Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Two

“Over my
dead body!” Stella Sajak’s shout silenced the rowdy standing-room-only crowd at Palmetto Beach’s Town Hall, a feat that the mayor and her gavel had not been able to accomplish. Kate, leaning against the faux cherry wood wall, wedged between Stella and Marlene and directly across the auditorium from David Fry, jumped as she caught the handsome, white-haired Sea Breeze CEO glaring at the condo president. If looks could kill, Stella would be a goner.

Yet Kate said nothing.

She used to be a Chatty Cathy, except no one needed a string to get her started. When she graduated from grade school, she’d been voted “Most Talkative,” and for the next half-century she’d never had trouble finding her voice…until last spring when Charlie died and suddenly she had nothing to say, except for conversations with a dead man.

Marlene had been eyeing Fry ever since they’d arrived. Let her tell Stella.

The meeting had started out mean and was moving rapidly toward mob mentality. David Fry, at first cool and calm, had presented Sea Breeze’s eminent domain case, but the boos and shouts from the audience quickly drove him into a corner.

The mayor, an attractive blonde, somewhere in her sixties and dressed in an Armani suit—just how high a salary was Palmetto Beach paying Brenda Walters?—had tried to restore order, but her seemingly conciliatory tone toward Sea Breeze’s request had triggered Stella’s angry response.

Kate felt a poke in her ribs as Marlene whispered, “Fry’s an attorney, you know. And a bachelor to boot. Beaucoup bucks. That yellow mansion right across the Intercoastal from Houston’s is his. Lives there all alone. A real hunk, isn’t he?”

Marlene, who knew the stats on every available South Florida male between sixty and death, must have missed Fry’s killer look. And apparently, she hadn’t noticed the unruly constituency.

The fattest of the three councilmen called for order, but the crowd shouted him down.

With mayhem moments away, the mayor banged the gavel and adjoined the meeting, assuring all that she’d reschedule another before the council voted.

As Kate, Marlene, and Stella made their way out, a breathless Mayor Walters dashed up to them, extending her hand to Stella. “We have a difference of opinion, but I promise you a fair hearing. And if you’d like, we can meet privately tomorrow morning.”

Stanley Ferris, another of the condo owners, a retired dentist and practicing philanderer, wizened and weather-beaten, squeezed in between Marlene and Stella, draping a skinny arm around each of them.

“You ought to take our lovely mayor up on that invite, Stella.”

Scowling, Stella shoved Stanley’s elbow off her shoulder, just as an unruffled David Fry emerged from the crowd. A now visibly rattled Stella stumbled over her words while introducing the mayor as “Be—Brenda” to Marlene, Stanley, and Kate. Fry, standing off to the side, appeared amused, almost smirking. Then, much to Kate’s surprise, Stella, regaining her composure, smiled brightly at the mayor and said, “A condo president lives in hope of negotiation. I’ll be in your office at eight.”

The mayor laughed. A charming tinkle. “I’ll be there at ten.”

On their way home, Stella sounded almost optimistic. “The mayor’s first term is up next year. Says she won’t run again, but they all say that; she’s campaigning already. And after today’s fiasco, you can bet that Brenda Walters has to be rethinking Sea Breeze’s offer.”

Marlene groaned. “Enough. If the bad guys win and David Fry buys us out, I’m heading north. You meet a better class of crooks in Palm Beach.”

The giggle that rose in Kate’s throat escaped like an uncontrollable hiccup, startling her.

Marlene managed to check on a crack in her bright orange acrylic thumbnail while making a left turn. “Let’s talk about something fun—like tonight’s party.” She glanced over her shoulder and met Kate’s eyes. “I’m going as Britney Spears, but I just happen to have a serving wench’s costume in storage. If we turned up the hem, made a few nips and tucks, and bought a well-padded push-up bra, you could wear it.”

Feeling her face flush, Kate pulled away from Marlene’s gaze and stared out the window.

“For God’s sake, Marlene,” Stella said. “Forget your nails, shut up about Halloween, and watch the road.”

Marlene smirked, but faced forward. She slowed down as she approached the Intercoastal, and the drawbridge, as if on cue, went up.

This time Kate laughed out loud.

Once on the island, Marlene stopped to buy a
Sun-Sentinel
from one of the newsboys—men, actually, and mostly homeless—stationed on the corner of Neptune Boulevard and A1A. This one they knew by name. Timmy. Every day, he stood in the blazing sun from seven until four. And early mornings were tough for Timmy—he’d told Marlene that he had trouble getting started. He wore a bright pink t-shirt with the newspaper’s logo spread across its front, dirty cutoffs, and a tan that had turned muddy decades ago. Thanking Marlene for the dollar mid the “keep the change,” he smiled, exuding a raffish charm. But today, Timmy’s right front tooth was missing. Kate felt a pang and feared unbidden tears would flow.

These “newsboys” sporting
Sun-Sentinel
pink or
Miami Herald
blue t-shirts crisscrossed all the main intersections of Broward County. Kate thought of them as the walking wounded, and if Charlie hadn’t gone and died on her, she would have volunteered at a homeless shelter.

God, that logic
made
no sense, even to her. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. Could she be losing it?

In the lobby, piped-in Frank Sinatra singing “High Hopes” drowned out the fountain’s noisy gurgle.

Miss Mitford, a wispy strand of white hair escaping her bun but doing nothing to soften her stem demeanor, waved Stella over to the desk. “You have a letter, Mrs. Sajak. Hand delivered.”

Good-quality ecru linen paper, Kate thought, like a formal wedding invitation. Or at least, the way wedding invitations used to look before they started arriving in odd-shaped envelopes and in every color of the rainbow.

Stella stared at the envelope in silence, then shoved it into her briefcase and said, “I’ll see you tonight, Marlene. Goodbye, Kate. You really should consider coming to the Halloween party. I’m going as Carrie Nation. Complete in every detail. I’m even carrying an ax.” Then she spun around, strode back across the lobby, and went out the front door.

Having changed into sweatpants and another of Charlie’s t-shirts, Kate stood at the kitchen counter and dined directly from the refrigerator. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat and a cup of chocolate ice cream. Unless microwaving a Lean Cuisine or hard-boiling an egg counted as cooking, Kate hadn’t fixed a real meal since Charlie died.

Ballou fared better, lapping up the last of the casserole that Marlene had dropped off last night.

An excellent and adventurous chef, Marlene frequently delivered home-cooked dinners and usually hung around to make sure Kate and Ballou ate them. Ballou, like most males, adored Marlene, who’d spoiled him since puppyhood. As much as Kate appreciated Marlene’s ongoing acts of kindness, she also resented her swooping in uninvited and parking herself in front of the television to watch god-awful reality TV trash
.

No worry about that tonight. Marlene, after a last-ditch effort to talk Kate into coming to the Halloween party, went home to “turn myself into Britney.” That would require quite a transformation, Kate thought as she licked the last of her ice cream off the spoon.

“Well, Ballou, I guess what I’ve turned into is a bitch. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

The moon over Miami had nothing over sunset on Palmetto Beach’s horizon. The sky, now streaked with vivid shades of blue, gold, and orange, was slowly muting into navy blue. Soon a harvest moon would hang in the heavens, shining down on the ocean and bathing the beach with its light.

They walked for almost an hour, past the pier, where older pale green, dusty coral, and soft beige condominiums lined the beachfront all the way to the lighthouse. Then, reluctantly, she started back home.

A scarecrow aimed a video camera as assorted ghouls, goblins, witches, and an aging Elvis paraded around the pool and across the patio and entered the recreation room via the double glass doors. Kate crouched behind a scruffy brush of sea grape, soothed a nervous Ballou, and watched the action.

Stella, as promised, carried an ax and looked angry. In character as Carrie Nation? Or in character as Sajak the crusader?

Marlene’s very much in evidence bare midriff made Kate gasp. If the committee was awarding a prize for the most audacious costume, her former sister-in-law had it all sewn up.

Hours later, Kate stood on her balcony under the light of that full moon, listening to the music and the sounds of laughter drifting up from the rec room, holding Ballou, and feeling sorry for herself. Actually, the only thing she savored these lonely nights was self-pity.

Stanley Ferris, dressed in a Texas Ranger costume, appeared on the patio then almost ran around the pool, checking over his shoulder. Could the silly old goat be heading to the beach for a midnight assignation?

Based on his womanizing reputation and his rumored overdosing on Viagra, that would be Kate’s guess.

Stanley shed his snake skin boots and ten-gallon hat. No doubt in anticipation of some septuagenarian
From
Here to Eternity
sex in the surf. For the second time that day, Kate laughed aloud. Then Stanley stumbled over something spread across what appeared to be a previously laid blanket.

A figure approaching from the right caught Kate’s eye.

Mary Frances Costello, Broward County’s reigning Tango Champion, yoga student and ex-nun, made her way through the sand, seriously hampered by her Scarlett O’Hara hoop skirt. Just as Mary Frances reached the blanket Stanley yelled, “Stella!” then collapsed.

Mary Frances’s shrieks drowned out the Ocean Vista band’s rendition of “Strangers in the Night.”

Kate put a frantically barking Ballou down, dashed inside to the phone, and dialed 911.

Three

The Palmetto Beach
Police, sirens blaring, arrived at Ocean Vista a little after midnight. Kate was questioned by Detective Nick Carbone, a surly, dark, balding, middle-aged man, losing the battle of the bulge above his low- slung belt and seemingly suspicious of her every word. He left her apartment at twelve thirty-five with a curt, “We’ll need to take a full statement. Be at the police station tomorrow afternoon at four. I’ll meet you at the front desk.”

Kate couldn’t sleep. The Stanley-Stella beach scene played over and over in her mind, like a movie without an end.

At a quarter to one, restless, she paced the small balcony, Ballou at her side, and watched the last of the still-costumed condo owners straggle out of the rec room, wondering if the cops who’d questioned them had been as intense and suspicious as Carbone.

Stanley Ferris, wearing his Texas Ranger hat but walking like the little old man he was, followed a uniformed cop around to the right of the building. Heading to Stanley’s car? To a patrol car? At least they hadn’t handcuffed
him
. Kate sighed and looked toward the ocean. A crime team had set up spotlights in the sand and were wrapping yellow tape around the blanket. The full moon that she’d admired earlier in the evening now appeared to glare at her. Garish. Obtrusive. God how she missed Charlie.

After a long night and an early morning walk with Ballou, Kate, wearing a floppy straw hat and smeared head-to-toe with SPF 40 sunscreen, collapsed into a beach chair under a yellow and white umbrella at the pool. She couldn’t concentrate on the
Sun-Sentinel’
s crossword puzzle, because something that happened yesterday at the Town Hall now eluded her. Something about Stella. Something odd. But what? How she hated these senior moments.

“Well, I guess someone took Stella’s ‘over my dead body’ literally.” Marlene lowered her considerable girth onto the chaise next to Kate.

No block, straw hat, or umbrella for Marlene. Only a red tankini protected her from the midday sun. Her creased skin, the color of lightly toasted whole wheat, and her aqua-shadowed lids provided a startling contrast to her platinum hair swept up into a French twist. Marlene, never seen without frill eye makeup—even when swimming—could still jackknife and backstroke like a teenager.

Kate put down her pen, turned to her former sister-in-law, and managed to force a smile, noting that Marlene’s attempt to reciprocate looked more like a grimace.

“Is Stanley in jail?”

“The last I saw of our sleazy septuagenarian, a cop was growling at him.”

“You don’t think he killed Stella, do you?”

Marlene shook her head. “You know, sometimes I felt like killing Stella myself. She cheated at Hearts. I wound up with the Queen of Spades in every hand that woman dealt. Anyway, now that she’s dead, we’ll need a fourth.” Suddenly a smile brightened Marlene’s face. “Why don’t you take her place in our lonely Hearts game? Of course, we won’t play again until after the funeral.”

“I hardly knew her. What was she like?”

“Something of a mystery. And, apparently, a liar too.”

“If only I’d warned Stella about David Fly’s killer look during the Town Hall meeting. Or called 911 sooner. Of course, as I told that extremely unpleasant Detective Carbone, Stella had been long dead by the time I saw Stanley stumble over her body. Dear Lord. Shot through the back of the head.” Kate shivered in the sunshine, then asked, “Why was she a mystery? And a liar?”

“Well, did you know that I’m her executrix?”

Kate didn’t.

“And lots of things don’t add up. I spent all morning calling the list of people she wanted invited to her funeral. She’d told me that Pat Sajak and her dead husband were first cousins. So I called
Wheel of Fortune.
Pat actually came to the phone. Said he never heard of Stella or her husband.”

Marlene paused to take a sip from her ever-present can of Coke, as always, liberally laced with rum. Kate waved away her offer to share. “Go on.”

“Then Stella asked Nancy Cooper, the society editor at the
Palmetto Beach Gazette,
to write her obituary. You know Nancy, she’s way younger than most of us, lives in Penthouse Two, the one facing both the ocean and Fort Lauderdale’s skyline. Anyhoo, I have a copy of the obit, so I called Northwestern, where Stella supposedly graduated cum laude forty-four years ago, to let them know. For their alumni records. They never heard of her either.”

Kate sneezed. She’d like to uproot then strangle that sweet-smelling, sneeze-inducing jasmine. “Strange. Have you ever met her husband?”

“Bless you.” Marlene yanked a tissue out from her tankini top and handed it to Kate. “He died before Stella moved down here from Chicago ten years ago. No kids. Never had any company. Yet she thrived on being with people, loved the limelight, worked part-time for the Chamber of Commerce, and was very active in local politics and in the condo too.”

Why would a Northwestern grad need a society editor to write her obituary? And why would this Nancy Cooper have agreed to do it? The
Palmetto Beach Gazette
had an excellent full-time obit writer on staff. Lots of dying went on in this town. Kate, like many of its residents, turned to the obituary page first. And why had no one from up North ever come to visit Stella?

Even though Kate had been here only six months, her older son, Kevin, a busy Flatbush firefighter, along with his wife, Jennifer, an even busier bond trader, and her youngest son, Peter, a not-so-busy freelance writer, and Edmund, the doctor/interior designer, had all visited twice since Charlie died.

Her two granddaughters, one in college in Boston and the other a senior in high school, apparently the busiest of the bunch, had come down only for the funeral.

Stella Sajak had seemed too strident, too outgoing, too on-stage to be a mystery woman. But Kate had read enough of Carl Hiaasen to know that South Florida was a mecca for scalawags, swindlers, and scam artists. Former drug dealers lived in mansions on the Intercoastal. White-collar criminals, after serving time in country club prisons, changed their names, moved to Harbor Isle or Hobe Sound, then sailed into their sunset years, endowing libraries and hosting charity balls, without their neighbors ever suspecting that they once had been convicts.

“Here comes the dancing nun.” Marlene’s words pulled Kate out of speculation and back to reality.

Mary Frances Costello made her way through the maze of chaises and chairs, clearly heading in their direction. Kate had decided that there were two kinds of ex-nuns: Those who dressed in uniforms—not unlike their former habits—navy or gray polyester suits and white or cream blouses. And those who, wanting to make up for all the fashion fads they’d missed while living in the convent, dressed trendier than any teenager. Mary Frances, wearing a white halter and bell bottoms, fell into the latter category.

When she’d moved south from Minneapolis six years ago, Mary Frances had segued straight from the convent to the condo. Marlene, who in addition to knowing the stats on South Florida’s over-sixty single men was also keeping a mental dossier on Ocean Vista’s owners, had told Kate that she found the pretty redhead to be among the most intriguing.

What Kate found particularly fascinating were Mary Frances’s upper arms. Firm, muscular, yet feminine. No old lady bat wings waving in the wind. Could yoga be the reason why this gal could get away with—well
almost
get away with—a halter?

Marlene had also told Kate, “Mary Frances lowers her age by a year every time anyone asks how old she is. Using her math, she must have become a nun in nursery school.”

Svelte of figure and firm of face, with thick hair, big blue eyes, and a pug nose, Mary Frances could have passed for fifty, but Marlene had assured Kate that the ex-nun was over sixty.

Whatever her age, this morning, wiping her eyes and minus her makeup, Mary Frances looked great.

“Hey,” Marlene shouted, “is Stanley in the hoosegow?”

Mary Frances wrinkled her nose in Marlene’s direction as if she smelled something rotten. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Marlene, taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. I’m
so
sorry to disappoint you, but Stanley’s upstairs sleeping.”

“I figure he’d been booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. Is he out on bail?” Marlene spoke with relish, but patted the cushion on the chaise next to her, motioning for Mary Frances to sit down.

“You’re a wicked woman.” Mary Frances flicked her auburn curls from one shoulder to the other. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Now don’t go getting your rosary beads in a twist. If you really don’t believe that Stanley killed Stella, sit down and let’s try to figure out who did.”

To Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances sat. Marlene riffled through her carry-on-size tote—tomato red to match her tankini—and pulled a can of Coke out of a tiny cooler, then continued rummaging. “I have rum in here somewhere. Want me to add a shot?”

“God, no.” Mary Frances sighed. “I had more than enough rum last night. My head aches and I can’t even remember what I told that detective…”

“Carbone?” Kate asked before Marlene could open her mouth. “Kind of bulky and burly?”

“No.” Mary Frances frowned. “Farber, I think. Short and skinny. Looked a little like Stanley. I kept getting them confused.” She pressed the Coke can to her forehead. “I swear I’m never going to drink again.”

“You didn’t kill Stella, did you?” Marlene asked, holding up the bottle of rum. “You know, in a blackout?”

Mary Frances, in one fluid, graceful movement, stood up, then slowly walked to the back of Marlene’s chaise and poured the entire can of Coke over her head.