Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

Ten

Stanley had gone
to the men’s room and Kate had already said goodbye to Herb and was on her way out of the Neptune Inn when she had a Columbo moment. She turned back to Herb, who was putting the Scrabble tiles into their tiny pouch, and asked, “Do you know Timmy, the
Sun-Sentinel
newsboy?” Feeling awkward about referring to Timmy as a boy, Kate stammered, “I mean man—the man who sells the papers on A1A.”

“Sure do.” Herb placed the pouch into the box, put the Scrabble board on top of it then covered the box. “I stopped my home delivery decades ago. The wife and I”—he gestured toward the woman who doubled as hostess and waitress—“put in a sixteen-hour day, so I read the paper here. Timmy always brought it to the kitchen door.”

“But he didn’t bring it today?”

Herb faced away from the morning sun and peered at Kate. His kind brown eyes were curious. “No. Nor yesterday either. I had to go out and buy a
Herald
from the other guy. Then this morning, a new person—a woman—was selling the
Sun-Sentinel
.”
Kate hadn’t noticed her.

“Can you remember the last time you saw Timmy?”

“Why are you asking me these questions, Kate?” Herb sounded shrewd, yet more puzzled than annoyed. “Could Timmy’s disappearance have anything to do with Stella Sajak’s death?”

Kate shrugged. “Maybe.”

Herb nodded. “Sometime late on Tuesday afternoon. Before cocktail hour. Maybe four. Timmy stopped by for a drink.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Well, he ordered a martini. Not his usual. Timmy was a ball and beer guy. Said he had something to celebrate—that he’d come into some real money and he planned on putting a down payment on a little shack. Not much of a house, but it sure would beat those roach-filled homeless shelters, or the beach, where he’d been sleeping.”

Kate held Herb’s eyes. “This is important, Herb. Did he say how he came into that money?”

“No. Actually, he sang the first line of ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame,’ then raised his glass. Like a toast. I went to wait on one of Fry’s Construction workers—probably the same guy who’ll bulldoze my bar—and when I got back, Timmy was gone.”

“Odd how he just vanished. Timmy was reliable, wasn’t he?”

Herb nodded. “Showed up at seven thirty every morning with my paper. Just in time for my second cup of coffee. I’d sit out here on the patio, take a breather, do the crossword puzzle, then go in and start preparing lunch.” Sadness tinged his words.

Herb Wagner’s business would, literally, be destroyed…and with it, he’d be losing his daily routine that had spanned forty-odd years.

“I’m so sorry, Herb.” Kate, knowing how painful that kind of loss could be, almost whispered the words. She wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder.

“Come on, Kate, it looks like rain.” Stanley had returned from the men’s room. “I’ll walk you and Ballou home.”

How strange that Stanley’s wheeze irritated rather than concerned her. She felt more like Cinderella’s cruel stepmother than Beaver’s perfect mom.

“So let’s go. We’ll walk; we’ll talk.” Stanley’s wheeze had become a wheedle.

Though her mind raced like Seabiscuit as she reached for an excuse, she came up short.

So, with a farewell to Herb, she and a reluctant Ballou followed Stanley through the door, no doubt leaving the Neptune Inn for the last time.

The slightly fishy, yet pleasant, smell of the sea mixed with the scent of pine trees and azaleas almost made Kate forget that Stanley Ferris was walking beside her.

But then his “we’ll talk” became a monologue, and she became a captive audience of one.

“I could be in serious trouble, Kate. You realize that I’m Carbone’s prime suspect. That man is so thick, he actually believes that I had an affair with Stella and then killed her because I’d moved on.” Stanley stamped his foot eliciting a growl from Ballou. “Something Mary Frances told him led to that conclusion, but the truth is I never slept with Stella and had no reason to want her dead.”

Kate wondered why Mary Frances—who’d said that she
hadn’t
told Detective Carbone about Stella and Stanley’s long, intimate conversation at the Halloween party—apparently had.

The nuns of Kate’s childhood had been nothing if not consistent. Mary Frances’s only constant seemed to be caprice.

Out of nowhere Kate’s Town Hall senior moment flickered, then faded. Why couldn’t she remember? Stanley had been there, one arm draped over Stella and the other draped over Marlene, when Stella had agreed to meet with the mayor. And of course, David Fry had overheard that date being arranged.

“Stanley, can you remember what exactly Stella said at the Town Hall, just before the mayor agreed to meet with her the following morning?”

He glanced at Kate, then winked. “Not really. Being surrounded by all you beautiful women must have distracted me.”

Good Lord. The revolting little man was actually flirting with her. Kate hoped her disgust didn’t show.

“And of course, Mary Frances had spotted me with my arms around Stella and Marlene. I could tell she wasn’t happy.”

So Mary Frances had been there, observing. Observing what? Kate cursed the almost-memory that refused to emerge from her senior moment.

Stanley, wheezing worse than ever—why didn’t the man see a doctor?—picked up where he’d left off. “And the vicious rumor that I killed Stella in order to become president of Ocean Vista is defamation of character.”

Kate laughed. She hadn’t meant to, but there it was, a robust guffaw, right in Stanley’s face.

“What’s so damn funny, Kate? I might be arrested any minute. God, the police are getting a search warrant. They’ll turn my apartment upside down.”

Kate, seizing the opportunity, spoke. “Well, that should clear you. They won’t find anything, will they?”

Stanley blushed, the red color rising on his wizened, mean little face highlighting puppet lines and a turkey neck. He stared down, as if searching for something on the sidewalk.

Ballou tugged on his leash, seeming to urge Kate to move along and let Stanley stew.

All traces of June Cleaver thrown to the wind, Kate asked again, “The police won’t find anything, right?”

Stanley kept his eyes to the ground. “Well, there are some favorite sites on my computer that might—er—put me in a bad light. And you know, there are ways for the police to tell how often a person visits a website.”

Porn? Kiddie porn? Had Charlie sent her that message? Or had she thought of it herself? Either way, Kate sensed something sordid, and wished that Ballou would take a bite out of Stanley’s skinny ankle.

They approached Ocean Vista’s flower-lined driveway in uncomfortable silence. A red Beetle, illegally parked, blocked the right side of the driveway.

Nancy Cooper bounded out of the condo.

Kate called out to her. “I left a message on your office answering machine. I’m going to stop by this afternoon around three.”

Stanley wheezed. “I’m going around back. See you ladies later.”

Nancy, looking very smart but appearing flustered, said, “I doubt I’ll have any time today, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“It’s about David Fry and Sea Breeze. You’ll want to hear this.”

Nancy’s expression changed. Not warm, but certainly more receptive. “I’m on deadline today, but I guess I can spare you a few minutes. I’m meeting with a source at two, but I should be back in the office by three.”

Nancy Cooper brushed past Kate, jumped into the red Beetle, and drove off.

God Almighty, Kate thought. That woman believes she’s Bob Woodward.

In the lobby, Marlene was having a tête-à-tête with Mary Frances, whispering like teenagers in front of Aphrodite’s statue. Both women wore black outfits and dazed expressions.

Kate knew that Marlene had gone to the reading of Stella’s will this morning. Did Mary Frances’s black jumpsuit indicate that she’d been there too?

Ballou, delighted to see Marlene, led a more than intrigued Kate over to her, just as a slim gray-haired man came out of the elevator and approached them from the other side.

“Kate.” Marlene, looking from the man to Kate, spoke with impish delight. “I’d like you to meet Stella’s husband, Joe Sajak. Turns out he isn’t dead after all. We’re just heading into the dining room for lunch. Why don’t you take Ballou upstairs and then join us?” She bent to allow Ballou to lick her hand.

Eleven

Accompanied by a
blast of thunder and sheet lightning that flashed over the sea, the rains came. As Kate entered Ocean Vista’s dining room, drops the size of lollipops sloshed its windows. Outside on the beach, sunbathers and swimmers frantically closed umbrellas, swooped up towels and totes, and scurried to shelter. After six months, she remained amazed by the capricious South Florida weather. Blue sides and sunshine could morph into dark clouds and teeming rain in a matter of minutes.

Marlene, Mary Frances, and Joe sat at a window table, their heads turned toward the beach, watching the storm, a definite attention grabber. The waves were rising high, then crashing against the shore, and the surfers, who always showed up so quickly that they appeared to be on call, were riding their crests.

Kate, just inside the door, waited and watched.

Jolted by the appearance of a
supposedly
long dead husband, just in time for his wife’s funeral—and how Agatha Christie was that?—Kate had rapidly reviewed her theories about Stella’s murder while riding up and down in the elevator. Throwing Joe Sajak into the mix, Kate came up with more questions than answers. The two most nagging: When had he arrived in South Florida? And did this mystery man have a motive?

Charlie had believed that you can tell as much about a suspect by his body language as you can by his responses to an interrogation, so she observed the cozy trio.

There was an empty chair between Marlene and Mary Frances, who had book-ended Joe Sajak. As the storm raged, Mary Frances placed a less than tentative hand on Joe’s arm. More clutching than comforting. Marlene, in total violation of the dining room’s policy, lit a Marlboro and blew a smoke ring, which hovered over Joe’s head. The man in the middle appeared nervous, first patting Mary Frances’s hand, then jerking up his arm to wave away the smoke ring, forcing her to release her grip. Marlene, after whispering something in Joe’s ear that elicited a nod, put out her cigarette in a coffee cup. Wait till Tiffani saw that.

A cacophony of thunder made Kate’s heart jump. A lifetime ago, to quell her fear, Kate’s mother had assured her that thunder was the sound of angels bowling. If so, Gabriel—or maybe Charlie—must have thrown a strike. Kate smiled, squared her shoulders, and crossed the room.

For the second time in a matter of hours, a man jumped up and pulled out a chair for her. It felt strange. Almost eerie. At the condo closing, Charlie had pulled out Kate’s chair, sat down himself, winked at her, and using the Mont Blanc that she’d given him last Christmas, proudly signed the ownership papers, then dropped dead. From that day to this day, she’d been pulling out her own chairs.

Seated between Marlene and Mary Frances, Kate leaned across the latter to thank Joe Sajak. His smile dazzled; some dentist had made a small fortune capping those teeth. So many senior men seemed to be spending big bucks and ending up with far whiter teeth in their old age than they ever had in their youth.

“I never saw that shirt before. Silk, isn’t it?” Marlene sounded surprised. Or peeved? Kate couldn’t decide.

In an impish moment, counting on winding up between two women wearing black, Kate had changed, putting on a bright melon shirt, soft and silky, that she’d bought—but never worn—just before she and Charlie had moved to Palmetto Beach.

Giving Marlene a quick nod, confirming that the shirt was silk, Kate turned to Mary Frances. “You all must have had an interesting morning.”

“Well, I’d say so.” Mary Frances laughed. Nervous, not happy laughter. “Like that old movie where Irene Dunne shows up after Cary Grant has believed that she’d been dead for seven years and was about to marry. Gail Patrick, I think. Anyway Irene, not being dead, turns everyone’s life upside down.”

Kate remembered the movie
—My Favorite Wife
—recalling its old-fashion charm, and then decided that, despite what Marlene thought, David Fry was no Cary Grant.

“Except Stella always knew that I wasn’t dead.” Joe Sajak spoke in a deep baritone. Almost too deep and too booming for such a narrow, compact man. “And I never suspected that Stella was dead.” He shook his head, coming across as sad and rueful. Kate didn’t buy it. Why wasn’t he more grief-stricken? Or even just more surprised? Or making phone calls to friends? Or heading over to the funeral parlor? “I truly loved that gal, though I readily admit that we had a most unusual marriage.”

“Joe was just about to explain his and Stella’s…arrangement when the storm began,” Marlene said, letting Kate know that while she might have missed Act One—the reading of the will and Joe’s entrance—Act Two hadn’t really started yet. “Why don’t we order? Then, while we’re eating lunch, Joe can tell all.”

Marlene, as usual, had her priorities.

As Tiffani arrived with the menus, Kate wondered if Detective Carbone had any idea that Joe Sajak was alive and well and ordering lunch in Ocean Vista’s dining room.

Over salmon and salad, Joe Sajak talked. “I’ve known Stella most of my life. We married young, over forty-five years ago, but we haven’t really lived together as man and wife for a long time. Since we never had any kids, when Stella wanted to move to Florida and I didn’t we decided to go our separate ways, but we never divorced. Never even talked about it. We’d agreed at the time that if one of us ever fell in love and wanted to marry someone else, we’d reevaluate our situation. But neither of us ever brought that subject up again. Stella would come up north once or twice a year. We’d go off to Europe or the Grand Canyon or take a cruise together. Then we’d each go back to our own lives.” He paused and tasted a tomato.

A drum roll of thunder careened through the dining room.

“You never came down here?” Mary Frances spoke Kate’s thought.

“No. Never.” Joe shook his head. “And that, too, had been Stella’s call. She said she needed ‘her own identity—her own life’ and I respected that. An odd relationship, I know, but it worked for us.”

“Well,” Marlene said, “was Mr. Oberon aware that you existed?”

“Certainly. As her husband, I was Stella’s heir.”

“Really?” Marlene frowned.

“Oh, I know there were other bequests, but I receive the bulk of the estate. Oberon had been trying to contact me to tell me about Stella’s death and the reading of the will, but I was on my way here, then off sailing.” Joe Sajak smiled, then continued in that too-deep baritone, “I had a quick word with Wyndam before I left the apartment. He’s going to call the police and let them know that I’ve finally arrived. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to me.”

The crescendo in Kate’s mind competed with the thunder. So Detective Carbone had known that Joe Sajak wasn’t dead. And Sajak, as heir apparent, had a motive. And since he’d never visited Florida before, why now?

“I’ll just bet the police want to talk to you,” Mary Frances said.

A sudden silence descended over the table and in the heavens. As Tiffani approached to clear away their dishes, Kate could hear her charm bracelet clang.

Another burst of thunder rocked the room. Kate watched through the window as the wind whipped the sand and sent it flying, and the palm trees’ leaves swayed like hula dancers. She hoped Ballou wouldn’t be too frightened all alone.

Could a hurricane be blowing up out there? Kate doubted it. South Florida anchorpersons and weatherpersons tracked any hint of an impending hurricane, savoring its name and exploring its devastation potential, minute by minute, for days on end, before the storm hit—or more likely, missed.

Over dessert, Marlene reviewed Stella’s funeral plans, starting with Friday night’s wake, moving on to the service on Saturday morning, followed by the reception in the recreation room and, finally, the scattering of Stella’s ashes over the sea.

A tear formed in Joe Sajak’s eye and dropped onto his sundae, which he then shoved away.

“That sounds right. Stella always loved the sea.” Several more tears rolled down Joe’s cheek. Mary Frances reached into her pocket and handed him a perfectly pressed, sparkling white handkerchief.

“I’d like to see Stella. Where is she? At the funeral parlor?”

“She will be. Sometime this afternoon, I think.” Marlene sounded as frazzled as she looked. Her sienna tan had gone gray and her blood red lipstick had seeped into the creases around her mouth. “They’re releasing the body today.”

Kate pushed her rainbow sherbet to one side, suddenly consumed with Stella’s cremation.

“I’d like to meet with the funeral director to review the costs.” Joe wiped his eyes with Mary Frances’s handkerchief, then carefully folded it and placed it next to the napkin.

Did his gesture signal no more tears?

“Of course, I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job as executrix, Marlene, but we all know these funeral directors can be thieves. And as the widower, I’ll be the one footing the bill, now, won’t I?”

Marlene opened, then shut, her mouth.

Out of the
corner
of her right eye, Kate saw Detective Carbone enter the room, fill it with his presence, then take three long strides in their direction.

A flash of lightning missed their window by inches, the sky turned black, thunder, loud as if Lucifer himself were bowling, deafened, and the lights went out.

At that very moment, feeling a fury that more than
matched the raging storm, Kate demanded, “When, exactly, did you arrive in Palmetto Beach, Mr. Sajak?”

And Detective Carbone, who’d reached the table, said, “Yes, Mr. Sajak. I’m curious about the answer to Mrs. Kennedy’s question too.”