Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Four

Kate watched Marlene
step away from the outdoor shower at the deep end of the pool and wrap a white terry cloth turban around her just-rinsed hair. She wasn’t surprised that her former sister-in-law had responded to the unexpected Coke shampoo with a veneer of good humor. Yet Kate sensed hostility. She’d watched Marlene cover up hurt feelings since first grade.

Back on the chaise, Marlene nodded in acknowledgment of Mary Frances’s third apology. “I swear I don’t know what in the world possessed me to do such a thing.” Grabbing a cosmetic case from the zippered pocket in Marlene’s tote bag, Kate handed it to her.

Marlene pulled out a mirror and surveyed the damage. “Yuck. You really did a job on my mascara, Mary Frances. Ran right down into my puppet lines. A new wrinkle in makeup. Charcoal gray streaks to highlight our deepest creases. I’m going to market the idea to Covergirl.” Mary Frances’s blush started at the base of her neck and quickly spread to her forehead. “Please let me take you and Kate to lunch. A small way to show you how sorry I am for my childish behavior. Besides, I desperately need to talk to you both about the murder. About Stanley and”—she sighed and turned an even darker red—“Stella.”

Kate knew Mary Frances’s fourth apology was a winner. With an invitation like that, Marlene would have dined with the devil himself.

The Ocean Vista’s dining room, all cheery blue and white checks with white Formica tables and chairs, usually noisy and bustling at high noon, was subdued. Far fewer people eating lunch today. And those who were wore funeral faces. Kate questioned their sincerity, but realized that judgment was based on what Marlene believed and had repeated again this morning, “Most of the condo owners thought Stella was a tyrant And most except for a few foolish old women, consider Stanley a snake.” Could Stella’s murder and Stanley’s being the prime suspect have changed their neighbors’ opinions overnight? Or had Marlene been wrong?

The sun streaming in through the window streaked the daily choices. Kate shifted her chair so she could read the menu. Across from her, Marlene had decided.

“I’ll
have the flounder,” she was telling the perky blond waitress, whose handwritten name tag read
TIFFANI—
with a red heart drawn over the i—and who wore neon green high heel sneakers and a megawatt smile.

Tiffani nodded approvingly. “It’s fresh caught this morning. I heard the chef say. ‘At least the fish won’t kill anyone today.’”

With that assurance, Kate ordered the flounder too.

Mary Frances opted for scrambled eggs and dry toast.

Nursing an upset stomach or on a diet? She certainly didn’t look ill, but
maybe…

‘Tiffani,” Marlene called after the waitress. “A bottle of dry white wine would be nice. And you can bring me a Caesar salad too. And a hot fudge sundae for dessert. Miss Costello’s paying.”

Mary Frances’s fifth apology mercifully ended when Tiffani brought the food. Marlene dug right in.

Sipping her tea and playing with her eggs, Mary Frances frowned. “I need some advice, but I want you both to promise to keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

Marlene drained her white wine, then raised her right hand. “I’ll keep it as sacred and as secret as the seal of the confessional.”

“It’s not the penitent,” Kate said, “it’s the priest who’s bound to secrecy.”

“Don’t be so technical. The point is I will never reveal what Mary Frances tells us, not even under torture.”

A slight smile formed, then faded on Mary Frances’s face. “For some strange reason, I believe Marlene. Or maybe I’m just so desperate.” She started to cry. Loud sobs, accompanied by heaving shoulders.

Kate patted her arm. “What is it?”

“Stanley may have murdered Stella.” Mary Frances used her napkin to wipe her eyes.

“But you
said…”
Marlene started.

Under the table, Kate kicked Marlene’s shin, then turned to Mary Frances. Using her most motherly tone, she said, “Tell us why you
think
that.”

“Well, first off, he’s vice-president of the condo association. I know for a fact that he coveted Stella’s job.”

“Good God, woman,” Marlene spat out the words. “You don’t really believe that Stanley would kill Stella to become condo president, do you?”

Mary Frances stared at her cold eggs.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Kate asked gently.

Mary Frances nodded. “Stanley left the Halloween party well before his scheduled rendezvous with me. Stella ducked out a few minutes later. When he returned, alone, I watched him, standing on the patio and dumping sand out of these snakeskin boots.” She almost hissed the last few words.

A woman scorned? Kate wondered.

Mary Frances hadn’t finished. “Stella never came back. The next time I saw her, she was dead.”

Marlene, moving her chair out of Kate’s range, said, “Did you ask Stanley where he’d gone?”

“I didn’t have to ask. He’d spent a good part of the evening huddled in private conversations with Stella. That’s probably why I drank so much. I even overheard Stella, bold as brass, flirting with him. It almost sounded as if she’d had an affair with him.”

“Certainly does,” Marlene said, almost gleefully. “So he went down to the beach, laid the blanket, waited for Stella to arrive, shot her, went back to the party, then later returned to the scene of the crime to meet you.”

Kate shook her head. “We don’t know that happened.” Kate had heard Stanley scream, “Stella!” She remembered the horror in his voice.

Mary Frances shoved her eggs to one side, and said, “Indeed, we don’t. Lots of people went out on the patio for a smoke or a smooch or a whiff of ocean air. For example, Marlene, you left the party around the same time as Stella, but you came back as alive and annoying as ever.”

“For God’s sake,” Marlene shouted. “Don’t change your suspect in mid-sentence. Stella was found dead on Stanley’s blanket, wasn’t she?” Marlene pointed a finger, its orange nail glittering in the sunshine, in Mary Frances’s direction. “And you didn’t tell the police what you’d overheard, did you?”

“No.”

Mary Frances started sobbing again, then jumped up and fled from the dining room.

“Damn that woman,” Marlene said. “She ran off and stuck us with the check.”

“I have to get ready for my interview with Detective Carbone.” Kate placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and started to stand up. “Good Lord, isn’t that David Fry?” She froze, suddenly overcome by irrational fear. She had no doubt that Fry wanted Stella silenced, but he wouldn’t have permanently shut her up, would he?

“Where?”

“He just walked through the door with a woman I know but can’t place. They’re heading in our direction.”

Marlene whipped her neck around so fast that Kate could hear it crack.

“Of all the gin joints in the world, he walks into Ocean Vista’s dining room on the day my hair is hidden under a turban and my makeup is messed up beyond repair.”

Kate willed herself to calm down. “Who’s the blonde?”

“Nancy Cooper. The society editor for the
Gazette.
We just talked about her earlier. How can you have lived here for six months, so insulated and isolated that you don’t recognize your neighbors?”

“I’ve seen her in the lobby; I just couldn’t put a name to the face. And she can’t be more than forty or forty-five. Rather young to be living in Ocean Vista, isn’t she?”

“Do sit down, Kate. They’re almost here. God, he’s gorgeous. So Cary Grant. But why is Nancy consorting with the enemy? Not that I’d be above a little consorting myself.”

“Hello, Marlene.” Nancy’s deep voice sounded somber. “Have you ladies met David Fry?” Not waiting for Marlene to answer, Nancy turned to Kate, extending a hand. “I’m Nancy Cooper. You’re the widow in 301, right?”

Was that to be her new identity? Where had Kate, the girl with the chestnut curls, gone? Kate, the airline stewardess? Kate, the wife? Kate, the mother? Kate, the grandmother? Would she forevermore be defined by Charlie’s death?

She stood, shaky, afraid she might scream. “The name is Kennedy. Kate Kennedy. Please excuse me. I have an appointment.”

Twenty minutes later, out of the shower and deciding what to wear to her interview with Detective Carbone, Kate heard Marlene’s distinctive rat-a-tat-tat on her door. Ballou barked energetically, welcoming her.

She hesitated, then opened it. “Sorry. I don’t have time to talk.”

“We have to talk. You don’t have to be at the police station till four. It’s only two thirty. Sit down.” Marlene motioned toward the living room. “This won’t take long.”

Kate sighed, then retied her white terry cloth robe, and led Marlene, who was being licked by an adoring Ballou, through the foyer to the off-white couch. She sat on the edge of a taupe wing chair. “I have things to do before I leave. You have five minutes.”

“Look, Nancy Cooper may be shallow, but she isn’t cruel. Just doesn’t think. Wait till you see how she plays Hearts. You’ll cream her. So she didn’t know your name. Hell, you didn’t know hers either.”

“Was my running away that obvious?”

“Absolutely.” Behind Marlene’s bravado, Kate sensed anxiety.

Kate’s stomach knotted. Acid gurgled. The truth hurt. She said nothing, wondering if Marlene could hear the rumbling. But the rest of her body language remained as still as the silence, and though ashamed to admit it, Kate rather enjoyed watching Marlene squirm.

In these standoffs—they’d never had a real quarrel—Marlene had always been the one to speak first

After an eternity of seconds, Marlene waved her right arm. “Maybe people see you as a widow because that’s the role you’ve chosen to play. You see yourself as Charlie’s widow, so why are you surprised when that’s the way the world reacts to you?”

The acid rose up and almost gagged Kate.

“Listen to me, Kate”—the tremble in Marlene’s voice confirmed her nervousness—“you and I should try to figure out who killed Stella.”

Where had
that
come from? Her old friend never ceased to amaze.

Marlene was now talking with both hands. “Despite my tormenting Mary Frances, I don’t think Stanley Ferris has the moxie to murder a moth. The motive must be connected to Stella’s mysterious past. And who knows how many of Palmetto Beach’s residents aren’t who or what they say they are.”

Kate had been thinking about that too. And about David Fry. And about trying to dredge up whatever it was that she couldn’t remember about the Town Hall meeting. It had happened as they were leaving. Stanley had draped one arm over Marlene’s shoulders and another over Stella’s, just before the mayor had agreed to talk to Stella the next morning. David Fry had been standing close by, smirking at them. Would that meeting with Stella have changed the mayor’s mind? Leaving David Fry and Sea Breeze out in the cold? And hadn’t Mary Frances been there? Right behind Stanley? Did that mean anything? Kate again reached in vain for the missing piece of the puzzle.

Annoying. But at least she felt better.

“Is this just another scheme to take my mind off Charlie?”

“Hell, no.” Marlene’s voice sounded steadier. “We need to remember everything he said. Charlie Kennedy was the best damn homicide detective in New York City. Didn’t he tell us so a million times? With all those murder cases we’ve heard about and all those Agatha Christie mysteries we’ve read, we’re probably better prepared for the job than the Palmetto Beach Police Department. Nothing like becoming embroiled in a good murder to take your mind off grief…
”
Marlene suddenly shut up, as if worried that she’d gone too far.

Kate had read a shelf load of books dealing with the grieving process. She knew that to assuage their grief, some widows took on the identity of their late husbands. She’d suspected she was one of them. While working on a homicide, Charlie had shared his theories with her. And she’d saved all his case files. It might be like having him around again.

“You know, Marlene, perhaps we could ask a few discreet questions.”

Five

Resentment and remembrance,
a deadly combination, ate away at her psyche.

Marlene frowned at her cold cream-covered reflection in the mirror, then rigorously removed the streaked makeup. Too bad secrets and lies and their by-products, guilt and fear, couldn’t be wiped away with a Kleenex.

God knows if she could erase the slate, she would—but she couldn’t, and neither worry nor regret would change a damn thing.

Marlene sighed, then rinsed her face, patted it dry, and applied astringent, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand, putting on a new face.

Hell, she’d just have to go on living with her stained soul.

As she reached for the eyelash curler, the phone rang.

Naked, she navigated around the clothes and shoes strewn across the bedroom and picked up her aqua Princess Phone. A treasure she’d hung on to through three husbands.

“Marlene Friedman.” She’d also hung on to her maiden name.

“Miz Friedman, this is Mr. Adams, of the
Adams
Family Mortuary.” He spoke with a thick Southern accent and in a mournful monotone. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible to go over the late Stella Sajak’s funeral arrangements.”

“What? With me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Miz Sajak’s attorney just called. The police expect to have the autopsy completed by late tomorrow, then they’ll release the body to us either tomorrow evening or early Friday morning. And, well, ma’am, since you’re the deceased’s executrix, you’ll be the one in charge.”

Marlene picked up a pink marabou slipper lying on the table next to the phone and flung it across the room. “I wasn’t aware that Stella’s funeral would be my responsibility, Mr.—er—Adams.”

“Oh yes, ma’am. The attorney has assured me that you’re the designated planner. You have a budget of ten thousand dollars. We can arrange a mighty fine memorial service. Could you come by early this evening? Say five thirty. We’re between viewings then.”

“Certainly, Mr. Adams. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing at cocktail hour than picking out a coffin.”

She hung up and called Kate. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll drive you to the police station, if you’ll come with me to the funeral parlor.”

Marlene riffled through her closet and finally found her grape and plum chiffon jumpsuit hidden under a yellow duster. The plum in the floral print was an exact match for her lipstick. She stepped into plum wedges and added an amethyst necklace and matching bracelet. Placing a record on the turntable, she checked herself in a full-length mirror.

Not bad for a fat old lady with a checkered past.

The smooth strains of “The Stars Fell on Alabama” filled the bedroom. This time the memories felt good. Fifty years ago. August. Cotton candy. Kernels from sweet com on the cob stuck in her teeth. Screaming on roller coasters. Betting on penny-ante poker in the arcade. Bench-kissing under the boardwalk. Marlene had jump-started the hippies’ summer of love by more than a decade.

She was smiling when she arrived in the lobby.

Kate, wearing khaki pants, a blue button-down, cotton shirt, and brown loafers—not very different from the classic look she favored in high school—stood at the front desk chatting with the dour Miss Mitford. Marlene noted with satisfaction that Kate had taken the time to apply makeup and blow-dry her thick silver hair.

“I’ve been asking Miss Mitford about the note that Stella received yesterday.”

Score one for Kate. Marlene had forgotten all about that. “And?”

“Timmy hand-delivered it, while we were at the Town Hall meeting.”

“Timmy? You mean my Timmy, who sells the
Sun-Sentinel
on Neptune Boulevard and A1A?”

“Yes. Miss Mitford described him perfectly.”

Pride flickered on the desk clerk’s sourpuss. By God, Kate had charmed the dragon lady.

“Said he was only the delivery boy.” Miss Mitford sounded less miserable than usual. “Someone must have paid him to bring it here. I hope he used the money for a bath. Smelled like a skunk. I’d just finished spraying disinfectant when Mrs. Sajak and you two ladies returned.”

“T
hank
you again.” Kate, her green eyes glowing, turned from the desk and said, “Come on, Marlene, it’s only three thirty. Let’s go find Timmy.”

With the top down, the sun warmed their faces and the ocean breeze ruffled Kate’s hair, but Marlene knew her teased twist was weatherproof.

On the approach to the bridge, the
Miami Herald
newsboy—like Timmy, well into middle age and tanned to the color of tobacco—worked both sides of the road, darting back and forth to catch the incoming and outgoing cars. Marlene leaned across Kate and yelled, “Paper.”

As the man weaved his way through the traffic, Kate twisted around and glanced over her shoulder toward the ocean. “I don’t see Timmy anywhere.”

“And that’s really odd,” Marlene said. “A lot of these guys don’t last a day, never mind a season. But this has been Timmy’s turf for years. He’s as dependable as the humidity.”

The
Miami Herald
guy smiled, thrusting the paper at Kate. She handed him a few dollars. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.”

As he started across the boulevard, Kate grabbed the tail of his t-shirt. “Please, I have a question.”

He turned, his watery blue eyes unhappy.

“Hey, I have other customers, lady.”

“I’ll make it quick. Where’s Timmy?”

“Don’t know. He never showed up today.”

“When did you see him last?”

A horn blew.
“That’s two questions, lady.”

“It’s important.” Kate sounded contrite and sincere. June Cleaver with just the right touch of Jessica Fletcher. Marlene felt more than justified in having tempted Kate to play detective.

“Timmy was jumpy all yesterday morning, then he left for about fifteen minutes in the early afternoon. Said he had a job to do, and that he’d been paid some good money. He came back and worked till four, but he seemed twitchy, then didn’t show today. I don’t mind. With no
Sun-Sentinel
competition, I sold twice as many
Heralds.
”

Marlene, thinking about how she’d bought a paper from Timmy after he’d delivered the note, snapped, “Well, did Timmy tell you who hired him?”

The man readjusted his newspapers, shook his head, and dashed off in the direction of the still honking horn.

The bridge came down and locked in place, and when Marlene didn’t move forward fast enough, the driver of the silver SUV that had pulled up behind her honked too. She spun around to gesture that they were, finally, heading across. The driver, showing great teeth, smiled, then waved.

“Kate, is that Killer-Look Fry following us?”

The Palmetto Beach Police Department shared a parking lot with Town Hall. Beige stucco and box-shape architecture made for a truly ugly building.

Kate grimaced. “Town Hall looks almost graceful by default.”

Still thinking about David Fry, Marlene nodded vaguely as they walked through the front door.

The waiting room could have belonged to a low-rent dentist. Pale green walls, cheap rattan furniture, and even by Marlene’s lax housekeeping standards, grimy and gritty.

Seated at a metal desk, a handsome young African-American man in a well-pressed uniform looked up and smiled, “How can I help you, ladies?”

“I’m Mrs. Kennedy. And this is my sister-in-law, Ms. Friedman. I have an appointment with Detective Carbone.” Marlene thought Kate sounded nervous. After all these years, she still had trouble knowing what was really going on with Kate, who, even as a kid, kept her feelings to herself.

The officer stood. “Follow me, please. Detective Carbone is waiting for you.”

Marlene walked alongside Kate.

“Not you, ma’am. Please have a seat. Mrs. Kennedy shouldn’t be too long.”

Marlene sat. Her own feelings were crystal clear—annoyed that she wouldn’t hear what Kate told the detective—annoyed and a little worried.

Soul searching for the second time in one afternoon—she vowed not to let this become a habit—she didn’t realize that someone had come through the door, and she jumped when a deep voice said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Friedman. Marlene, if I may. What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think we’d meet again so soon and in, of all places, a police station.”

David Fry. Damn, he had been following them. Frazzled, she stared at him. The enemy. The
man
who wanted to tear down her home. The man Kate thought might have murdered Stella. The most gorgeous man in South Florida. Smiling at her.

“Let me apologize for honking at you as the bridge opened. I had no idea that you and Mrs. Kennedy were in the car in front of me. I never like to reveal my short fuse to such lovely ladies. Especially those I would like to have join me for cocktails. After my appointment with Detective Farber, of course.”

She always had a weakness for scoundrels and snakes. At this stage of the game, would the great scorekeeper in the sky even bother to count one more sleaze play? Batting her eyes, she accepted David Fry’s offer and
arranged to meet him after she and Kate left the funeral parlor.

“Since we can’t set a definite time to rendezvous, why don’t you and Mrs. Kennedy come directly to my home? Anytime between six thirty and seven would be fine. And perhaps I can entice you both to stay for dinner at eight.”

Said the spider to the fly…

“That would be lovely,” Marlene said, transfixed by his blue eyes and not yet frantic about how the hell she could explain this to Kate.