Death With An Ocean View (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Stella Sajak had seemed too strident, too outgoing, too on-stage to be a mystery woman. But Kate had read enough of Carl Hiaasen to know that South Florida was a mecca for scalawags, swindlers, and scam artists. Former drug dealers lived in mansions on the Intercoastal. White-collar criminals, after serving time in country club prisons, changed their names, moved to Harbor Isle or Hobe Sound, then sailed into their sunset years, endowing libraries and hosting charity balls, without their neighbors ever suspecting that they once had been convicts.

  “Here comes the dancing nun.” Marlene’s words pulled Kate out of speculation and back to reality.

  Mary Frances Costello made her way through the maze of chaises and chairs, clearly heading in their direction. Kate had decided that there were two kinds of ex-nuns: Those who dressed in uniforms—not unlike their former habits—navy or gray polyester suits and white or cream blouses. And those who, wanting to make up for all the fashion fads they’d missed while living in the convent, dressed trendier than any teenager. Mary Frances, wearing a white halter and bell bottoms, fell into the latter category.

  When she’d moved south from Minneapolis six years ago, Mary Frances had segued straight from the convent to the condo. Marlene, who in addition to knowing the stats on South Florida’s over-sixty single men was also keeping a mental dossier on Ocean Vista’s owners, had told Kate that she found the pretty redhead to be among the most intriguing.

  What Kate found particularly fascinating were Mary Frances’s upper arms. Firm, muscular, yet feminine. No old lady bat wings waving in the wind. Could yoga be the reason why this gal could get away with—well almost get away with—a halter?

  Marlene had also told Kate, “Mary Frances lowers her age by a year every time anyone asks how old she is. Using her math, she must have become a nun in nursery school.”

  Svelte of figure and firm of face, with thick hair, big blue eyes, and a pug nose, Mary Frances could have passed for fifty, but Marlene had assured Kate that the ex-nun was over sixty.

  Whatever her age, this morning, wiping her eyes and minus her makeup, Mary Frances looked great.

  “Hey,” Marlene shouted, “is Stanley in the hoosegow?”

  Mary Frances wrinkled her nose in Marlene’s direction as if she smelled something rotten. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Marlene, taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but Stanley’s upstairs sleeping.”

  “I figure he’d been booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. Is he out on bail?” Marlene spoke with relish, but patted the cushion on the chaise next to her, motioning for Mary Frances to sit down.

  “You’re a wicked woman.” Mary Frances flicked her auburn curls from one shoulder to the other. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Now don’t go getting your rosary beads in a twist. If you really don’t believe that Stanley killed Stella, sit down and let’s try to figure out who did.”

  To Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances sat. Marlene riffled through her carry-on-size tote—tomato red to match her tankini—and pulled a can of Coke out of a tiny cooler, then continued rummaging. “I have rum in here somewhere. Want me to add a shot?”

  “God, no.” Mary Frances sighed. “I had more than enough rum last night. My head aches and I can’t even remember what I told that detective…”

  “Carbone?” Kate asked before Marlene could open her mouth. “Kind of bulky and burly?”

  “No.” Mary Frances frowned. “Farber, I think. Short and skinny. Looked a little like Stanley. I kept getting them confused.” She pressed the Coke can to her forehead. “I swear I’m never going to drink again.”

  “You didn’t kill Stella, did you?” Marlene asked, holding up the bottle of rum. “You know, in a blackout?”

  Mary Frances, in one fluid, graceful movement, stood up, then slowly walked to the back of Marlene’s chaise and poured the entire can of Coke over her head.

  Four

  Kate watched Marlene step away from the outdoor shower at the deep end of the pool and wrap a white terry cloth turban around her just-rinsed hair. She wasn’t surprised that her former sister-in-law had responded to the unexpected Coke shampoo with a veneer of good humor. Yet Kate sensed hostility. She’d watched Marlene cover up hurt feelings since first grade.

  Back on the chaise, Marlene nodded in acknowledgment of Mary Frances’s third apology. “I swear I don’t know what in the world possessed me to do such a thing.” Grabbing a cosmetic case from the zippered pocket in Marlene’s tote bag, Kate handed it to her.

  Marlene pulled out a mirror and surveyed the damage. “Yuck. You really did a job on my mascara, Mary Frances. Ran right down into my puppet lines. A new wrinkle in makeup. Charcoal gray streaks to highlight our deepest creases. I’m going to market the idea to Covergirl.” Mary Frances’s blush started at the base of her neck and quickly spread to her forehead. “Please let me take you and Kate to lunch. A small way to show you how sorry I am for my childish behavior. Besides, I desperately need to talk to you both about the murder. About Stanley and”—she sighed and turned an even darker red—“Stella.”

  Kate knew Mary Frances’s fourth apology was a winner. With an invitation like that, Marlene would have dined with the devil himself.

  The Ocean Vista’s dining room, all cheery blue and white checks with white Formica tables and chairs, usually noisy and bustling at high noon, was subdued. Far fewer people eating lunch today. And those who were wore funeral faces. Kate questioned their sincerity, but realized that judgment was based on what Marlene believed and had repeated again this morning, “Most of the condo owners thought Stella was a tyrant And most except for a few foolish old women, consider Stanley a snake.” Could Stella’s murder and Stanley’s being the prime suspect have changed their neighbors’ opinions overnight? Or had Marlene been wrong?

  The sun streaming in through the window streaked the daily choices. Kate shifted her chair so she could read the menu. Across from her, Marlene had decided.

  “I’ll have the flounder,” she was telling the perky blond waitress, whose handwritten name tag read TIFFANI—with a red heart drawn over the i—and who wore neon green high heel sneakers and a megawatt smile.

  Tiffani nodded approvingly. “It’s fresh caught this morning. I heard the chef say. ‘At least the fish won’t kill anyone today.’”

  With that assurance, Kate ordered the flounder too.

  Mary Frances opted for scrambled eggs and dry toast.

  Nursing an upset stomach or on a diet? She certainly didn’t look ill, but maybe…

  ‘Tiffani,” Marlene called after the waitress. “A bottle of dry white wine would be nice. And you can bring me a Caesar salad too. And a hot fudge sundae for dessert. Miss Costello’s paying.”

  Mary Frances’s fifth apology mercifully ended when Tiffani brought the food. Marlene dug right in.

  Sipping her tea and playing with her eggs, Mary Frances frowned. “I need some advice, but I want you both to promise to keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

  Marlene drained her white wine, then raised her right hand. “I’ll keep it as sacred and as secret as the seal of the confessional.”

  “It’s not the penitent,” Kate said, “it’s the priest who’s bound to secrecy.”

  “Don’t be so technical. The point is I will never reveal what Mary Frances tells us, not even under torture.”

  A slight smile formed, then faded on Mary Frances’s face. “For some strange reason, I believe Marlene. Or maybe I’m just so desperate.” She started to cry. Loud sobs, accompanied by heaving shoulders.

  Kate patted her arm. “What is it?”

  “Stanley may have murdered Stella.” Mary Frances used her napkin to wipe her eyes.

  “But you said…” Marlene started.

  Under the table, Kate kicked Marlene’s shin, then turned to Mary Frances. Using her most motherly tone, she said, “Tell us why you think that.”

  “Well, first off, he’s vice-president of the condo association. I know for a fact that he coveted Stella’s job.”

  “Good God, woman,” Marlene spat out the words. “You don’t really believe that Stanley would kill Stella to become condo president, do you?”

  Mary Frances stared at her cold eggs.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Kate asked gently.

  Mary Frances nodded. “Stanley left the Halloween party well before his scheduled rendezvous with me. Stella ducked out a few minutes later. When he returned, alone, I watched him, standing on the patio and dumping sand out of these snakeskin boots.” She almost hissed the last few words.

  A woman scorned? Kate wondered.

  Mary Frances hadn’t finished. “Stella never came back. The next time I saw her, she was dead.”

  Marlene, moving her chair out of Kate’s range, said, “Did you ask Stanley where he’d gone?”

  “I didn’t have to ask. He’d spent a good part of the evening huddled in private conversations with Stella. That’s probably why I drank so much. I even overheard Stella, bold as brass, flirting with him. It almost sounded as if she’d had an affair with him.”

  “Certainly does,” Marlene said, almost gleefully. “So he went down to the beach, laid the blanket, waited for Stella to arrive, shot her, went back to the party, then later returned to the scene of the crime to meet you.”

  Kate shook her head. “We don’t know that happened.” Kate had heard Stanley scream, “Stella!” She remembered the horror in his voice.

  Mary Frances shoved her eggs to one side, and said, “Indeed, we don’t. Lots of people went out on the patio for a smoke or a smooch or a whiff of ocean air. For example, Marlene, you left the party around the same time as Stella, but you came back as alive and annoying as ever.”

  “For God’s sake,” Marlene shouted. “Don’t change your suspect in mid-sentence. Stella was found dead on Stanley’s blanket, wasn’t she?” Marlene pointed a finger, its orange nail glittering in the sunshine, in Mary Frances’s direction. “And you didn’t tell the police what you’d overheard, did you?”

  “No.”

  Mary Frances started sobbing again, then jumped up and fled from the dining room.

  “Damn that woman,” Marlene said. “She ran off and stuck us with the check.”

  “I have to get ready for my interview with Detective Carbone.” Kate placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and started to stand up. “Good Lord, isn’t that David Fry?” She froze, suddenly overcome by irrational fear. She had no doubt that Fry wanted Stella silenced, but he wouldn’t have permanently shut her up, would he?

  “Where?”

  “He just walked through the door with a woman I know but can’t place. They’re heading in our direction.”

  Marlene whipped her neck around so fast that Kate could hear it crack.

  “Of all the gin joints in the world, he walks into Ocean Vista’s dining room on the day my hair is hidden under a turban and my makeup is messed up beyond repair.”

  Kate willed herself to calm down. “Who’s the blonde?”

  “Nancy Cooper. The society editor for the Gazette. We just talked about her earlier. How can you have lived here for six months, so insulated and isolated that you don’t recognize your neighbors?”

  “I’ve seen her in the lobby; I just couldn’t put a name to the face. And she can’t be more than forty or forty-five. Rather young to be living in Ocean Vista, isn’t she?”

  “Do sit down, Kate. They’re almost here. God, he’s gorgeous. So Cary Grant. But why is Nancy consorting with the enemy? Not that I’d be above a little consorting myself.”

  “Hello, Marlene.” Nancy’s deep voice sounded somber. “Have you ladies met David Fry?” Not waiting for Marlene to answer, Nancy turned to Kate, extending a hand. “I’m Nancy Cooper. You’re the widow in 301, right?”

  Was that to be her new identity? Where had Kate, the girl with the chestnut curls, gone? Kate, the airline stewardess? Kate, the wife? Kate, the mother? Kate, the grandmother? Would she forevermore be defined by Charlie’s death?

  She stood, shaky, afraid she might scream. “The name is Kennedy. Kate Kennedy. Please excuse me. I have an appointment.”

  Twenty minutes later, out of the shower and deciding what to wear to her interview with Detective Carbone, Kate heard Marlene’s distinctive rat-a-tat-tat on her door. Ballou barked energetically, welcoming her.

  She hesitated, then opened it. “Sorry. I don’t have time to talk.”

  “We have to talk. You don’t have to be at the police station till four. It’s only two thirty. Sit down.” Marlene motioned toward the living room. “This won’t take long.”

  Kate sighed, then retied her white terry cloth robe, and led Marlene, who was being licked by an adoring Ballou, through the foyer to the off-white couch. She sat on the edge of a taupe wing chair. “I have things to do before I leave. You have five minutes.”

  “Look, Nancy Cooper may be shallow, but she isn’t cruel. Just doesn’t think. Wait till you see how she plays Hearts. You’ll cream her. So she didn’t know your name. Hell, you didn’t know hers either.”

  “Was my running away that obvious?”

  “Absolutely.” Behind Marlene’s bravado, Kate sensed anxiety.

  Kate’s stomach knotted. Acid gurgled. The truth hurt. She said nothing, wondering if Marlene could hear the rumbling. But the rest of her body language remained as still as the silence, and though ashamed to admit it, Kate rather enjoyed watching Marlene squirm.

  In these standoffs—they’d never had a real quarrel—Marlene had always been the one to speak first

  After an eternity of seconds, Marlene waved her right arm. “Maybe people see you as a widow because that’s the role you’ve chosen to play. You see yourself as Charlie’s widow, so why are you surprised when that’s the way the world reacts to you?”

  The acid rose up and almost gagged Kate.

  “Listen to me, Kate”—the tremble in Marlene’s voice confirmed her nervousness—“you and I should try to figure out who killed Stella.”

  Where had that come from? Her old friend never ceased to amaze.

  Marlene was now talking with both hands. “Despite my tormenting Mary Frances, I don’t think Stanley Ferris has the moxie to murder a moth. The motive must be connected to Stella’s mysterious past. And who knows how many of Palmetto Beach’s residents aren’t who or what they say they are.”

  Kate had been thinking about that too. And about David Fry. And about trying to dredge up whatever it was that she couldn’t remember about the Town Hall meeting. It had happened as they were leaving. Stanley had draped one arm over Marlene’s shoulders and another over Stella’s, just before the mayor had agreed to talk to Stella the next morning. David Fry had been standing close by, smirking at them. Would that meeting with Stella have changed the mayor’s mind? Leaving David Fry and Sea Breeze out in the cold? And hadn’t Mary Frances been there? Right behind Stanley? Did that mean anything? Kate again reached in vain for the missing piece of the puzzle.

  Annoying. But at least she felt better.

  “Is this just another scheme to take my mind off Charlie?”

  “Hell, no.” Marlene’s voice sounded steadier. “We need to remember everything he said. Charlie Kennedy was the best damn homicide detective in New York City. Didn’t he tell us so a million times? With all those murder cases we’ve heard about and all those Agatha Christie mysteries we’ve read, we’re probably better prepared for the job than the Palmetto Beach Police Department. Nothing like becoming embroiled in a good murder to take your mind off grief…” Marlene suddenly shut up, as if worried that she’d gone too far.

  Kate had read a shelf load of books dealing with the grieving process. She knew that to assuage their grief, some widows took on the identity of their late husbands. She’d suspected she was one of them. While working on a homicide, Charlie had shared his theories with her. And she’d saved all his case files. It might be like having him around again.

  “You know, Marlene, perhaps we could ask a few discreet questions.”

  Five

  Resentment and remembrance, a deadly combination, ate away at her psyche.

  Marlene frowned at her cold cream-covered reflection in the mirror, then rigorously removed the streaked makeup. Too bad secrets and lies and their by-products, guilt and fear, couldn’t be wiped away with a Kleenex.