Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

Sixteen

The phone rang,
jarring Kate awake. Her alarm clock, which she’d turned off last night, read nine a.m.—the latest she’d slept since Charlie’s death. Considering that she hadn’t gotten to bed until well after twelve, it must have been a peaceful night, the sheets were barely rumpled.

“Hello.” Charlie used to call her morning voice sexy, but to Kate it sounded like a three-pack-a-day-smoker’s last rasp.

“Are you still sleeping? Get up!” Marlene shouted. “The cops just hauled Stanley out of the hot tub and are reading him his rights. I’m on Mary Frances’s cell phone. Come on down, you’re missing all the fun.”

“He’ll be gone before I can get dressed. Take notes. I’ll see you later.”

Kate bolted out of bed, stepping on Ballou—who’d been sleeping next to the bed, and now gave an indignant yelp—grabbed her terry cloth robe, and raced to the balcony.

The blinding morning sun smacked her in the face.

Shading her eyes with her right hand, Kate peered over the concrete ledge. Ballou hovered behind her, waiting for his morning walk. Though she’d never seen the pool so crowded, and a gaggle of sunbathers had clustered around Stanley, once again her balcony provided a great view.

The officer, whom Nick Carbone had referred to last night as Jefferson, spoke to Stanley, then motioned for him to place his hands behind his back.

“But I’m an innocent man!” The half-plea, half-protest echoed above the crowd’s buzz.

The cop handcuffed him. Another officer, with a wide wave of his arm, parted the crowd, then led Stanley, dressed in spandex trunks and flip-flops, through it.

Would the police let him stop at his apartment to change? Or would he be booked in his bathing suit?

Kate found herself rooting for the latter.

She threw on a caftan Marlene had given her—God, could she be going Florida?—and disobeying Carbone, she took Ballou for a quick walk along A1A. With the police still around, she felt safe.

Back in her kitchen, she put two slices of rye into the toaster and laced her Lipton with a little milk, then thumbed through the
Palmetto Beach Gazette.
She found neither the exposé on David Fry nor Nancy Cooper’s big hush-hush scoop. Only Stella’s obit had made it to print. Could Fry have shot Nancy to prevent the piece about him from being published? Or to kill the third story? Or both?

As with so many questions in this case, she had no answers.

Kate usually did her best thinking while sipping tea in her Villeroy & Boch white china cup. Charlie had given her the set for their twentieth anniversary, saying, “Use these dishes every day and think of me every time you have a sip of tea.” Life, as Charlie’s death had proved, was way too short to waste on pottery mugs.

Late last night, worried and wondering where Marlene had gone, Kate had called her. Marlene had been wide awake, watching
Mr. Skeffington
on TCM. Kate thought her former sister-in-law sounded both anxious and pensive. And for a woman whose personal philosophy had always been “what’s on your lung is on your tongue” and reflection only what she saw in the mirror, that was most unusual behavior.

Marlene had taken umbrage when Kate questioned where she’d gone after dinner and avoided a direct answer, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t check my messages.”

When Kate had explained what had happened, Marlene’s mood swung from pensive to angry. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Kate. You know I would have gone with you. Damn, what a night you’ve had. Carbone is right, you can’t go out alone until the killer is caught. Someone wants you dead. And by God, I’m going to find out who that someone is.”

But why had Marlene been evasive? Kate spread strawberry preserves on her toast and shook her head. Was she losing her mind? She certainly didn’t suspect Marlene, did she? A white china saucer slipped from her shaky hand, crashing to the floor in smithereens. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she picked up the pieces.

Ballou ran his pink tongue along her ankle. Though Charlie had encouraged the little Westie to jump up—with help—into his lap, and man and dog had enjoyed those sessions of stroking and petting, Kate never wanted the dog on her lap. After Charlie’s death, Marlene had been the one who held him, crooning and talking nonsense. Always spoiling him, she’d throw down a treat whenever Ballou and Kate walked past her almost sand-level balcony. If
Marlene wasn’t there, he’d look up and give a smart yelp, and often as not, she’d appear, bearing goodies.

This morning, feeling very alone and very vulnerable, Kate picked up Ballou, fed him a bit of toast, and talked a little nonsense herself.

And with the Westie’s loving response, her self-pity ebbed.

She blew her nose, poured herself another cup of tea, and served Ballou a proper breakfast.

With Stanley in jail, was it safe to go out on her own? Kate didn’t think so. A snake, yes. A murderer, no. Though the thought of Stanley being fingerprinted gave her perverse pleasure, she wondered why Carbone had arrested him.

Ballou was ready for his real walk; maybe Marlene or Mary Frances could join them. Kate stepped onto the balcony. The pool area had emptied out—after all, the show was over—but Mary Frances was sitting alone on a chaise. Good, she’d get down there right away.

As Kate and a frisky Ballou started out the door, the phone rang. Damn, should she answer it and risk missing Mary Frances? A rhetorical question. Had she ever in her life not answered a ringing phone?

“Hello.”

“Kate, it’s Nick Carbone. Did you hear that Stanley Ferris has been arrested?”

Ballou gave a small, smart yelp, scratching at her legs, as if asking “why the delay?”

“I caught the show from my balcony.” She pushed the dog away. “Look, I know that Stanley was at the scene of the crime and all, but how could he stick a gun in my neck and then walk out the front door?”

“There’s a side entrance.” Carbone sounded unconvinced.

“But if Stanley had the gun to my head, there wouldn’t have been time for him to get around to the side of the building. I felt the cold steel, then bang, he opened the door.”

“Okay, you didn’t hear this from me.” Carbone groaned. “The mayor has been driving the captain crazy, calling every fifteen minutes all night long, pushing for a quick arrest. Season starts the end of this month. She doesn’t want the killer on the loose, making the snow birds nervous, sending the tourists scurrying up to Boca Raton. What can I tell you? The captain caved.”

“But what you’re saying couldn’t have happened. You’ve arrested the wrong man.”

“Well, old Doc Harmon says it could have happened. One theory: You never had a gun against your head, sheer terror had triggered your imagination. Or theory number two: Maybe there was a gun against your head, but not at the same time as the door opened and Stanley exited. Maybe you were in such a state of shock that you confused the sequence of events.”

“That old quack hadn’t seen a live patient in over thirty years. He wouldn’t know shock from Shinola.” Fury made her voice crackle.

Carbone laughed. “And I haven’t heard that expression in over thirty years—though you’ve cleaned it up some.”

“This is an outrage.”

“Calm down, Kate. We’re only holding Stanley as a material witness in Nancy Cooper’s death.”

“But the cops read him his rights and handcuffed him.”

“Yes, we’ve charged him with Stella’s Sajak’s murder.”

“Oh?” When Carbone didn’t answer, she said, “You found something when you searched his apartment, didn’t you? I just knew there had to be something in his computer, but I thought it might be porn.”

“Look, just to be on the safe side, stay close to home, and when you have to go out, take someone with you, okay?”

“You don’t believe that Stanley killed Stella, do you?” Her shout startled Ballou.

“Goodbye, Kate.”

Carbone hung up.

Mary Frances was closing a beach umbrella when Kate arrived at the pool. “Kate, why didn’t you come down? Are you okay? Marlene told me that someone tried to shoot you last night. That’s so scary and I’m so frightened.” Mary Frances spoke in staccato-like gulps, and her swollen eyes indicated that she’d been crying. “Oh God, do you think Stanley is capable of killing two women and then holding a gun to your head? Could my judgment in men be that bad? I feel stupid. And gullible. I’m considering going back to the convent. I’ve decided that South Florida is the Garden of Eden after the snake moved in. How could I have been so flattered by that lying ladies’ man?”

Ballou had been tugging on his leash and nipping at Kate’s legs all through Mary Frances’s monologue.

The oppressive, “hard to catch your breath” heat reminded Kate that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

“Why don’t you take a walk with us, and I’ll tell you why I don’t believe that Stanley the Snake pointed a gun at me or killed either of those women.”

“You don’t? But the police…and Marlene…”

“Where is Marlene?”

“Gone off with Joe Sajak to the funeral parlor. The visiting hours start tonight at seven. He wanted to see Stella before the cremation.”

Ballou gave a loud yelp.

Mary Frances grabbed her beach bag. “Come on, Kate. Your dog really has to go. And as Stanley always says, when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“His exact words at the scene of the crime, Mary Frances. And in my opinion, Stanley’s visit to the men’s room is every bit as good an alibi as Joe’s solitary sail.”

Seventeen

“What do you
mean
I
can’t scatter her over the ocean?” Marlene shook her finger in Samuel Adams’s face. “That was Stella’s last request, and by God, those ashes are going into the Atlantic.”

“Ms. Friedman, I usually handle the traditional burials; cremations are my brother John’s specialty. Unfortunately, I wasn’t up to snuff on all the rules and regulations governing the disposal of the deceased’s remains in the ocean. I do apologize for dispensing misinformation.” The little man nervously adjusted the top button on his white polyester jacket.

Damn, Marlene thought, he sounds just like a politician.

They were standing in what Marlene and Kate had dubbed the funeral parlor’s Cape Cod Room. The faux fireplace emanated no heat, yet its logs were flickering. Marlene, fascinated, stared at the preprogrammed dancing lights.

It was eighty-seven degrees outside.

Mr. Adams back-stepped, moving out of range of Marlene’s index finger and its weapon-like nail, today painted a fire-engine red. “Now, I’m not saying that some mourners don’t stroll out to the end of the Neptune Boulevard Pier and empty their urns into the sea with no questions asked—unless the local fishermen complain—but you can’t go scattering ashes on a public beach. What would our Palmetto Beach citizens and the tourists who were swimming nearby think? Not to mention how upsetting it might be for the elderly. You could hire a boat, motor out a bit, and then deposit Mrs. Sajak’s ashes in the briny.”

Joe, seemingly not listening, opened a large manila envelope and pulled out three photographs. An eight-by-ten sepia of a very young Stella and Joe taken aboard the
Maid of the Mist
in Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. Another of their first grade class, a freckle-faced Joe peering out from behind the mass of dark curls framing Stella’s face. The third, a studio-posed color portrait of Stella. Though only in her thirties, gray streaks highlighted her teased bouffant. He handed the photographs to the funeral director. “These are my favorite pictures of my wife. Please put them on a nice table next to her urn.”

“I will, Mr. Sajak.” Adams spoke softly.

“Why can’t I take Stella on her final voyage?” Joe Sajak turned from Samuel Adams to address Marlene in his sad baritone. “My friend’s boat is still docked at the marina and he won’t be back till Monday. Maybe after the memorial service tomorrow morning, you and I and Wyndam can motor out and give Stella the sendoff she deserves.”

A less than mollified Marlene, who’d been picturing herself barefoot in a flowing white dress, gliding through the sand and scattering Stella as the bagpiper she’d engaged played “Somewhere Beyond the Sea,” shrugged. “I guess that would work.”

Samuel Adams beamed. “Splendid. Now, Mr. Sajak, would you like to see the urn that Ms. Friedman and I have chosen to transport your late wife’s remains? It’s really quite beautiful. From our Persian collection.”

“First, I want to say goodbye to my wife. Alone. Where is she?” The widower wasn’t much taller than the funeral director, but seemed to tower over Adams.

“Now? Are you sure? We’re almost ready to begin the cremation. Remember, Mrs. Sajak has just arrived from the coroner’s. We haven’t embalmed her or applied any makeup.” Adams tittered nervously. “It’s not as if we thought anyone would be seeing her prior to…”

“I’m going to see her. Now.” Joe sounded determined.

“Well,” Adams huffed, “it won’t be pleasant.”

“Death never is. Take me to my wife.”

Adams looked at Marlene. “Are you joining us, Ms. Friedman?”

She hesitated. Though she would like to have seen Joe’s reaction when he viewed the body, he’d said, “Alone,” and sounded as if he meant it. “No, I’ll wait here.” Sitting down on the red, cut-velvet settee, she checked for an ashtray. “Can I smoke?”

“Sorry, Ms. Friedman,” Adams said. “As you may recall from when we made Mrs. Sajak’s arrangements, this is a smoke-free funeral parlor. You can have a cigarette out back where the hearses are parked.”

An hour later, Marlene and Joe were in her convertible, heading for the nearest bar. She’d passed on being present at the actual cremation, but Joe had insisted on witnessing it and the ordeal had left him visibly shaken.

“The Dew Drop Inn is on Federal Highway, near Town Hall,” Marlene said, “and the bartender makes a mean martini.”

“That’s fine with me.” Joe’s deep baritone had become a hoarse whisper.

But Marlene knew better. Nothing was fine, and the man looked like death walking. For once in her life, she didn’t know what to say, so probably to Joe’s relief, she turned left and drove the rest of the way in silence.

At a little after one, exiting the hot bright sunshine and entering the cool, dark bar seemed a sinful pleasure. The burgers, grilling on an open flame, smelled delicious, the patrons looked happy, and the cocktails, served straight up in chilled glasses, were perfect. Marlene, comfortable in her natural habitat, settled onto the bar stool and took a sip of her drink, feeling better already.

She raised her glass. “To Stella.”

Joe nodded. “May she rest in peace.” He wiped his eyes, then drained most of his martini. “How the hell can you have a viewing when there’s only a pile of ashes packed in an urn?”

Marlene remembered how she’d said almost those exact words to Kate on Wednesday.

Either Sajak was the world’s best con man or a brokenhearted husband. Marlene, having no clue which, suggested they order another round of drinks and a couple of cheeseburgers. With fries.

The bartender took their order, saying that they could eat at the bar. Joe, apparently not too grief-stricken to eat, asked for a side of onion rings.

Then Marlene, fortified by the gin yet unable to think of a tactful way to phrase the question that had been driving her crazy—subtlety not her strong suit—finally blurted out, “Who do you think gave Stella that two-hundred-thousand-dollar cashier’s check?”

Joe laughed, but even his laughter sounded sad. Or was that part of his act? “I’m more curious about why. What had Stella been up to?”

“Blackmail?” Damn. Her mother always said Marlene never had an unspoken thought. If only she could bite back her words, but they hung out there, cold and ugly, as Joe, in one gulp, swallowed the rest of his martini.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Stella selling the family jewels. My Aunt Erma left her a diamond brooch and a fine-looking emerald ring. Stella never wore them, said they were old-fashioned and gaudy, but I figured they might be valuable.” He speared his olive. “Is there something you know that I don’t?”

Marlene fumbled, feeling foolish. “Well, blackmail came to mind; that’s quite a chunk of change…”

David Fry, catching her completely off guard, perched on the bar stool next to her. “Hello, Ms. Friedman. How are you today? I understand that Ocean Vista’s vice-president has been arrested for Stella Sajak’s murder.” He shook his head. “Pity. There goes the neighborhood.” Marlene forced a smile, then motioned toward Joe. “Allow me to introduce you to Joe Sajak, Stella’s husband. Or I should say, her widower. Joe, this is David Fry, the man Stella wanted to throw to the lions. Or at least out of town.”

Extending his hand to Joe, David Fry, properly respectful yet smooth as silk stockings, said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Sajak. Your wife was a worthy adversary, and though we had different visions for Palmetto Beach, I assure you our difference would have been settled in Town Hall, not the Coliseum.”

A flurry of excitement in the dining area captured Marlene’s attention. A fawning young waiter was seating a party of four at a window table, not that Federal Highway afforded much of a view. Fancy that: the mayor and her three stooges.

Marlene gestured toward the window table and said to Fry, “I think your luncheon companions have arrived.”

“So I see.” He smiled, icy charm intact. “Please excuse me, Ms. Friedman. Business before pleasure, but I haven’t forgotten that I owe you and Mrs. Kennedy a drink.”

“And dinner.”

David Fry actually bowed, briefly to be sure, but nonetheless a bow. “And certainly, dinner it is. Sometime after the funeral, of course.” He turned back to Joe. “Again, my sincere sympathy. I’ll see both of you this evening.”

As Fry sat next to the mayor, Joe said, “Who’s that blonde? She looks like a movie star or—”

“Palmetto Beach’s mayor,” Marlene snapped. “She’s an attractive woman, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say she looks like a movie star.”

Joe kept staring at Brenda Walters, appearing absolutely mesmerized.

Only the arrival of the bartender, balancing two huge plates of cheeseburgers, fries, and onion rings, and announcing, “Here we go, the best food in Broward County,” broke Joe’s concentration.

Back at Ocean Vista, Joe, saying he had a lot of phone calls to make and paperwork to take care of, went up to Stella’s—well, his apartment, Marlene begrudgingly thought. She walked over to the reception desk and asked Miss Mitford, who looked bleaker than usual in head-to-toe olive drab, to buzz Kate’s condo.

“Mrs. Kennedy isn’t here, Mrs. Friedman.”

Over the years, Marlene had tried, but failed, to get Miss Mitford to address her as Ms.

“She went off somewhere with Miss Costello.” Marlene felt a pang that she readily identified as jealousy, but she would be damned if she’d ask any more questions.

“I do have a message for you, Mrs. Friedman.”

“Yes. From Kate?” Guilt and fear made her voice shake.

“No, that newsboy, Timmy, called. The one who’d brought the note for Mrs. Sajak. He knew you lived in Ocean Vista, but couldn’t remember your last name, so he called Information and got the number for the front desk.”

“My
God…
when did he call? What did he say?”

“About an hour ago. And he didn’t say much of anything, just gave me a phone number up in P
alm
Beach County for you to call.” She handed a scrap of paper to Marlene. “He sounded scared.” She smiled as if pleased by that thought. “Naturally, I called Detective Carbone right away. With any luck, Timmy might be in custody by now.”