Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (8 page)

Fourteen

Kate watched
in amazement as Marlene’s apartment morphed from chaos to cozy. The hostess, dressed in a gold caftan, swept the mess, ranging from unwashed undies to unpaid bills, into the closets, then drew the drapes, dimmed the lights, and filled the living room with fresh flowers and candles. Big bunches of multicolored flowers, spilling over in charming disarray from fat, round crystal bowls. Dozens of candles in every size and shape.

“Candlelight not only makes us old broads look better, Kate, it hides the dust. I swear if Consuela doesn’t come back from Cuba soon, I may have to move.”

Kate wondered when and if the closets would be cleaned. Even Consuela, Marlene’s long-suffering housekeeper, could do only so much. Soon the litter would take over, like the pods in
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Then Marlene might move; it wouldn’t be the first time she’d have run away from a mess.

But for now, with the candles flickering, Sinatra singing softly in the background, the table set with Marlene’s finest china, and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, the guests would feel tranquil, anticipating a delightful dinner, never knowing that things are not always what they seem.

“How can I help?”

Kate caught a glimpse of herself in the Victorian mirror hanging over the couch. Charlie would have approved. She’d dressed in her blue linen slacks and smartly cut matching top, added pearls, applied fire engine red lipstick, and remembered to put on mascara and line her eyes. Of course, in a room this dark and a mirror this dusty, anyone would find her image flattering.

“Pick up the clutter on the balcony—I’ve never had a visitor who didn’t ask to see the ocean—and shove everything under the bed in the guest room. You’ll have to rearrange a few things.” Marlene’s balcony, so low to the ground that it felt more like a terrace, had enough clutter to fill a thrift shop. If she’d only part with some of this junk, she could make a fortune on eBay.

Kate was sprawled on the guest room’s off-white Berber carpet, trying to encircle a box under the bed containing a Macy’s mannequin—why had Marlene saved that?—with a hula hoop, when she heard laughter coming from down the hall. Then Joe Sajak’s voice, saying, “Well, you certainly look lovely tonight, Mary Frances.”

The hell with this. Kate scrambled to her feet, laid the hula hoop on top of the spread, lowered the dust
raffle
to conceal the junk, and smoothed her slacks. Let the games begin.

Marlene was taking drink orders, and Joe sprang to his feet as Kate entered the living room.
Mary Frances did, indeed, look lovely in a coral silk wrap dress and matching sandals.

“Hello, Kate.” Joe’s deep baritone was accompanied by a sad little smile. Kate wondered if he’d practiced it in front of a mirror. “I was just saying how kind you ladies are, helping a lonely old man get through this tragedy. I still can’t believe Stella’s gone.”

Kate swept across the room and sat on the couch, planting herself between Mary Frances and her quarry. “Joe,” she said, all warm and toasty, locking her eyes on his, “at a time like this, it helps to talk. Tell us about you and Stella. I’ll bet she was a delightful young woman.”

“More like a pugnacious little brat. We were in first grade together—I told you that—and she organized a mini revolt, protesting against the small boxes of Crayolas, demanding the larger size that held forty-eight different colors. Our teacher didn’t stand a chance. In less than a week she caved and every kid in the class had the bigger box of crayons.” He paused and accepted a glass of white wine from Marlene. “Stella was a skinny kid, with wild black curls, great big charcoal gray eyes, and the rosiest cheeks I’d ever seen.” He laughed. “I can thank her for changing my life and coloring my conversation. Anyway, that little brat sure caught my attention and I’ve loved her since the day I met her.” He took a sip of his wine.

Kate certainly hadn’t expected such a seemingly sincere and passionate response. She’d rehearsed several questions with Charlie while getting dressed, but now, completely thrown, she couldn’t remember any of them.

“So you two dated all through high school?” Mary Frances placed a hand on Joe’s arm and, though Kate couldn’t be sure, seemed to give it a squeeze.

He turned away from Kate to answer Mary Frances. “Well, I carried her books, passed out her protest pamphlets, and rode her back and forth on my bike all though grade school, but in our junior year, she ran for president of the student council and started dating the far more dashing captain of the football team. About broke my heart. But he dumped her for a cute blond trick—I forget her name—and Stella and I got back together.”

“And when did you get married?” Mary Frances had tilted her head forward, so that her lips were inches from Joe’s, and no doubt about it, she was squeezing his arm.

“Right after high school I joined the Marines. Stella’s mother had died by then, and her father, well, he drank too much—so we got married and moved to North Carolina.”

Kate started, remembering what Marlene had said at the pool on Wednesday morning. “So when did Stella attend Northwestern?”

Joe spun around to face Kate. “Never. Why do you ask? When I was stationed in California, Stella took a few acting classes at UCLA, then enrolled in a secretarial school. Got herself a damn good job at a movie studio. She’d always wanted to be a movie star. I guess working as a stenographer at MGM was the next best thing.”

Somehow Kate doubted that Stella would have agreed with Joe’s conclusion.

Marlene placed a small tray of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. “Why don’t you try the Brie, Joe?” She spread some on a cracker and handed it to him. “You know, I spent a lot of time with Stella. On the beach. Playing Hearts. At condo meetings. She never mentioned living in California, but she certainly mentioned graduating from Northwestern—even wanted that
fact
to be included in her obituary.”

Reaching for the cracker, Joe said, “Oh that Stella…always playing a role.” He paused to swallow.

Kate paused too. Could they all be role players? Was she playing the June Cleaver wife and mother? Was Marlene playing the tough gal with a heart of gold? Was Mary Frances playing the coquette? Was Joe, in his crisp khakis and white linen shirt, playing the sainted husband, still loyal to the dead sinner?

With a wry grin, he continued, “We lived in California for almost three years, then I was assigned to Guam. No way would that woman move there—so that’s when she first came up with our married, but separated scheme. We lived apart on and off for years.”

“And you agreed to that?” Marlene sounded angry. At what? Or whom? Joe? Stella? Kate couldn’t tell.

“Yeah. I loved her. I didn’t see how I had much choice.” He blushed. “And our reunions were terrific.”

Kate stood. “Is dinner ready, Marlene? Let’s eat.”

Stella’s mysterious past went on hold during dinner, as Mary Frances and Marlene regaled Joe with tales of his dead wife’s triumphs during her reign as Ocean Vista’s condo president. By the time Marlene’s pound cake, topped with her million-dollar secret fudge frosting, arrived at the table, a stranger walking in might have thought that four friends had gathered to mourn the death of a fifth.

But the shaky truce ended over coffee when Marlene asked, “When did Stella move to Chicago, Joe?”

Her question was met with what appeared to be a genuinely puzzled expression, complete with an arched white eyebrow. And when Joe spoke, he sounded sad. “Look, other than changing planes at O’Hare, to my knowledge, Stella never stepped foot in Chicago.”

Marlene threw up her hands. “But, Joe, Stella told me that you’d died ten years ago in Chicago and that’s why she moved to Florida.”

“Stella has said a lot of things over the years.” His voice caught. “But I’m not dead, am I? And I never lived in Chicago, either. Stella moved to Florida from Bedford Falls, Michigan—near where we’d grown up, and where
we’d made one last stab at living together. So clearly some of her stories weren’t true.”

Kate almost felt sorry for him. But he could be lying. Playing the widower’s part. Turning on the tears. Presenting his version of their bizarre relationship. Discrediting the victim. Conning them into trusting him.

Mary Frances, holding Marlene’s silver coffeepot hovered over Joe. “Let me pour you another cup.”

Kate’s flicker of pity ignited into anger. “After you left the police station, did you get a chance to stop at the funeral parlor? I know you were quite concerned about the cost.”

“Gosh, no. After hours of questions, I came directly back here from the police station. Detective Carbone seems to believe that I had something to do with Stella’s death. As you all know, I was fishing out in the Atlantic when Stella was killed. What’s wrong with that man?”

“You can hardly blame him,” Mary Frances snapped, all semblance of flirting forgotten. “Your alibi had enough holes in it to sink your friend’s sailboat.”

Joe sighed. “Yeah. But my weak alibi somehow seems to be a plus with Carbone, maybe the only asset I have.” And maybe, Kate thought, Joe Sajak was a lot smarter than he sounded.

“Anyway, Carbone’s grilling made me nervous, so when I got home, I called Wyndam Oberon to ask if I should hire an attorney. He offered to represent me for now, and if, God forbid, I were to be arrested, he’d recommend a criminal attorney. Then he gave me some good news.”

Marlene, helping herself to another piece of cake said, “Do tell.”

“I told Wyndam how worried I was about the cost of the funeral.” Joe’s voice sounded deeper than ever. “Though I wanted the best for Stella, I wondered how I could afford to pay for it. She didn’t have a lot of money, you know, no life insurance either, and I sure didn’t have much money. Or at least that’s what I thought.” He smiled broadly. “But now Stella can have a first-class sendoff. Turns out just last week she’d deposited a cashier’s check for two hundred thousand dollars into her checking account.”

Marlene dropped her fork. “Two hundred thousand? Where did the money come from?”

Joe said, “Since it was a cashier’s check, Wyndam is clueless. Looks like Stella’s murder isn’t the only mystery we have to solve.”

Fifteen

Could a copy
of that cashier’s check have found its way into the file that Stella had given to Nancy? Or maybe a receipt? Or a stub that identified its purchaser?

Kate paced her balcony, the fresh ocean breeze and now starry sky doing nothing to soothe her nerves. Ballou, keeping her company, had fallen asleep near the door. She couldn’t get that check out of her mind, convinced that a clue, if not connected to the two hundred thousand dollars, then to some other evidence, was in Stella Sajak’s folder. Her strong hunch wouldn’t let go…what time was it anyway? As if in answer to her silent question, the grandfather clock in the living room—inherited from Charlie’s aunt—chimed. Eleven p.m. Too late to call Nancy? Probably, Kate thought, heading straight to the phone.

After looking up Nancy Cooper in the condo directory, Kate dialed and got her answering machine. Could the woman still be at work, writing those two articles? Only this morning—though it seemed like a lifetime ago—Kate had jotted down Nancy’s office number on the pad next to the telephone.

Nancy picked up on the first ring. “Where are you? I’ve been waiting—“

“Nancy, it’s Kate Kennedy.”

“Damn, I’m too busy to talk…” Curt. Angry. And something more. Wary? Nervous?

“But—”

“Just a second, Kate.” Nancy’s voice was muffled. “Who’s there? Joe?”

Kate strained to listen. Had Nancy said
Joel
or
Yol
or
Ohl
?

“What are you doing here?” Now Nancy’s voice came through loud and clear. She sounded terrified.

A loud, sharp noise, sounding very much like a gunshot, exploded in Kate’s ear. Then someone hung up the phone.

Fumbling, frightened beyond reason, Kate scrambled for and found Detective Carbone’s number. He wasn’t there. In a trembling voice, she left a message then, bordering on hysteria, dialed 911. Frustrated when no one answered, she left another message, then hung up and called Marlene. No answer there either. Kate dashed out of the apartment. She had to get to the
Palmetto Beach Gazette
Building. Nancy Cooper might still be alive.

As she turned onto the bridge, Kate prayed to Saint Jude and to Charlie, two men that she’d long relied on for help with impossible causes, hoping for the best, but preparing for another body.

Who had walked into Nancy’s office? Apparently, not the visitor she’d been expecting.

And where was Marlene when Kate needed her?

Kate glanced north toward David Fry’s. Spotlights on the lawn illuminated the yellow exterior and inside lights blazed, seemingly from every nook and cranny. On the dock behind the mansion, huge lanterns made the yacht and the water gleam. Was the master at home? Or had he lit the place up like a Christmas tree to give that impression?

Most of the people on the island side of Palmetto Beach went to bed early, and even the few night owls seldom ventured across to the mainland after ten p.m. Except for Kate’s, there were no cars on Neptune Boulevard. She hit the gas.

Turning right onto Federal Highway, she merged into light northbound traffic, passing by the police station. Two patrol cars were in the parking lot; otherwise, all seemed quiet. Had no one listened to her 911 message?

The
Gazette
Building’s parking lot dark, gloomy, and almost empty, made Kate hesitate, but as Charlie always said, adrenaline fuels fools. She opened her car door, stepped out and started briskly around to the front of the building. Not a sign of life.

The palm trees swayed in a gentle wind. She jumped as their soft rustling sounds seemed to follow in her footsteps. With a pounding heart—her pulse rate had to be at its all-time high—Kate forced herself forward.

A dry crackling sound came from behind. Oh God. Something…no, someone had stepped on a fallen leaf. She glanced over her shoulder. A dark shadow loomed. Screaming, she stumbled, then spun around and ran for the front door.

Panting, panicked, Kate tried the doorknob. Her sweaty palm made it slippery going. Could it be locked? God, had all the other employees gone home? Shouldn’t a newspaper in the process of going to press be open? She caught a whiff of something smoky. Though it had been decades ago on a firing range with Charlie, she hadn’t forgotten the smell of a recently discharged gun. As a siren wailed, she felt a cold metal object against the base of her skull. Tires squealed. The front door swung open. Too terrified to turn around, Kate sensed rather than heard her stalker retreat. Stanley Ferris came out of the building, looking befuddled. “What are you doing here, Kate? And what the hell is all the commotion about?”

Kate collapsed in a heap at his feet.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Kennedy? Come on, take a deep breath.”

Kate could hear Detective Carbone, but she couldn’t open her eyes.

“Doc, you got any smelling salts in that bag?”

“Nick, the people I work on don’t require smelling salts.”

Such an old-fashioned remedy, Kate thought. Her mother always kept a jar of smelling salts in the house. But since none of the Kennedys had ever passed out—except on occasion Uncle Mike, after having imbibed too much of her father’s bourbon—Kate had tossed the jar after her mother died. She wanted to speak, to assure Detective Carbone that she was fine, but no words came.

A cocoon engulfed her. Warm. Cozy. She couldn’t escape. Maybe she didn’t want to. So ugly up there. Had the menace with the smoking gun gone? Should she stay down here forever?

“Kate, wake up.” The detective sounded desperate.

“You have no right to hold me, Carbone,” Stanley shouted. “I had nothing to do with this.” His strident tone hurt Kate’s ears. “I didn’t even know about Nancy Cooper until you cops arrived. You’re harassing me. Violating my civil rights. Next you’ll be dragging me off to the police station like you did Tuesday night. I only went into the
Gazette
Building because nature called—at my age, when you gotta go, you gotta go—and I knew there was a bathroom on the first floor. Why won’t you believe me? Are you crazy? What reason would I have to harm Nancy?” His shrill voice rose yet another octave. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”

An innocent bystander at two murders in two days? Kate opened her eyes.

“Go back into the lobby, Mr. Ferris. Now,” Detective Carbone barked. “If you don’t sit down and give Officer Jefferson your statement, you’ll be sleeping in a cell tonight.”

Someone had placed a jacket under Kate’s head. She squirmed, then raised her shoulders, struggling to sit up.

“Welcome back.” Detective Carbone helped her to a sitting position.

“Nancy Cooper’s dead, isn’t she? I smelled the gunpowder.”

“Is that a confession, Mrs. Kennedy?” Carbone’s edgy attitude had resurfaced.

“Hardly. The killer stood behind me and held a gun to my head.”

An oval-shaped man with a kind face—probably the “doc” that Nick Carbone had been talking to—took Kate’s pulse.
“A little low, but you should be okay. I’m Horatio Harmon, the medical examiner. I haven’t seen a live patient in over thirty years. It’s a real pleasure. How are you feeling, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Fine. A little foolish.” Kate’s voice was weak. “I’ve never fainted before, but then no one has ever tried to kill me before.”

“If you’re feeling up to it. I’ll drive you home. I’ll have someone bring your car back tomorrow morning. But tonight, there are some questions that only you can answer.” Nick Carbone took her arm and led her to a late-model Mercedes.

Well, well. What was the salary range for a detective in Palmetto Beach?

Glad to be alive, Kate savored the night air. With the bright moon and balmy breeze, her stalker seemed only a shadowy memory. Almost surreal. Then the truth hit. Hard. Despite her best efforts, Nancy Cooper had been murdered.

She’d barely buckled her seat belt when Carbone said, “You’re way too American to be Miss Marple, and you’re way too old to be Nancy Drew, so why the hell can’t you stay home and let me do my job?”

“How dare you speak to me like that? If either you or the 911 operator had answered my calls, I would have stayed home, but since the Palmetto Beach Police couldn’t save that woman, I had to try.”

He sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a lousy night. About an hour ago, a power outage crippled our 911 system and all the computers. Actually, I’m mad at myself. I moved fast when I got your message. Just not fast enough.”

“I’m sorry too. My night wasn’t any better.”

“Listen, Kate—er—excuse me, can I call you Kate?” She nodded, feeling oddly satisfied.

“I’m fifty-nine years old, three years away from any decent retirement. If we take our retirement after twenty, twenty-five years, our pensions are worth bupkis. And mostly because of my big mouth, I’ve made enemies in the current administration. I’ve been investigating David Fry. Mayor Walters and her council would like me gone—now. Hell, I moved here from Brooklyn over thirty-five years ago, but I’m still considered an alien.”

Understanding what he meant, but unsure what to say, Kate nodded again.

“Okay.” He sounded gruff and maybe a little embarrassed. “Tell me everything that happened tonight.”

Fifteen minutes later, Carbone pulled into Ocean Vista’s driveway, and Kate finished telling all, including the cashier’s check and her theory about the Stella Sajak folder containing an important clue.

“So you think that Nancy said ‘Joe’ when the shooter walked into her office?”

“Possibly, but I can’t swear to it.”

“Are you going to walk your dog tonight?”

“No, I took him out earlier. He’s probably sound asleep.”

“Listen to me,” Carbone said, testy as ever. “Phone that pushy sister-in-law of yours and tell her that starting tomorrow, she has to walk the dog with you. Nancy Cooper called you ‘Kate’ just as the killer walked into her office. And then someone tried to shoot you. Hardly a coincidence. I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”

It wasn’t until she opened her apartment door and a sleepy Ballou came to greet her that Kate once again wondered where Marlene had disappeared to after dinner.