Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Praise for Noreen Wald

  Mysteries by Noreen Wald

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  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Kate Kennedy Mystery Series

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  GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  CROPPED TO DEATH

  FRONT PAGE FATALITY

  FIT TO BE DEAD

  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 IS A BARGAIN

  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: 978-1-943390-93-9

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-94-6

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-95-3

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-96-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the memory of Ray

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IN WASHINGTON, D.C.

  My deepest gratitude to Peggy Hanson for her generous gift of time and editing.

  Thanks to Steve Smith, my husband, for his advice and support.

  Thanks to my critique colleagues, the Rector Lane Irregulars: Donna Andrews, Carla Coupe, Ellen Crosby, Laura Durham, Peggy Hanson, Valerie Patterson, and Sandi Wilson.

  IN SOUTH FLORIDA

  Thanks to Gloria and Paul Stuart: dear friends, gracious hosts, talented researchers, and great promoters.

  Thanks to Diane and Dave Dufour, my longtime friends and supporters.

  Thanks to Joyce Sweeney, a wonderful author and my mentor.

  IN NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY

  Thanks to Doris Holland for being there for over forty years.

  Thanks to my son, Bill, who listens, even when he’s heard it before.

  As always, thanks to my agent, Peter Rubie.

  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

  One

  A midget in a tuxedo swung on a trapeze, missing the outstretched arms of a blonde in a bejeweled leotard. The blonde hung by her heels in mid-air. The midget fell fifty feet into a classic red Volkswagen convertible. Kate Kennedy hoped the car was well-padded.

  Scrambling out of the Bug’s backseat, followed by three full-size clowns, the midget yelled to the cheering crowd, “Welcome to the second-greatest show on earth.”

  “Only in South Florida,” Kate whispered to her dead husband, Charlie, wishing he was with her, feeling for a fleeting moment almost as if he were.

  “The ringmaster’s cute, isn’t he?” Marlene Friedman, Kate’s former sister-in-law and best friend since childhood, grinned. “I once had a fling with a Barnum and Bailey midget in Sarasota at their training grounds. It was after I divorced Walter, but before I married Kevin.”

  After more than sixty years of girl talk, Marlene could still surprise Kate.

  They’d been checking out the Palmetto Beach flea market, scouting out the best available space to sell Marlene’s “treasures” or “junk”—the description depending on which one of them was talking. Kate allowed that a shocking pink hula hoop circa
1957 might qualify in either category. But both agreed that things had taken over Marlene’s condo.

  Since Marlene had been stopping at every table to shop instead of making any attempt to select a site, Kate suggested they get out of the relentless April midday sunshine, grab a hot dog, and watch the free two o’clock performance of the famous Cunningham Circus located in a center ring, complete with a Big Top, smack in the middle of the flea market.

  It might not be the second-greatest show on earth, but when two elephants wearing pink boas lined up and danced “as good as the Radio City Rockettes,” according to the ringmaster, Kate was enjoying herself so much she sprang for a second round of hot dogs and two more orders of truly greasy, totally delicious French fries.

  Marlene laughed. “I hope you brought your Pepcid AC.”

  “I never leave home without it.” Kate shook her head. Her digestive system, like the rest of her, wasn’t what it used to be.

  The elephant trainer, a perky little brunette dressed in a royal blue drum majorette costume, wielded her baton to prod one of the elephants, poking the animal with more force than Kate deemed necessary.

  Her half-eaten French fry lost its flavor. An image of her beloved Westie, Ballou, home alone popped into her head. Kate might be overly squeamish, but her delight dissipated, replaced by a vague, nagging concern for animals. Those in the circus might be mistreated. Was she neglecting Ballou by leaving him alone?

  She felt relieved when, to the roar of the cheering crowd, “the second-greatest show on earth” came to an end.

  “Marlene, is that you, my girl?” They were stalled at the end of a long line trying to exit the Big Top when a clown—Kate thought he’d been the third one out of the Volkswagen—came up behind them and enveloped Marlene in a bear hug.

  “Hello, Sean.” Marlene attempted to poke her head around his wild red wig and funny hat, getting greasepaint on her cheek. “Kate, say hello to Sean Cunningham. Sean, this is Kate Kennedy, my best friend and sister-in-law.”

  Marlene never added the qualifying “former” when explaining their kinship. Somehow, that pleased Kate.

  “Charmed, I’m sure.” The wiry little man spoke in a soft, lilting, not-quite-a-brogue voice.

  He removed a huge glove, then awkwardly twisted around to shake Kate’s hand. His oversize shoes were firmly planted against the outside of Marlene’s sandals, making it impossible for her to move.

  Where had Marlene met this clown?

  “Do you dance, Kate?” The lilt lingered. Irish born? Or an affected accent?

  “We met at Ireland’s Inn.” Marlene squirmed, trying to get free of his feet. “Back off, Sean. I can’t breathe.”

  “Sorry, my pet.” Sean two-stepped in reverse, almost knocking Kate over. How did he walk in those clodhoppers?

  “Ah, yes. Ireland’s Inn. Great music there. I’m what you might call a regular. On more than one happy occasion, Marlene and I have shared a slow dance and a wee drink.” Sean winked at Kate. “You’ll have to stop by sometime. I do a mean cha-cha.”

  “I don’t dance,” Kate lied, sounding cold and convincing.

  Marlene glared at her.

  Sean, seemingly unfazed, smiled. “What brings you two lovely ladies to the circus?”

  “Junk.” Marlene laughed. “We’re looking for a table or a booth in the flea market where I can get rid of mine. But I’m a junkie, so I kept buying, until Kate dragged me to the matinee.”

  “Admitting your addiction is the first step.” Kate, guilty as charged of compulsive neatness, felt her sister-in-law had just made a major breakthrough.

  “Yes, I guess I’m ready.” Marlene sighed, then licked her lower lip. “Say, Sean do you know of a good location?”

  “It would be my great pleasure to assist you. Why, I have the perfect spot in mind, don’t I?” Sean, not without difficulty, turned full circle, aiming his big shoes toward the exit. “Follow me, girls.”

  Any illusion of glamour had vanished with the human and animal performers. The center ring, shorn of fancy costumes and colorful banners, looked gray and grimy.

  With the stadium-style seats empty, the smell of manure trumped the odors of half-eaten hot dogs, crumpled, grease-stained containers, and the remnants of relish, mustard, and stray pieces of popcorn littering the dirt floor.

  From behind a red velvet curtain, Kate heard a muffled moan. Could it be the elephant the trainer had prodded? Or had she only imagined the sound?

  She tripped over a crushed Coke can and, though the open space was vast, felt trapped. She’d never forgotten I Love You Honey, But the Season’s Over, a book she’d read decades ago, chronicling a small-town girl’s doomed love affair with a handsome, itinerant circus performer.

  To escape the Big Top—this very minute—Kate Kennedy would have followed Sean Cunningham to Hell.

  Two

  Compared to what Kate had seen of the rest of the flea market, the spot Sean led them to seemed like heaven.

  They’d exited into a clean corridor under an air-conditioned, canopied tent only steps away from the circus. The air felt crisp and comfortable, motivating the, though junk-food fed, well-entertained circus patrons to stop and buy from the vendors.

  The setting may have improved; however, the clown’s deteriorating appearance had gone from distasteful to disgusting. Makeup had caked in the deep creases on his cheeks and when he wiped his still sweaty—despite the burst of cold air—forehead, he removed most of his left eyebrow and stained the back of his right hand.

  Kate tried not to recoil, reminding herself that first impressions can be misleading, that Sean was probably a fine man, and that she was too damn fussy and fastidious for her own good.

  Her upset stomach, its level of acidity a strange but often accurate harbinger of trouble, suggested a different scenario.

  Could the cause of her distress be the empty table?

  Six tables/booths were positioned, three on each side of the busy corridor. Five were drawing long lines of customers, so dense that Kate couldn’t see the vendors. One table was barren, its metal top exposed and ugly in its nakedness. No merchandise. No seller. No buyers.

  “Prime space.” Sean pointed to eager shoppers, still queuing up. “Hundreds of folks pass through here every day on their way to and from our circus.” He sounded proud of the family business.

  “The location manager never mentioned this area.” Marlene beamed, seeing the same dollar signs as Kate.

  “He’s not a Cunningham, is he?” Sean yanked a large, none-too-clean handkerchief from a deep pocket in his roomy plaid pants and took another swipe at the greasepaint. His face now resembled a Dalí painting. “We decide which vendors work the corridors off the circus.”

  Beware of clowns bearing gifts. Kate’s stomach lurched anew.

  “The Dewar’s guy died Sunday night.” Sean jerked a thumb at the bare table. “We removed his shelves and packed up his wares yesterday. A great loss. We’re all going to the service on Thursday. Both the corridor and the circus will be closed in honor of our very own Whitey Ford. His real name was Bob, but his nickname was a no-brainer, he looked just like the Yankee pitcher. Same blond hair. Same slim frame. And, funny enough, Whitey had the largest collection of Dewar’s pitchers in the country.”

  “How did Whitey die?” Kate remembered seeing the real Whitey Ford pitch at Yankee Stadium, Charlie cheering so loudly he’d lost his voice.

  “According to the cop who called me, he’d been lounging in the bathtub watching a Seinfeld rerun. The TV fell in the tub.” Sean shrugged. “Curtains.”

  “An accident?” Marlene ran her hand across the scarred metal table.

  “Yeah.” Sean nodded. “An accident.”

  Kate found his nod oddly eager, like a naughty puppy looking for approval.

  “Whitey had been dr
inking. The cops found a pitcher half-filled with scotch and an empty glass on the top of the hamper next to the TV.”

  Kate had read the story—buried on the bottom of page four in this morning’s Sun-Sentinel—just a few lines about a man with no family dying at home alone. Nothing about Bob Ford’s Yankee nickname. Nothing about his passion for Dewar’s pitchers. Nothing about his booth in the flea market.

  “Let’s go over to the office and sign the lease.” Sean grabbed Marlene’s elbow. “By the time we get you all set up, the matinee crowd will be gone, and I’ll introduce you to the ladies and gentlemen of the corridor.”