Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

Six

Detective Carbone picked
at a hangnail on his left index finger. Kate’s eyes moved from that distasteful operation to the name plate on his cluttered metal desk. NICHOLAS CARBONE
.
Had anyone ever called him Nicholas? Or Nicky? Probably not even his mother. He was definitely a Nick.

The room smelled from a half-eaten meatball hero, heavy on the garlic, lying on a stained paper napkin, next to a cup of black coffee, long gone cold. The air conditioner must have been set at 50 degrees. Kate pulled her navy blue cardigan out of her shoulder bag and slipped her right arm into a sleeve.

Carbone stopped picking and handed Kate a sheet of paper. “Your interview from last night. I typed it up right after I left you. Read it. See if anything jogs your memory. What you’ve told me so far hasn’t been much help.” With that, he raised his finger to his mouth.

God, was he going to bite off the hangnail? Kate turned away, pulling on her left sleeve and breathing deeply, not wanting to open her purse and pop a Pepcid AC. When she glanced at him again, he’d removed his finger from his mouth.

She squared her shoulders and swallowed hard. “There is something I forgot to mention, but it has nothing to do with what I saw last night.”

“And that would be?” His raspy voice reeked of skepticism.

“At the city council meeting yesterday afternoon, David Fry—you must know that he and Stella were involved in a nasty legal battle—anyway, as Stella argued her position, David Fry gave her a killer look.”

Even to her ears, she sounded foolish.

“Is that right, Mrs. Kennedy? A killer look. I’ll make a note of that. Now about Mr. Ferris’s activities on Tuesday night.”

“But I told you everything I witnessed.”

“Just read the report. You might surprise both of us.” Embarrassed and flustered, she read. Carbone’s detached writing style saddened her. A woman had been murdered on the beach, less than three yards from Kate’s balcony. Had the words she’d chosen to describe that tragedy really been so dispassionate? Or had Carbone left out the passion for his own purposes?

Moving to the edge of her seat, Kate fought the urge to run, knowing she had to stay put until dismissed. “Yes, Detective Carbone. That’s what I saw. It’s what I felt that’s missing.”

“Okay, why don’t we try again?”

Kate took it from the top. With more feeling, but no new facts.

Carbone listened intently, but had only one question. “Was Stanley Ferris really surprised when he stumbled over Stella’s body, or could that have been an act for the benefit of anyone who happened to have a balcony seat?”

“If you’re asking me if he staged the scene, the answer is no.”

“You sound very certain of that, Mrs. Kennedy. Why?”

“Your suspect is a philanderer and a silly, pathetic old man, Detective, but not for a New York millisecond do I believe that Stanley Ferris possesses either the smarts or the spunk to shoot Stella, get rid of the gun, go back and party, return to the beach, and
act
shocked.” Kate and Marlene had agreed that scenario was total fiction.

“And what do you base your opinions on?” His rasp turned ugly.

Kate stood. “Forty-five years of pillow talk with the smartest homicide detective in New York City. And my own well-honed awareness of people and their foibles.” Where had that come from? Bold and brave, not to mention boastful. Next she’d be crediting Miss Marple. “If you don’t have anything else, my friend is waiting.”
Before Carbone could answer, she scurried out the door and smack into David Fry’s chest.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Kennedy.” Fry smiled, losing his balance but retaining his charm. “Our paths seemed to have crossed again.”
Well aware that
she’d
bumped into him, Kate wanted only to escape from the police station. Muttering a quick apology, she circled around him and continued toward the waiting room.

Fry called after her, “See you later.” She felt too miserable to question why he would say that.

A few minutes later in the car, Marlene asked, “Feeling better?” She sounded so solicitous that Kate, unaccountably, felt annoyed.

“Yes. I’m fine now.” And she was, or at least her stomach had settled down. Her mind was still in turmoil.

Marlene took a right off Federal Highway. A white limo, a half-block long, stretched out in front of them, signaling their arrival at the Adams Family Mortuary. The gracious antebellum house, set back off the street, was complete with a green lawn, magnolia trees, a winding driveway, and white columns and a verandah. What a way to go.

They parked behind a white hearse next to the funeral parlor and Kate, half joking, asked, “Do the pallbearers wear white too?”

“Probably. When I attended Marty Rose’s funeral, the undertaker and his entire staff wore white tuxedos. Kind of disconcerting, like the corpse was going off to a senior prom.”

Kate shuddered.

The front door opened into a huge foyer, painted forest green with glossy white moldings. A huge crystal chandelier was suspended from the high ceiling, and sconces on both walls held lighted candles—a bit much on a still sunny afternoon. A velvet and cane chair, artistically positioned near what appeared to be an authentic Hepplewhite desk, was empty.
Nary a soul in sight.

Kate assumed the dead were laid out in viewing rooms, located behind the doors on either side of the foyer. And that their mourners had taken a dinner break. But where was Mr. Adams?

Marlene called out, “Anyone home?” Then groaned. “I can’t believe I have to select the casket and what she’ll wear and—”

“Have you ever read Stella’s will? I mean as executrix, I’d think—”

“No. About three months ago, Wyndam Oberon, Stella’s lawyer, kind of a sweet old guy, reminds me of Clarence in
It’s a Wonderful Life,
came over and Stella
signed a new will. Two of the neighbors were witnesses. I was appointed as executrix, but none of us got to read it.”

“Do you think she had any money? And if so, who inherited it? And who, if anyone, had she cut out? Or put in? An anxious heir might get Stanley Ferris off Detective Carbone’s hook.”

“Why hasn’t her attorney called me? He found time to phone Adams and give him my number, didn’t he? If I’m kept in the dark, how in the hell can I execute Stella’s will?” Marlene sank into the dainty velvet chair. The cane frame appeared fragile, old, and expensive. Kate held her breath. It wouldn’t be the first chair to collapse under her former sister-in-law’s weight.

“Ladies, welcome. I’m Samuel Adams.” A slight man, about fifty with a bad comb-over, almost danced down the stairs, clapping his hands and smiling broadly. He wore a formal cutaway, the traditional jacket with tails, stripe pants, wide tie, and pearl-button vest, but instead of charcoal gray wool, his had been tailored in white polyester.

As Marlene struggled to get out of the chair, Mr. Adams grabbed hold of both her elbows and hoisted her up. Stronger than he looked.

Once on her feet, Marlene introduced Kate, then stepped into the man’s space and peered into his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Adams, it’s five thirty. We have less than an hour to decide on Stella’s hair, makeup, casket service, music, flowers, burial site, and reception. I’ll give the eulogy. And a bag piper, playing ‘Amazing Grace’ would be a nice touch. Where do we start?”

Mr. Adams shepherded them though one of the doors that led not to a viewing room but a cozy parlor, complete with settees, overstuffed armchairs, crocheted throws, and a faux fireplace. A touch of Cape Cod transported to Palmetto Beach. He opened a glossy white folder, pulled a
Mont Blanc from his inside breast pocket, and with great flair and fine penmanship wrote on the top of a crisp sheet of paper,
Stella Sajak’s Farewell.

Somewhere between selecting the poem for the memorial card and pigs-in-the-blanket as the third canapé to be served at Ocean Vista’s recreation hall reception, Kate said, “I have to go home and walk Ballou.”

With Charlie’s funeral arrangements still so fresh in her mind, why had she agreed to come here with Marlene? That terrible time of unrelenting grief, tempered only by squabbling between his sons over the best phrase for his tombstone.

The boys, no longer able to vie for their father’s attention, had fought over who would have the last word. Yet somehow, that competition had warmed her heart and, ever so slightly, had eased her pain.

“Listen, Kate, I need to get this over with, and you just took Ballou out a few hours ago.” Marlene’s sharp tone jarred Kate. “Mr. Adams has viewing hours tonight.” The funeral director nodded. “So,
please,
if you must go…to walk the dog or whatever, take the car, then get right back here and pick me up.”

“But—”

“No buts. We’re invited for cocktails, and maybe dinner, at the most beautiful house in Palmetto Beach. I’m too old to let this golden opportunity pass me by.” Her voice rose to a shrill. “And unless you agree to come with me, I won’t let you drive my car home to walk your adorable dog.”

Kate almost laughed. Marlene sounded like a spoiled child.

“Whose house?” she asked, knowing the answer, and also knowing that she’d never told Marlene about running—literally—into David Fry.

Mr. Adams, obviously hanging on every word, twirled his pen.

Marlene stared at the door. “David Fry’s.”

Kate considered, then rejected, making Marlene squirm and explain. Truth be told, she wanted to check out her prime suspect and where better than in his natural habitat?

“Give me the car keys. I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

Seven

A black wreath
hanging on Ocean Vista’s front door greeted Kate. And at the lobby desk, Miss Mitford had changed into a black suit with a peplum, which must have been at least fifty years old. The handful of residents
milling
around Aphrodite appeared appropriately funereal too, wearing grave expressions and speaking in hushed tones.

Mary Frances Costello, dressed in a black linen sheath, stood in the center of the circle, looking very much like mourner-in-chief. A major attitude adjustment. At lunch, she’d openly expressed her dislike and jealousy of Stella.

Giving Kate a sad little smile, Mary Frances broke away from the somber group. “I just heard that Marlene is planning Stella’s funeral. Can that be true?”

Recognizing an Irish instinct to, if not keen, at least be a prominent part of any wake, Kate chose her words carefully. “Yes, it’s true. Stella’s attorney, following his client’s wishes, requested that Marlene, as executrix of the will, handle the arrangements.”

Mary Frances sniffed. “I know Marlene is an old friend of yours and a former sister-in-law to boot, but come on,
Kate. The woman has no taste. Stella would want a quiet dignity. What she’ll get is soap opera drama, with Marlene playing the Susan Lucci role.”

Kate bit her lip, suppressing an urge to lash out. “I’ve been to at least three funerals that Marlene planned—all monuments to good taste—including my brother-in-law’s.” Kate saw no need to mention the white doves that Marlene had released during Kevin’s burial at Calvary Cemetery, or the massive amount of poop that they’d dropped all over the neighboring graves and Father Shea’s shoes. “We should respect Stella’s judgment.”

Kate savored the irony. She, not the ex-nun, was coming off like Mother Superior.

“It’s Marlene’s judgment I’m worried about. Rumor has it that she asked Stanley to sing ‘Send in the Clowns’ at the service.”

God, could that be possible? “You’ll have to excuse me, Mary Frances. I have to go.”

As she waited for the elevator, Kate overheard Mary Frances tell the other mourners, “At least we can thank God that Nancy Cooper is writing the obituary.”

When Kate walked in the door, Ballou gave a happy woof and jumped up to greet her.

“Hey, down, down.”

His sharp little claws hit her just below the knee and hurt. When she bent to pet him, he engulfed her hand in his mouth, his ultimate gesture of affection, once reserved only for Charlie. Over the past six months, Ballou and Kate had grown closer. Though she still thought of the Westie as Charlie’s dog, their mutual loss had forged a bond.

“Now I have to wash my hands,” she grumbled, but sensed that Ballou saw right through her. When she came back with the leash, his yips came sharp and clear.

“Hold still while I get this on,” Kate said as Ballou nipped her leg and wriggled wildly. As always, the moment the leash was in place, he turned into a model citizen, ready to go anywhere.

On the beach, Ballou trotted importantly ahead of Kate.

Following his lead, skirting around the yellow crime scene tape and heading south, away from the pier, Kate was chatting away, totally engaged in her one-sided conversation with Charlie. At least today she had a fresh topic.

“I’m sure Stanley didn’t kill Stella, but how can I convince that dunderhead Carbone? Oh, Charlie, you’d turn him into shredded wheat and eat him for breakfast. He scoffed at my David Fry theory and I just ran away. God, I need a plan of action. And here’s what I’m
thinking
: Why don’t I steal one of yours? Tonight, I’ll open those bloody boxes, dig out your files, and study your strategies.”

As if Charlie had answered her—and maybe in some sense he had—Kate rapidly made three decisions. First thing tomorrow morning, she’d call the
Sun-Sentinel
and see what, if anything, their circulation department knew about Timmy’s apparent vanishing act Next she’d check out Sea Breeze Inc.’s ice rink and resort hotel site—a hotbed of graft and payoff accusations—on Palmetto Beach’s oceanfront. Why had two other Broward County towns spumed David Fry’s proposal? Were he and his company guilty of those corruption charges? Stella Sajak certainly had believed they were. Then she’d pay a visit to Nancy Cooper, who must have learned something about
Stella’s mysterious past while gathering material for her obituary.

Gulping the salt air and feeling almost frisky, Kate broke into a run, much to Ballou’s delight.

Twenty minutes later, she tooted the horn at Marlene, who was lounging against a hearse, smoking a cigarette.
“Where have you been, Kate? We’re more than fashionably late.”

“Put that cigarette out now and hop in the car, or we’ll be even later.”

Marlene scrambled into the passenger seat, adjusted the seat belt to accommodate her midsection, and pulled down the passenger side mirror. “What a fright. Keep the car steady, I need to fix my face.”

As Kate backtracked toward the Intercoastal, Marlene whipped out a cosmetic case and reapplied her grape lipstick. Then she pointed her lip liner pencil at Kate. “You saw David Fry in the police station, didn’t you? But you never said anything. Why?”

“You’re asking me why? When you never bothered to tell me that you not only saw Fry, but went ahead and accepted a cocktail and dinner date with him.”

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t go. I decided to wait and see if I could charm you into it—but instead you jumped at the chance. Then you went home to change your clothes…and I’m all wrinkled.”

“Wait a minute. I walked Ballou and got sandy…”

“Whatever. You’re a tough one to read, Kate Kennedy. If I live to be one hundred, I’ll never understand you.”

“Come on, Marlene, you should have known that I’d go. David Fry could be our killer. This may be our only chance to question him.”

“Don’t jerk the wheel.” Marlene dipped a brush into green eyeshadow, then swept it across her right eyelid. “I’d like to do more than question him.”

Kate, knowing Marlene’s history with and penchant for rogues, changed the subject. “Are Stella’s funeral plans all set?”

“That lawyer, Oberon, called Adams from Jacksonville and I finally got to speak with him. Stella didn’t want a church service and she asked to be cremated. We’ll have a visitation at the funeral parlor on Friday night—I guess you can’t call it a viewing with no body—and a memorial service on Saturday morning, followed by a reception at Ocean Vista. And I’ll scatter her ashes over the sea.”

“Will her attorney be back by Friday?”

“Yes, indeedy. I’m meeting him at Stella’s apartment tomorrow morning for the reading of the will. Apparently the cops will have finished up there.”

“Reading of the will? There must be heirs, right? Maybe you’re an heiress as well as an executrix.”

Marlene coated her left eyelashes with inky mascara. “Maybe.”

The setting sun behind David Fry’s pale yellow mansion glimmered in the last vestige of daylight, as it seemed to sink into the water.

“Lives large, doesn’t he?”

Marlene sounded breathless. Kate braced herself.

Large was an understatement. The property had to be half an acre, sprawling by South Florida waterfront standards, and the yacht docked on the Intercoastal—literally Fry’s backyard—looked as if it could cross the Atlantic with ease.

Kate pulled into a driveway paved in marble and parked behind a new red Beetle. Another guest? Or did Fry own a Volkswagen as well as an SUV?
The heavy oak front doors flew open and Nancy Cooper rushed out with David Fry in hot pursuit. Fry caught up to Nancy and grabbed her briefcase rather roughly, then immediately released his grasp when he spotted Marlene’s convertible.

Nancy, perhaps not noticing their car, screamed, “You’ll pay for this, David!”

Kate pressed her palm
on
the horn and held it there
—t
he blaring sound carried across the Intercoastal.

Nancy and David froze, as if at attention.

Marlene rolled down her window and yelled, “Hey, why don’t we all go inside for cocktails and conversation?”

It was growing darker by the second. The pale moon and the lights from the house cast long shadows. Neither Fry nor Cooper seemed capable of moving.

Kate took her hand off the horn and jumped out of the car.

Nancy spoke first. “David and I were having a teensy squabble over my approach to an upcoming article about Sea Breeze’s party to launch the ice rink. This silly man doesn’t seem to realize that any publicity is good publicity.” Having made a far quicker recovery than Fry, who remained frozen, Nancy tapped on his forearm. “Isn’t that right David?”

“Oh…yes…
right.” He sounded dazed. Then a smile—forced, but firm—and his Cary Grant demeanor reemerged. Kate strained to watch his face in the growing darkness. Fascinating. Scary.

“Ladies,” he said as Marlene joined then, “I’m so very sorry. This distasteful scene must have appeared so…” He stopped, seemingly stumped, then rushed on, “But I assure you, this was nothing more than a lapse in judgment and a burst of misplaced emotion.”

Nancy grimaced. “Well, I’m off.” She turned to Fry. “And don’t you have a meeting in a few minutes?”

He made a big show of trying to see his Rolex. “Oh my, yes. Sorry again, ladies. This all came up rather suddenly. I’ll have to give you a rain check on those drinks.” Before either Marlene or Kate could answer, Nancy jumped into the Beetle and sped off.

Fry gave a stiff little bow, turned, and walked back to his house.

Marlene called after him, in a shout that could be heard in Boca, “Don’t you worry, David Fry. I shall return.”