted, except for two men down at the far end, chatting away like old pals, their heads close together. Timmy was
one…”

“And the other?” Kate was breathless.

Jeanette grinned. “That overstuffed turkey, Wyndam Oberon.”

Twenty-One

Circus clowns came
to mind as
Mary Frances Costello, Jeanette Nelson, and Mildred Green squeezed into Mildred’s Miata. The thought of Mildred driving scared Kate, and she could see that Mary Frances was less than thrilled to be relegated to the car’s minuscule backseat already filled with Lord & Taylor shopping bags.

The three women were heading over to the Palmetto Beach Police Station.

Kate had called Detective Carbone from the Neptune Inn, telling him that Wyndam Oberon had, indeed, known Timmy, and that she had a witness to prove it. She then put Jeanette Nelson on the phone. Carbone had requested Jeanette come in and give a statement about Timmy’s conversation with Oberon on the same day that Timmy had delivered a note to Stella, told Herb Wagner how he’d come into money, and then vanished.

Oberon’s and Timmy’s four o’clock meeting on the pier on Tuesday was all the more intriguing, considering this very afternoon the attorney had lied to both the Del
Ray and Palmetto Beach Police, denying that he’d ever known the newsboy.

Kate, who had to go home and walk Ballou, sincerely regretted that she couldn’t accompany the ladies, if only to hear Mildred Green chat up Nick Carbone.

Jeanette stuck her head out the passenger side window. “Did I tell you Wyndam’s wife ran off with the pool boy fifteen or so years ago? Can’t say that I blame her, the woman certainly wasn’t getting any sex from her husband.” She winked at Kate. “And I can testify to that.”

Mildred hit the gas and the Miata sped off, causing one hapless A1A beachgoer to drop his umbrella as be jumped out of its way.

As Kate opened her car door, she chuckled. No question about it, Carbone would get interesting answers and wild opinions from Jeanette. Not to mention Mildred’s lavender phobia. Humph. Served him right. Wyndam Oberon had been lying through his false teeth and might even be a murderer, but Carbone hadn’t even bothered to
thank
Kate for her detective work.

Ballou, ecstatic to see Kate, nipped and yelped and licked, making their exit strategy difficult, but she finally managed to secure his leash, grab a small bottle of Evian, check her messages, and get him out the door.

Marlene had left two messages indicating she was worried about Kate and asking her to call as soon as she returned.

She’d deal with that later. Kate had two questions for her sister-in-law. Why had Marlene gone to Ireland’s Inn last night? And more importantly, why had she tried to cover up that outing with a lie of omission? She wanted to hear those answers face-to-face.

Kate crossed the lobby, eliciting a frown from Miss Mitford. Didn’t that woman ever go off duty? Here it was five thirty on a Friday night and she was still at her post. Since dogs weren’t permitted to walk through the lobby—one of the condo’s most frequently violated rules—Kate carried Ballou, obeying the letter of the law, but judging from the expression on the sentinel’s face, violating the spirit.

An amazing array of gilt and marble adorned the inside of the front doors.

“Gaudy,” she’d told Charlie.

“Impressive,” he’d said, “like the Roman baths.”

“More John Gotti than Julius Caesar.” She’d made him laugh.

Outside, a warm breeze was accompanied by the smell of salt mixed with jasmine. Kate walked south along
A1A.
On the beach, she might have run into neighbors and, if she’d taken her usual route, north toward the pier, Ballou would have done his Romeo bit under Marlene’s balcony. Kate didn’t want to talk to anyone. She needed to think. And she didn’t have much time—Stella’s visitation started at seven.

Going through Charlie’s files yesterday morning, she’d landed on a folder from July, thirty years ago.
The summer that Charlie and Kate had celebrated their seventeenth wedding anniversary. And the summer that Charlie had worked on the biggest—and most difficult—case of his career.

They’d married on the Fourth of July. Charlie had chosen the date, saying they would always celebrate with fireworks and that he would never forget his anniversary. And he never did. At a backyard picnic, she’d find a gold bracelet in a scoop of watermelon, or a plane would fly by with sky writing in its wake that read: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, KATE.

That July 4th, as the big ships had proudly sailed into New York Harbor and red, white, and blue fireworks lit up the heavens, Kate and Charlie had stood, arms entwined on the deck of a friend’s stoop, watching the boat parade. He’d kissed her cheek and whispered, “So how do you like this year’s present?”

The most romantic night of her life hadn’t been on her honeymoon, or even on a star-filled evening with Jack Simon during that torrid summer of her teens, when Kate had gambled on love and lost. The most romantic night—and yes, the best sex—of her life had happened while celebrating her seventeenth wedding anniversary at the Plaza Hotel.

God, how she missed Charlie.

And later that night while snuggling, his pillow talk had been about homicide. Kate, as an avid murder mystery fan, enjoyed their postcoital chatter almost as much as the sex.

Charlie’s case had involved an errant Park Avenue husband, his seemingly faithful wife, his daughter by a former marriage—a Radio City Rockette—who resented her stepmother, and a rather dashing attorney who’d drawn up the couple’s will and was rumored to be interested in the wife.

When the wife’s body turned up in a garbage can in the alley next to their co-op, the husband appeared to be more upset by her missing jewelry than by the bullet in her brain.

Kate and Charlie had ordered room service and gone to work. Based on the suspects’ alibis and what they’d been doing during the days leading up to the murder, Charlie and Kate had figured out a timeline for each of them.

Both the attorney and the stepdaughter had eaten lunch at Serendipity’s across the street from Bloomingdale’s on the day of the murder. Two different homicide detectives had interviewed them and hadn’t made the connection.
How well did the attorney know the stepdaughter?
As it turned out, well enough to have convinced the stepmother to leave her own considerable estate directly to her stepdaughter, and then to have hired a hit man to murder his client.

Charlie had been made Detective First Grade when he broke what the
Post
had dubbed The Case of the Killer Rockette and the Crooked Attorney. Charlie always had referred to it as Serendipity.

With all the red herrings surfacing in Stella Sajak’s and Nancy Cooper’s murders, Kate desperately needed to review the timelines and motives for all the suspects.

She pictured three possible scenarios for Wyndam Oberon.

1. Oberon had hired Timmy as a hit man and was paying him upfront on the pier. But Timmy would have been unreliable, even if capable of murder. And why would he have delivered that note to Stella, casting suspicion on himself?
   
2. Oberon had hired Timmy to deliver the note and had been paying him for completing the job, then later Oberon himself had met and murdered Stella on the beach. But could Oberon have killed two women?
   
3. Oberon had acted as a middleman for the murderer, and had hired Timmy to deliver the note that set up Stella’s meeting on the beach with Oberon’s killer client. But who could that client be?
   

Kate, leaning toward the third scenario, considered the players.

Stanley Ferris? Could the police actually have the right man in custody and now, based on her detective work, decide that they had the wrong man? She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a Pepcid AC.

David Fry? Sea Breeze’s CEO’s unbridled greed and corruption, thwarted by Stella’s well-organized resistance, added up to a strong motive. Then there had been that killer look.

Joe Sajak? Hadn’t he quickly called Oberon for advice when he’d been frightened that the police might arrest him? And he could have arrived in Palmetto Beach well before Tuesday night, hired the lawyer to serve as his middleman, and set Stella’s murder in motion.

“A penny for your thoughts, or in today’s market, maybe I should make that a dollar?”

At the sound of Joe Sajak’s smooth baritone, Ballou barked, and Kate dropped her pooper-scooper.