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

  One of the duties of the condo’s president and board of directors was to interview prospective owners. Kate had never heard of a prospect being turned down; but no board member that she knew of would want a neo-Nazi as a neighbor.

  They crossed the aisle yet again and approached the last booth on the other side of the corridor, decorated like a gaudy mini-circus and manned by a Cunningham clown—if Kate recalled correctly, the first one out of the Volkswagen.

  Sean draped an arm around Marlene. “Watch out for Carl Krieg. That old guy doesn’t play well with others. Why, didn’t he lose his temper just last week and threaten to punch poor Whitey Ford? They lived in the same rental complex, you know.”

  Old guy? Kate figured Carl and Sean were contemporaries.

  The clown, Jocko, the youngest Cunningham brother in costume, looked up and smiled at Kate. One front tooth was blacked out. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He turned to his brother. “A great post-matinee crowd. I think we even outsold the doll lady today. I’m closing up shop. It’s almost show time.”

  Though the air-conditioning wasn’t too cool, Kate shivered. Something sleazy about that clown Jocko. Something sleazy about the entire Cunningham operation.

  Finally free of Sean, they started back to the parking lot. Kate, exhausted and wanting to get home and walk Ballou, wondered if she could work in the corridor.

  “Marlene, do you realize that the only vendor Sean didn’t badmouth was his brother, Jocko? He made it sound as if all the others had grudges against Whitey.”

  “Right.” Marlene nodded. “So do you think Whitey Ford’s drowning wasn’t an accident?”

  Kate shrugged. “I’m guessing Sean believes Ford was murdered, so he kept trying, none too subtly, to convince us that everyone in the corridor—except the Cunninghams—had a motive.”

  Five

  “How could I have known Carl Krieg was some kind of fascist? Hell, he didn’t wear his SS black leather trench coat to the interview in the board room.”

  Marlene’s mantra, chanted all during the ride home, had begun to wear on Kate’s nerves. “His references were impeccable: a minister, a former governor, and old Mrs. Wagner on the fourth floor. Even Mary Frances liked him, and she’d vet the Pope.”

  “I only asked about Krieg’s application process and its status.” Kate sighed. “I’m not accusing you of dereliction of duty.” Aware that condo candidates were usually automatically approved, but unable to resist, she added, “You must have noticed his accent.”

  “What’s really going on here, Kate?”

  Marlene whipped into her coveted covered parking spot in the owners’ lot to the right of the condominium, then stepped on the brake so heavily Kate was thrown forward. If her seat belt hadn’t been fastened, she’d have hit the dashboard.

  “Are you mad at me about Carl Krieg’s Ocean Vista interviewing process or are you mad at yourself for promising to help me out at the flea market?”

  Yet again, Marlene had sliced through the surface muck and gotten down to the swamp at the bottom of Kate’s mind where the real problem—the flea market—festered. Kate remained surprised by Marlene’s mind-reading skill, though she’d been doing it for decades.

  “Well.” Kate allowed a small smile. “Maybe the flea market isn’t my cup of tea.”

  “Too Earl Grey or too Apple Spice?”

  “Just not Lipton.” Kate laughed, acknowledging she seldom varied her routine.

  “You’re in a rut, Kate. You need to get out of your apartment, meet new people, take a break from sand and surf, our fellow condo owners, and your crossword puzzles.” Marlene popped open her seat belt. “I grant you the flea market’s not Lord and Taylor’s, but branch out, woman. Expand your horizons. Try another brand of tea. Work with me and make some money. Listen, with any luck, Whitey Ford’s accidental death will turn out to be murder, and you can question the suspects between sales.”

  They entered by the side door. Ocean Vista’s sea-foam lobby, furnished with small clusters of rattan tables and chairs, two large dark green chenille couches, and scattered tall baskets holding plastic plants, had faux marble flows and too many mirrors for its aging population. In the center, a life-sized imitation alabaster statue of Aphrodite stood in a fountain, surrounded by six winged cupids—mixing, probably unintentionally, Greek and Roman myths.

  Large even by Florida standards, the lobby boasted elaborate glass double doors opening onto a circular driveway, edged with royal palms and sweet-smelling jasmine, which swept down to A1A, known in Palmetto Beach as Ocean Boulevard. The rear door led to the recreation room, the pool area, and the Atlantic Ocean.

  Though Kate had begun to think of the over-decorated apartment building as home, she still missed the staid redbrick Tudor in Rockville Centre, her real home, where she and Charlie had lived more than forty years prior to moving down here. Charlie, who’d so wanted to live on the beach, had died without sleeping even one night in his dream house.

  “Yoo-hoo!” She didn’t have to turn around; she’d recognize Mary Frances Costello’s bird call anywhere. The dancing ex-nun was vice president of the condo board and, since she’d been principal of a grade school, she sometimes tended to treat her co-owners as naughty children. A glamorous redheaded paradox, Mary Frances, Broward County’s reigning tango champion, had turned her only bedroom into a dance studio, complete with beams, wall-to-wall mirrors, and rack upon rack of exotic tango costumes. Her living room housed a huge doll collection displayed behind glass doors in floor-to-ceiling bookcases—ranging from Barbie and Ken to Henry VIII and his six wives.

  Boy, did Kate have a new friend for Mary Frances.

  “Hi, Mary Frances,” Kate said, and kept moving.

  “Where have you girls been all day?” Mary Frances’s green eyes sparkled like Scarlett’s at Twelve Oaks while tempting the Tarleton twins. “I have such exciting news.”

  Her charm was wasted on Kate. “Ballou’s been home alone all day, Mary Frances. I have to take him for a walk. Now.”

  “I certainly understand the needs of a neglected animal, Kate.”

  “For God’s sake, Ballou isn’t neglected,” Marlene snapped, her face flaming red.

  “Of course not,” Mary Frances said. “Don’t I know he’s the luckiest Westie in South Florida? I’ve just returned from my first day of training to become a volunteer at the Broward County Humane Society. I’ll be working in adoption, placing pets. I just can’t get all those poor abandoned puppies and kittens off my mind.”

  Strange. Ballou, who loved most everyone, barely tolerated Mary Frances. Yet…the former nun’s volunteer work with the Humane Society impressed her. It was more than Kate had ever done.

  “If I don’t get upstairs and walk my dog, you’ll be reporting me for cruelty to animals.” Seeing the crestfallen look on Mary Frances’s face, Kate relented. “Want to join us?”

  She heard Marlene groan.

  “You’re coming too, right, Marlene?” Kate was enjoying herself. Marlene and Mary Frances were always sniping at each other. “Ballou would love to see his favorite aunt. And Mary Frances can tell us all about her new job, and you can tell her all about us becoming vendors at the Palmetto Beach Flea Market.”

  “Talking about cruelty to animals,” Mary Frances said, “did you know the Humane Society sent an investigator out to the Cunningham Circus? Some young elephant trainer supposedly abused an elephant.”

  “Just give me a minute to change my shoes,” Marlene said. “I’d love to go for a walk with you and hear all about it.”

  Six

  “Down, boy,” Kate ordered, but it sounded a lot like “I love you.” Ballou jumped, yelped, licked, and nipped at her ankles all at the same time, expressing boundless joy at seeing his mistress. Then, to her delight, he held up his right paw as if waiting for a high five. Kate obliged. The h
igh five greeting had become a ritual between the Westie and Charlie. Kate felt honored to carry on the tradition.

  She kicked off her good beige sandals and slipped into her old canvas boat shoes. No time to change her clothes: This dog had to go for his walk.

  Ballou, as usual, squirmed and fussed as she struggled to put on his leash. “Stop that! Auntie Marlene and Mary Frances are waiting for us.” He cocked his head, staring up at her with soulful eyes, then went back to nipping at her hands. She shook her head and resumed her struggle, knowing be wouldn’t calm down till the leash was on.

  Obeying house rules, Kate carried Ballou into the elevator and across the lobby, under the watchful eyes of Miss Mitford, keeper of the keys and longtime sentinel at the front desk. A dour woman who’d been at Ocean Vista since the ribbon had been cut on the condominium thirty years prior, Miss Mitford ran the desk like a Marine drill sergeant, never allowing any leeway to those entrusted to her care.

  Kate pushed open the back door and a cool ocean breeze ruffled her short hair, making her smile. So it wasn’t April in Paris—April in Palmetto Beach wasn’t bad either. The sun hovered over the horizon, the sky a pastel palette ranging from soft violet to muted coral. A broad expanse of sand almost devoid of humans led down to the deep blue sea topped with whitecaps that shimmered like whipped cream.

  “Wait up!” Marlene shouted the exact same words she’d used over sixty years ago to stop Kate in her tracks; they worked just as well this evening.

  Kate spun around, still smiling, in a far better frame of mind than during the car ride home from the flea market. The salt air? Or the anticipation of Mary Frances providing her with a raison d’être? A cause she could champion. Kate liked causes. Missed not having one. Why couldn’t she volunteer at the Humane Society too? Maybe track down the elephant abuser.

  “Hi, Marlene.” Ballou strained on his leash, pulling Kate back toward Marlene. The Westie liked most people, but he so adored Marlene that, before Kate and Ballou grew so close, she’d felt jealous of her former sister-in-law.

  “Where’s Mary Frances?” Marlene had changed into a gauzy aqua caftan and low-heeled sandals, and she’d wrapped an aqua turban around her platinum French twist.

  “Right here.” The dancing ex-nun rose gracefully from a chair by the pool, barefoot and beautiful. Her red hair glinted in the waning sunlight, and her green sweat suit matched those sparkling eyes. Only Mary Frances could make sweats look like haute couture.

  Ballou, not impressed, growled softly and pulled back when Mary Frances reached out to pet him.

  “Your dog doesn’t like me, Kate.” Mary Frances sounded hurt and indignant. She’d remarked on Ballou’s unfriendly responses to her overtures many times before this snub.

  “Oh, he only has eyes for his Auntie Marlene,” Kate said, handing Marlene his leash. “He even ignores me when she’s around.” She had a quick word with God, willing Marlene not to comment.

  Seeming to get the message, Marlene remained silent, letting Ballou prance like a king several paces ahead of his ladies-in-waiting.

  “The staff at the Humane Society has been lobbying the Palmetto Beach Police Department to investigate rumored abuse for some time.” Mary Frances, over her snit and aware that she had an avid audience, spoke with a sense of breathless drama. “So far the police haven’t done a thing, but after a recent phone call, a volunteer from the shelter visited the circus again and nosed around. She reported that Edgar had suspicious injuries.” Mary Frances sounded like a commentator on Court TV.

  “Edgar?” Marlene started when Ballou, who’d been chasing a sea gull, stopped short after discovering the bird could fly faster than he could run.

  “The elephant. Edgar,” Mary Frances said. “He has a sister, Edna. They’re named after Poe and Ferber.” She shrugged. “Apparently, the trainer has a literary streak as well as a mean streak.”

  Mary Frances had spoken Kate’s exact thought. “Who called to report the abuse?” Kate kicked a ragged piece of colored glass out of her sandy path, glad she’d worn her boat shoes. The barefoot ex-nun might wind up with some serious nicks on her soles.

  “Well, that remains a mystery,” Mary Frances said. “He wouldn’t give his mane, but promised to phone the next day. The director never heard from him.”

  “Did the caller name the elephant trainer as the abuser?” Kate, rather uncharitably, believed Donna Viera might be capable of behaving that cruelly.

  Mary Frances shook her head.

  “So, there’s no proof. They never heard from him again.” Marlene raced ahead to keep up with Ballou but shouted over her shoulder. “Exactly what type of abuse had this guy reported?” She sounded like Court TV too. The hard-nosed prosecutor.

  “Ah, but there is proof.” Mary Frances pulled out a surprise, defending the informer. “Yesterday, a package arrived at the shelter. Color photographs showing welts on Edgar’s hind legs. Big, ugly welts. It looked as if someone had whipped the poor animal. Hard.”

  “How do you know those photos were of Edgar? Maybe they weren’t even taken at the flea market.” Marlene had slowed her pace to stay in the conversation. Ballou circled ahead, waiting for them.

  “The elephant was standing under the Cunningham Circus Big Top.” For Mary Frances, case closed.

  With Ballou fed and ready for bed, but in no mood to leave the party, the three women sat on Kate’s balcony watching the truly glorious sunset with the Westie curled up into a white furry ball at Marlene’s feet.

  Marlene had mixed a batch of martinis for herself. Kate and Mary Frances sipped white wine. They’d ordered pizza, and Kate had defrosted a homemade apple pie for dessert. Fat city, tonight. She didn’t care; she craved comfort food. She couldn’t stop thinking about Edgar.

  Spearing an olive, Marlene said, “We met that Carl Krieg at the flea market this afternoon, Mary Frances. Turns out he’ll be our neighbor in the corridor as well as here in the condo.”

  “Really?” Mary Frances pushed a red curl away from her left eye. “I’ve been having some serious second thoughts about that man.”

  Kate, not missing Marlene’s grimace, bit her tongue. “Why?” Marlene pointed her plastic stirrer at Mary Frances. A gin-soaked olive, the exact color of Sean Cunningham’s shifty eyes, dangled from its end.

  “I think Krieg might be some sort of neo-Nazi. When I went up to change for our walk, I saw him being interviewed on the six o’clock news. He was wearing a t-shirt with a huge swastika.”

  “On the news? What were they asking him?” Kate’s entire body tingled with the familiar electric charge that heralded fear, excitement, or intrigue. The spark felt good.

  Mary Frances snatched the olive off Marlene’s stirrer and popped it in her mouth. “About some guy in his apartment house—looked like a rundown rental to me, and I wondered how Krieg could have afforded the down payment on a condo here—anyway, earlier this week, some neighbor with a name like a famous baseball player had drowned in his bathtub, under what the police are now calling ‘suspicious circumstances.’”

  Seven

  Murder had moved Whitey Ford from his burial on the bottom of the fourth page to above the fold on the first. Those “suspicious circumstances” that Mary Frances had heard reported on the TV newscast last evening had morphed into a full-blown homicide investigation in this morning’s Sun-Sentinel.

  Kate gulped her too-hot tea, almost without noticing, too immersed in the story to worry about a slightly singed tongue. The early-morning sun flooded her balcony, so bright she could read without her glasses. Well, the headlines, anyway.

  Ballou rested his head on her bare feet, and she slipped him a very small piece of whole wheat toast topped with strawberry jam. “Don’t tell Auntie Marlene or she’ll have you as fat as a house in no time.” Though Kate had strict rules about not feeding Ballou table food, she violated them ofte
n. She just didn’t want anyone else to find out.

  She and Ballou had a busy day ahead of them. Late last night Kate had told Marlene that if the doll lady, Linda, could bring her cat to work, they could bring Ballou. Not only was the Westie well behaved, but Kate would feel a lot better about being at the flea market with her pet at her side. And, in addition to her spirits being lifted, she’d have no guilt about leaving him home alone.

  Marlene had smiled, saying, “Of course Ballou’s coming with us. He’s family.”

  Much to Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances had jumped in. “I have no plans for tomorrow morning. Why don’t I help you move your stuff?”

  Kate glanced at her watch: 7:10. She’d better get a wiggle on. They were meeting at Marlene’s apartment in twenty minutes. She stood, still reading the story about Whitey Ford. The police, as usual in these cases, had said little, but Homicide Detective Nick Carbone from the Palmetto Beach Police Department had been quoted: “Whitey Ford had company while he bathed.”