Death Rides the Surf (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 5) Read online

  Praise for Noreen Wald

  Mysteries by Noreen Wald

  Sign up for Club Hen House | Henery Press updates

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Kate Kennedy Mystery Series

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  GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS

  MACDEATH

  DEATH BY BLUE WATER

  MURDER ON A SILVER PLATTER

  LOWCOUNTRY BOIL

  Praise for Noreen Wald

  THE KATE KENNEDY MYSTERIES

  “Sparkles like the South Florida sunshine...Kate Kennedy is a warm and funny heroine.”

  – Nancy Martin, Author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries

  “Miss Marple with a modern twist...[Wald] is a very funny lady!”

  – Donna Andrews, Author of the Meg Langslow Mysteries

  “A stylish and sophisticated Miss Marple, seeking justice in sunny South Florida instead of a rainy English Village, and meeting the most delightfully eccentric suspects in the process.”

  – Victoria Thompson, Author of the Gaslight Mysteries

  “Kate Kennedy’s wry wit, genuine kindness, and openness to adventure make her a sleuth to cherish. Death is a Bargain is another top-notch entry in a great series.”

  – Carolyn Hart, Author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

  THE JAKE O’HARA MYSTERIES

  “Murders multiply, but Jake proves up to the challenge. She sees through all the subterfuge and chicanery, solving a mind-boggling mystery in a burst of insight. All the characters are charmingly kooky and fun…a good beginning for a new series.”

  – TheMysteryReader.com

  “[Wald] writes with a light touch.”

  – New York Daily News

  “The author keeps the plot airy and the characters outlandish.”

  – South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  Mysteries by Noreen Wald

  The Kate Kennedy Series

  DEATH WITH AN OCEAN VIEW (#1)

  DEATH OF THE SWAMI SCHWARTZ (#2)

  DEATH IS A BARGAIN (#3)

  DEATH STORMS THE SHORE (#4)

  DEATH RIDES THE SURF (#5)

  The Jake O’Hara Series

  GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS (#1)

  THE LUCK OF THE GHOSTWRITER (#2)

  A GHOSTWRITER TO DIE FOR (#3)

  REMEMBRANCE OF GHOSTWRITERS PAST (#4)

  GHOSTWRITER FOR HIRE (#5)

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  Copyright

  DEATH RIDES THE SURF

  A Kate Kennedy Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  Second Edition | March 2016

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2016 by Noreen Wald

  Author photograph by Matthew Holler

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-32-9

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-33-6

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-941962-34-3

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-000-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Steve, with love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest thanks to Steve Smith. I literally couldn’t have done this one without him. And thanks to the usual suspects: Donna Andrews, Carla Coupe, Ellen Crosby, Diane and Dave Dufour, Laura Durham, Barbara Giorgio, Peggy Hanson, Doris Holland, Susan Kavanagh, Valerie Patterson, Gail Prensky, Billy Reckdenwald, Pat Sanders, Dr. Diane Shirer, Gloria and Paul Stuart, Joyce Sweeney, and Sandi Wilson.

  Thanks to the Henery Press team for putting new life into Jake and Kate. A special thanks to my lead editor, Rachel Jackson. The new covers designed by Kendel Lynn are great.

  And a big thank you to my agent, Peter Rubie.

  One

  Monday evening, October 30

  There were funerals where you knew, with cold certainty, that the corpse wouldn’t be the only person you’d never see again. Kate Kennedy had just returned from one.

  The deceased, Jane Kuloski Whitcomb, flew with Kate almost fifty years ago when they’d been stewardesses. Over the decades, they exchanged Christmas cards and photos of their kids, and met a few times when Jane would come back to New York to visit her mother.

  Somehow Kate, who prided herself on her powers of observation, hadn’t noticed Jane had become a practicing snob. Then last winter, Jane—who’d married a dermatologist, not a detective—moved from the Midwest to Palm Beach and attempted to revive their old friendship. Kate discovered that not only did they have nothing in common, she didn’t even like Jane.

  Of course, that awakening hadn’t kept Kate from attending Jane’s requiem mass, where she’d shared a pew with two of the other—and much more famous—Kennedy family cousins.

  “Shriver or Smith?” Marlene Friedman, Kate’s forever best friend and former sister-in-law, sounded like Chris Matthews as she and Kate strolled down Neptune Boulevard, trying to walk off calories after devouring platters of fried shrimp and hot fudge sundaes at dinner.

  Kate picked up the pace. “I’m not sure. They all look alike to me. Lots of teeth. I think the young man—well, he must be in his forties—might have been one of Bobby’s brood.”

  A pale gold harvest moon rose in the early evening sky. The moist, salty air held a hint of South Florida autumn, as wave
s on either side of them crashed against the beach.

  Under the spotlights, one of the two guys at the end of the pier appeared to be struggling with a large fish. A bearded, younger man stowed bait and beer in a small motorboat. A mellow Frank Sinatra sang “My Way,” but the lyrics faded out as Kate and Marlene approached the men. The bearded man waved. He looked familiar. Probably a regular at the Neptune Inn.

  Kate waved back. Sometime over the last year, after the intense, constant grieving for Charlie—who’d never lived in the condo he’d chosen—had morphed into a dull ache, always with her but bearable, Palmetto Beach had become home.

  Marlene shook her head, her platinum twist holding firm in the sea breeze. “Really, an honest-to-God celebrity sighting and you can’t even identify which Kennedy you saw.”

  “I was at a funeral, Marlene.” Kate laughed. “I couldn’t ask for an autograph.”

  Marlene’s frustrated expression indicated that was exactly what Kate should have done. “So, if you didn’t relate to any of the mourners, maybe I would. Widower Whitcomb walks, talks, and has money, right? How bad can he be? And I could use a chemical peel. A dermatologist’s almost as good as a plastic surgeon.”

  Kate laughed. She and Marlene had put Kate’s granddaughter Katharine’s unrequited love story on hold during dinner, though Marlene did report on her morning visit to the boy’s grandmother who ran the only tanning salon/talking skull operation in South Florida.

  “Shark!” The slimmer of the two fishermen standing at the edge of the pier dropped his pole. “Jesus Christ. Is that blood?”

  The motor on the small boat revved up, and the bearded young man at the tiller veered south toward what appeared to be, by the light of the moon, a body floating face down.

  “Call 911, quick!” the slim fisherman yelled, and then hopped into the bearded young man’s moving boat.

  The heavy set man peered into the water. “Looks like one of them goddamn surfers.” He gestured toward the beach. “That’s a piece of his board over there.”

  As the man punched in the numbers on his cell phone, Marlene screamed. An ungodly, piercing wail. Kate watched in horror as the bearded man stopped the boat and the slim man reached over port side into the sea and pulled a bloody stump on board.

  Two

  Two nights earlier, Saturday, October 28

  “I hate school, I hate my mother, and I hate being a virgin,” Katharine Kennedy said. “Please don’t tell me to go home. I’m moving to Florida, Auntie Marlene, and I’m shedding excess baggage: classes, college, chastity. I know you of all people will understand and support me. And I need you to intercede with Nana. I’ll live at Ocean Vista till I find a job. In the cab from the airport, I passed a help-wanted sign. Pink Platinum is hiring.”

  Starting over? As a lap dancer?

  Katharine had just turned eighteen. If Marlene provided refuge for her best friend’s granddaughter, Kate would kill her.

  “Jennifer and Kevin must be worried sick, Katharine. Let’s call them. Then you can stay here for fall break while we sort this out.”

  The girl’s freckled face flushed, her auburn curls bouncing as she shook her head. “If you turn me in to my parents, Auntie Marlene, I might be forced to tell Nana about you.”

  Good God! Could Katharine somehow have discovered that her now dead and revered grandfather, Charlie, and her “Auntie Marlene” once had a four-martini fling almost a half century ago?

  Katharine smiled, then gestured toward the hallway. “Shall I put my bags in the guest room?”

  Like a flamboyant, frightened Willie Loman, Marlene rehearsed what she would say, determined to sell her best friend on the idea of her granddaughter moving in.

  With Marlene’s checkered past, Katharine might have unearthed any number of unsavory secrets, but that brief boozy bedding of her best friend’s husband atop a pile of coats during a cocktail party had always led Marlene’s guilt parade. The act of adultery should top her long list of sins, considering she’d been engaged to Charlie’s twin brother at the time. A doubleheader, commandment-breaking, grievous matter. A mortal sin, even if she wasn’t Catholic. A sin she fully expected to go to hell for, unless God had a sense of humor and had sent Katharine here as a kind of hell-on-earth punishment.

  If Marlene could find out why Katharine was really here, lying to Kate might be easier. Based on her own experience, she felt certain there must be a man in the picture. Marlene’s heart ached at the thought of her beloved Katharine chasing after some guy, then being hurt if he rejected her.

  Men, not money, were the root of all evil. Marlene laughed. Maybe she should have that embroidered on a pillowcase or a t-shirt; she’d probably sell a million of them.

  Putting her past on hold—three marriages, six engagements, and she’d need a calculator to add up the total number of men she’d dated—Marlene picked up the phone and presented her pitch to Kate.

  “I still don’t understand. Why did Katharine come here?” Kate asked.

  With decades of experience, Marlene translated. Kate was really asking why Katharine had shown up at Marlene’s condo door instead of at her grandmother’s. So Marlene, though she seldom did, measured her response. “Oh Kate, your granddaughter knows I’m a sucker for a sob story. You might have sent her packing.”

  “And you think I should let her stay?”

  “Well, yes. Katharine’s not herself. Something is eating at her. Something serious. We need to find out what’s wrong. That may take a few days.”

  “She hasn’t been returning my phone calls.” Kate sighed. “I figured she was caught up in college life. A school as large as NYU can be overwhelming and, you know, she’s living on her own with a roommate in the West Village. I almost wish she’d followed Lauren’s lead and gone to Harvard, but she so wanted to study theater.” Marlene could hear the worry in Kate’s voice. She took a sip of Scotch, wishing she had a cigarette. “Come on, Kate. Lauren’s smart and beautiful, but she has no spark. She’s like your stuffy in-laws, the Lowells. Katharine’s not only the spitting image of her father and grandfather, she inherited their spirit as well. And like Charlie, your granddaughter’s a real New Yorker. She’d have hated Harvard.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if she’s happy at NYU either.”

  “I don’t think her problem has anything to do with geography, Kate.”

  “Then why did she run away to Florida? Why is she talking about finding a job here? Why would a real New Yorker leave the city she loves?”

  “Cherchez l’homme.” Marlene’s accent sounded more Queens than Paris.

  “A man?” Kate’s voice rose. “She’s barely eighteen. How can you think Katharine came to Florida because of a man?”

  “Are you so old you don’t remember your seventeenth summer, Kate? You spent a hell of a lot of time under the boardwalk at Rockaway, doing God knows what with that Latin lover from Ridgewood.”

  Dead silence. Had Marlene gone too far? She counted to ten. Nothing but silence. She plunged. “Come back, Kate. I feel like I’m talking to myself here.”

  “Okay.” Kate sounded resigned. “Tell Katharine she can stay with me. You and I will figure out how to deal with Jennifer and Kevin. Then we’ll figure out who this man is and why Katharine followed him to Florida.”

  Three

  Ballou always knew when Kate needed comforting. She hung up after talking to Marlene and the little white Westie settled in at her feet, licking her left hand.

  Though Kate hated to admit it, Marlene might be right about Katharine. The girl had been acting strangely ever since she started college. No wait, even before that. Ever since late July when Katharine had returned from a week in Acapulco. On the telephone, her bouncy voice had taken on an edge of sadness and the stories she’d once shared so openly with her grandmother seemed edited.

  Maybe all teena
gers abridged their adventures sooner or later. Still, Kate had sensed a secretiveness that might well have stemmed from a budding romance. Had Katharine met a man in Mexico? Kate thought about a young woman who’d vanished while vacationing in Acapulco over the summer. Her mother was still all over TV, pleading for information. God, that could have been Katharine.

  Kate petted Ballou, running her fingers through his soft fur, grateful for his devotion. His feelings were never shrouded in secrecy.

  Kate sighed. Stop it. What had she expected? To be privy to her granddaughter’s sex life? She felt herself flush, watching her pale arm redden, the fine hairs standing straight up. Odd how only the hair on her head had turned silver while all her other body hair remained chestnut.