Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

Eight

It wasn’t anything
like the movies. Marlene, expecting a more formal gathering—after all, the reading of a will should be a somber occasion—had risen at eight o’clock, struggled into pantyhose and a too-tight black dress, and finally located her good leather pumps under a pile of year-old laundry, only to be greeted by Wyndam Oberon in a pink golf shirt. No wonder South Florida casual drove Kate crazy.

“Welcome, Ms. Friedman.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re early. The others haven’t arrived. May I serve you coffee or tea? Mary Frances Costello has vary kindly provided the refreshments.” Oberon drawled out the word
refreshments
into a paragraph. “That lovely lady has gone back to her apartment for a plate of homemade cookies now.” The attorney gestured toward the white Formica coffee table laden with fruit salad, bagels, and a divine-looking crumb cake. “Please do try one of her delicious sandwiches.”

How weird it felt, sitting in the sun-filled living room where they’d played Hearts so often, knowing that Stella Sajak would never again deal a Queen of Spades. Residual anger raced through Marlene’s mind, closely shadowed by guilt. Strange how Stella, a liar and a cheat, had chosen another liar and cheat to serve as her executrix.

Marlene sank into the beige chenille couch wondering how the hell she’d get up again, and for the first time, or at least for as long as she could remember, turned down at egg salad sandwich. Her postmortem analysis of Stella’s devious ways had almost taken away Marlene’s appetite. And she’d be damned if she’d eat anything that Mary Frances had made, though the sandwiches looked delicious—their cutoff crusts reflecting nun-like neatness.

Just how had Mary Frances wormed her way into the will reading, anyway? God. Could the dancing nun be one of the heirs? And who might the others be? Was Kate right? Could Marlene be an heiress? A warm, almost sexual rush flooded her loins. Greed trumped guilt. Now wouldn’t that be a nice bonus in addition to the executrix fee? Did Stella have any real assets beyond the condo and a few pieces of good jewelry?

“You’ve served as executrix before, have you, Ms. Friedman?” Oberon sat on the edge of a navy and beige plaid armchair.

“Have I ever.” Marlene struggled into an upright position and reached for a sandwich, acknowledging that her lack of willpower would probably be the death of her, but then deciding what the hell—you have to die from something and there must be far worse causes of death than egg salad on whole wheat. Even Mary Frances’s egg salad. “For my last husband. He was the only one of the three who had a will.”

“Your other husbands died intestate?” Oberon sounded horrified.

“As far as I know, my first husband is still very much alive and he might have a will by now. I’d turned nineteen on the day our marriage was annulled—my twenty-two-year-old bridegroom, a rather dashing Marine, already had a wife when he’d married me. I haven’t seen him since the Eisenhower administration, but according to his last Christmas card, Walter’s now on his sixth wife and living in Roswell, New Mexico.”

Oberon laughed. “Where else?”

Marlene devoured her tea sandwich in one bite and reached for another. “And Kevin, my second husband, and I were divorced, but we remained…um…connected.”

This time the lawyer frowned.

Marlene decided her first impression had been skewed; she didn’t like Oberon. Way too prissy.

“His twin brother, Charlie, was married to my best friend, Kate. So, even though Kevin and I had been divorced, we were still a family, Mr. Oberon.”

“I see,” Oberon said. Clearly, he didn’t. “Why, Kevin even came to my third wedding.” Marlene, enjoying herself, giggled. “Said he had to waltz with the bride.”

Oberon blinked rapidly, but he appeared to be all ears. “I didn’t know it at the time, but Kevin had been diagnosed with lung cancer. That man smoked more than Humphrey Bogart and John Wayne put together. Every waking minute he’d have a Camel dangling from his lip. On the job. Driving his funny-looking little car. Even in bed.” Marlene smiled. Especially in bed. God, despite Kevin’s cancer, how she wished that she could light up right now, but there were no ashtrays in Stella’s apartment. She reached for another sandwich.

“Anyway, when Kevin died, I planned his funeral. No will. No money. He’d gambled his life away. But by then,
I was married to a kind man with more than enough money to give Kevin a proper sendoff. White orchids and white doves at the grave. Caviar and champagne at the wake.” Oberon’s closed arms signaled disapproval, but he nodded, seeming to want to hear more.

“Jack Weiss, my third husband, was the love of my life.” Marlene winked at the attorney. “So far.”

“Why would you have felt responsible for your ex-husband’s funeral, Ms. Friedman?”

“Because I loved him too, Mr. Oberon.”

The lawyer’s lips formed a perfect O, but a sharp knock grabbed his attention. He closed his mouth and went to open the door.

Nancy Cooper, chic in a lightweight aqua wool suit, her blond hair pulled back and caught in a matching bow, entered, followed by Mary Frances, wearing a black jumpsuit—somber and sexy, no easy trick—and carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

As Mary Frances placed her goodies on the table, Nancy’s eyes met, then immediately looked away from, Marlene’s.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon again, Nancy. How’s David Fry? He certainly seemed out of sorts last evening, didn’t he?” Marlene showed no mercy. “Was he afraid of you? Or was he threatening you?”

Wyndam Oberon raised a spiky white eyebrow. “What’s that scoundrel Fry up to now?”

After an audible gulp, Nancy said, “No comment. As a member of the fourth estate, I claim the fifth. A journalist never reveals her source, but you can read all about Mr. Fry in tomorrow’s
Palmetto Beach Gazette.
”

Marlene pounced. “So he was threatening you? I knew it.”

Nancy looked smug. “I must admit that I’ve scooped the
Sun-Sentinel.
It’s such a drag that the
Gazette
only comes out once a week…just don’t miss tomorrow’s edition.”

“Doesn’t anyone want a cookie?” Mary Frances passed the plate under Marlene’s nose.

What’s a girl to do? Marlene took two.

“Well, Miss Cooper, tomorrow I will read your scoop with relish, but right now, I have a will to read.” Oberon chuckled over what he obviously considered his clever play on words. “Would you and Miss Costello please be seated?”

The lawyer snapped open his briefcase and pulled out some legal-size papers.

So they must be in the will. Marlene met Mary Frances’s wide-eyed eagerness and smiled. Alive, Stella had been strident and stingy. In death, would she be gracious and giving?

Marlene certainly hoped so, but at the moment she was more intrigued with Nancy’s story and how her attitude toward David Fry kept changing.

Last night Nancy had seemed frightened, trying to get away from Fry; however, she’d provided him with a bizarre cover story, that “teensy squabble” over a PR article. Then, totally out of nowhere, she’d reminded him about a “meeting,” giving him an excuse to escape from Kate and Marlene’s questions. Yet this morning Nancy sounded ready to crucify Fry in print. Would the true story appear in tomorrow’s
Gazette
? Somehow Marlene doubted that. Why would a society reporter be assigned to cover a CEO’s crooked business dealings? What the hell was really going on between Nancy Cooper and David Fry?

By the time Marlene turned her attention back to Oberon, he’d finished the preliminaries.
“And now for you lovely ladies.” The attorney removed his Ben Franklin glasses, smiled, then ruffled the papers in his right hand.

Putting her suspicions on hold, Marlene focused on Wyndam Oberon.

“I want you all to know that Mrs. Sajak treasured your friendship and has remembered each of you in her will.” The lawyer put his glasses back on and read, “To the members of my Hearts club, I leave the following items, carefully selected to match the recipient’s personality and talents.”

Marlene sighed. This should be good.

“To Mary Frances Costello, I bequeath my Lladró dancer and my mother-of-pearl rosary beads blessed by His Holiness, during my visit to Rome.”

“Like I don’t already have twenty-two rosaries.” Mary Frances covered her mouth, as if to stop the words, but it was too late.

Wyndam Oberon, ignoring the interruption, rolled on. “To Nancy Cooper, I bequeath my considerable collection, over five hundred issues, of
Women’s Wear Daily
and my signed biography of the late Elsa Maxwell.”

Served Nancy right. She’d just inherited decades of outdated fashion and gossip. And judging by the puzzled look on her face, a book about a long dead society columnist that she’d never heard of.

“Finally, to Marlene Friedman Gorski Kennedy Weiss, I bequeath the mounted stag’s head over my bed. It’s always been an inspiration to me. And Marlene Friedman is also entitled to an executrix fee, which I trust she will refuse.”

In the dead silence that followed, a key could be heard turning the lock on the condo’s front door.

Marlene whipped her head around just as the front door opened, and a good-looking man in his mid-sixties entered. “Stella, where are you, sweetie?”

Mary Frances jumped up and shouted, “Who are you?”

The man smiled. Smashing, Marlene thought. Lean and taut like a tiger on the prowl.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know Stella had company.” The man strode across the room, his hand extended to Mary Frances. “I’m Joe Sajak. Stella’s husband.”

Nine

Kate, who’d spent the m
orning poring over Charlie’s files, was getting nowhere fast with the circulation department at the
Sun-Sentinel.
The manager had gone off to a meeting, but his assistant had picked up his phone and agreed to answer Kate’s questions.

“So, the truck drivers drop the papers off at selected corners all over Broward County, and then the homeless guys—they’re mostly homeless—sell them.” The young woman’s Bronx accent sounded nasal and jaded, like Kate’s cousins on her mother’s side.

“Does the newspaper pay these men a salary?”

“Nah. They keep whatever they get. Gives them an incentive. The more papers they sell and the more money they make, the happier our advertising department is. And, ya know, it’s the ads that keep us in business.”

“Well, do you have any employment records on a man named Timmy? I’m sorry I don’t have his last name. He left his post on Tuesday afternoon, and never showed up yesterday. He works the corner of A1A and Neptune
Boulevard; he’s been there for years. I’m worried about him.”

“Well, no.” The young woman chuckled. “These guys are always taking off. And they aren’t real employees. It’s kinda freelance work. They show up, they get the papers, they make some booze money. If they don’t show up…there’s always another bum…if ya get my drift.”

Kate got her drift; it oozed down, blanketing Kate in depression.

She had no better luck trying to reach Nancy Cooper at the
Palmetto Beach Gazette.
The society editor’s voicemail indicated that she’d be out of the office all morning. Kate left a message, saying she’d drop by around three.

After two strikes, Kate fed her frustration with a strawberry yogurt, putting banana slices and a crumbled corn muffin on top. Then she grabbed the Westie’s leash. “Now settle down, Ballou. You and I are going to the pier, and by God, we’re going to get to first base.”

The wrecking ball, though inert at the moment, looked poised to knock down the Neptune Inn. The restaurant next to the pier, a Palmetto Beach landmark for over forty years, which served the best shrimp salad in South Florida, had been deemed expendable by Sea Breeze Inc.

Kate was standing on the southwest corner of Neptune Boulevard and A1A. Cranes and tractors and other more exotic high-tech equipment, all weapons of destruction, and all marked with Sea Breeze’s logo, filled the public parking lot on the northwest side of the boulevard.

The
parking lot, once enhanced, would serve the new resort hotel and ice rink, being built directly across
AlA on
the pier and on the beach front adjacent to it, and would charge a hefty fee. The residents of Palmetto Park, who’d used the public lot to go to the beach and to the library, located at its far end, would have to scrounge for street parking. Over a half mile of Palmetto Beach’s public beach was now Sea Breeze’s property. And despite the company and its CEO’s unsavory reputation, this deal had been approved by the mayor and council.

Kate glanced south at Ocean Vista, a white tower with the morning sun highlighting its art deco design. Location. Location. Location. Being right on the beach and the nearest condo to the pier always had been considered a plus—except on Friday nights when the band at the Neptune Inn had kept the left-wing condo owners awake till all hours—but now Ocean Vista’s proximity had become a terrible liability.

The Sea Breeze Hotel would have three hundred rooms. No matter how much the company enlarged the public parking lot, and rumor had it that the library might be in jeopardy, there still wouldn’t be enough parking places. That was why David Fry had petitioned the city council to exercise the right of eminent domain—to buy Ocean Vista, raze it, and then, for the common good, build a parking garage.

A wave of righteous indignation swept over Kate. How dare Sea Breeze Inc. and that dreadful David Fry swoop down like vultures and steal or swindle so much beachfront and pier property away from an inept, or even worse, crooked council, and then try to tear down her home? No wonder Stella had wanted to fight them all.

Kate segued from anger to amusement. She stared up at the blue sky as a parasail, propelled by a motor boat passed by. “Okay, Charlie, you win. I’ve just become a citizen of Palmetto Beach.”

She and Ballou crossed the road and walked toward the end of the pier. Most of the stores were boarded up. The Sea Shell Shoppe had hung a sign saying FORCED OUT OF BUSINESS,
next to an American flag. The yogurt kiosk, where Kate and Charlie had bought cones when they’d been down visiting Marlene, was gone—leaving only a large dark sticky stain in its wake.

Kate stared out at the ocean, its leisurely ripples lapping against the shore. Palmetto Beach boasted the widest, most beautiful expanse of sand in South Florida. A mother, with two toddlers working as apprentices, was building a sand castle. Three teenage boys—truants?—were fishing. An old couple, hand-in-hand, strolled along the water’s edge. Kate ignored the pang and headed back toward the Neptune Inn.

Though still open for business, the restaurant’s familiar weather-beaten brown shingles now seemed to signal defeat.

The hostess, a woman nearly as old as Kate, smiled, then petted Ballou, who nuzzled her hand. “We’re serving on the patio.”

“I really just want an ice tea.”

“That’s fine. Come, ice tea tastes better when accompanied by an ocean breeze.”

Sad. This magnificent view and no customers, except for two old men, one fat, one skinny, playing Scrabble at a corner table.

As the hostess, who doubled as waitress, placed Kate’s ice tea in front of her, the skinny old man spun around and removed his baseball cap. “Hey, is that you, Kate Kennedy?”

Stanley Ferris was all teeth and no hair.

The fat man sitting opposite Stanley nodded in her direction. Kate recognized him: Herb Wagner, the Neptune Inn’s proprietor, at least for a few more days, and just the man Kate wanted to see.

Though becoming the prime suspect had left Stanley looking more prune-faced and wizened than ever, it hadn’t made a dent in his sleaze quotient. Waving wildly, he invited Kate to join him and Herb. “We can’t allow a lovely lady to drink alone.”

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have pled a migraine and taken a hike, but these were extraordinary times, which called for extreme measures and sacrifice. Kate picked up her glass and Ballou’s leash and walked across the patio.

Herb Wagner rose and pulled out a chair for Kate.

“Hi. I’m Kate Kennedy.”

“And I’m Herb Wagner, the soon-to-be-former owner of the Neptune Inn. In a few months, you’ll need ice skates to navigate this space.” The big man—he must have been six foot six and close to three hundred pounds—had kind brown eyes and thick white hair. He reached down to ruffle Ballou’s fur and received the Westie’s lick of approval.

Kate nodded, smiling. “My husband and I used to come here. I’m a big fan of your shrimp salad.”

“Kate’s a widow.” Stanley pulled his chair closer to Kate’s and stuck his face under her nose. His breath smelled musty and sour. She edged her chair over, settling Ballou between her and Stanley. The Westie growled as Stanley once again attempted to move nearer to Kate, who’d turned her attention to Herb.

“I’m relatively new in town, and I just don’t understand how Sea Breeze could have convinced our mayor and council to destroy your restaurant. It’s all so awful.”

“Do you play Scrabble, Mrs. Kennedy?”

Kate had been playing Scrabble since she was a kid, first with her mother, a marvelous wordsmith, crossword addict, and great teacher, then later with Charlie or Marlene. She usually beat those two by over two hundred points.

“Why, yes, I do. And please call me Kate.”

“So play a game with us.” Herb laughed. “Stanley takes at least ten minutes before putting down a tile. I can fill you in on Sea Breeze, David Fry, and our mayor and council, while we’re waiting for our turns.”

“Okay.” A shiver of excitement ran through Kate. She’d forgotten how competitive she was…how much she loved to win.

Herb had called it right. Stanley took forever to come up with a word, though, after all that deliberating, his strategy was actually surprisingly good.

While waiting for Stanley to play, and figuring out how to block Herb’s triple-word proclivity, Kate learned the story of Sea Breeze’s takeover of Palmetto Beach’s prime oceanfront. Ballou fell asleep at her feet.

David Fry had arrived on the Broward County social scene about six years ago. His past like the pasts of many South Florida newcomers, seemed vague. Some said oil money, came from Texas, didn’t he?

Some said a wealthy family, his courtly manners and expensively tailored tuxedos reeked of old money, came from Virginia, didn’t he? No one questioned the rich bachelor’s charm and social graces.

Based on Marlene’s initial reaction to Fry, Kate could understand that.

By the time Fry had cut a deal with the town of Coconut Cove, selling some of his own property—for double its appraisal price—as the site for a multiplex sports arena, which Sea Breeze would erect, and then naming the mayor of Coconut Cove as vice-president of public relations for Sea Breeze, prompting a State’s Attorney to launch an ongoing criminal investigation, Fry had already donated a wing to the Broward County Library and given two hundred thousand dollars to the Broward County Performing
Arts Center. Most folks regarded him as an outstanding citizen.

Indeed, the Coconut Cove Chamber of Commerce had presented him with their Man of the Year Award just two years after his arrival.

The State’s Attorney had slung a mess of mud, but had proved nothing.

Then, last year, David Fry had approached the Palmetto Beach City Council on the money-making advantages of having a glitzy new oceanfront resort hotel and ice skating rink replace the tired old pier and restaurant. The council, by a vote of three to one, bought into it.

Or had Fry bought them?

Herb Wagner was convinced that Brenda Walters, “a good mayor,” had honestly believed that Palmetto Beach’s oceanfront needed a face-lift and that Fry, a skilled con man, had swayed her vote.

“Who knows, Kate? Maybe Fry romanced her. But I’m damned sure that the two councilmen who voted for the resort complex had been bribed. Just you wait Kate, one of those guys will wind up as Sea Breeze’s next vice-president. And the other will probably be Fry’s neighbor, living in a mansion on the Intercoastal.”

With his story finished, Herb played his last five tiles, spelling JUICE.

Stanley got stuck with the Q.

Kate won by two hundred and ten points.