Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) Page 4
Glad to see people milling about on the pier, Kate waved to Herb Wagner, the proprietor of the Neptune Inn as he set up tables for lunch on the restaurant’s screened-in porch. Three months ago, he and all the other store owners on the pier had been ready to close, but now with Palmetto Beach’s new council’s support, their businesses were thriving. That happy thought brought a smile to Kate’s face.
Taking a left off the beach at Neptune Boulevard, Kate cleaned up after Ballou, who never did his business in the sand, then deposited the plastic baggie into the large trash can by the public parking lot. Marlene also claimed Kate had been born obsessive-compulsive. Kate thought of herself as neat: A trait her former sister-in-law had never related to.
Lots of cars and bikes were here today. The Palmetto Beach Library at the far north end of the parking area had a steady stream of young and old passing through its doors. That, too, made Kate smile. She had much more in common with readers than surfers.
“Come on, Ballou, let’s do a little snooping.” She felt a stir of excitement as they walked west toward Mancini’s.
Yellow crime-scene tape in front of the restaurant stopped her in her tracks. What had she expected? Danny Mancini to greet her with a cappuccino and a clue to the killer?
“I guess we can go home now, Dr. Watson.” Ballou was pulling her in the direction of the drawbridge, where many more SUVs and convertibles were heading in their direction, then off-island.
The door to Mancini’s flew open and Tiffani Cruz, followed by a young policeman carrying a ledger and a box of files, came out. The cop nodded at Kate, thanked Tiffani, then walked over to a police car parked a couple of feet away from the restaurant. Some detective. Despite the siren on its roof, Kate hadn’t even spotted the blue and white car.
“Mrs. Kennedy, can I talk to you?”
Kate turned away from the young cop, wondering what evidence might be in those files, and saw that Tiffani’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Yes, dear.” Kate patted Tiffani’s hand, noticing the nails were bitten to the quick. Last night, Kate remembered, they’d been blood-red and long enough to stir a drink. Fake, of course. Still she’d never seen Tiffani without them. And the girl wasn’t wearing any makeup. Something must be very wrong.
Tiffani yanked her yellow t-shirt down over her belly button in what might be a gesture of respect. Kate’s older granddaughter, Lauren, the Harvard pre-law fan of Dr. Phil, always showed some skin between her tops and her bottoms. But her younger sister, Katharine, Kate’s namesake and, though she shouldn’t admit it, her favorite, kept her stomach covered.
Ballou sniffed at Tiffani’s sneakers, then jumped up to sniff and lick her hand—a sure sign of approval.
“I’m so scared, Mrs. Kennedy. I think I’m in big trouble.”
Knowing she was being sucked in, Kate wait for the bait After all, the girl was younger than Lauren. “What can I do to help?”
Nine
When the rush of incoming traffic stopped for a red light, Kate led Tiffani across Neptune Boulevard to Dinah’s, a Palmetto Beach tradition that was as close to a New York City coffee shop as any restaurant Kate had found in South Florida. And one of the only places where she could take Ballou.
Located in the small shopping mall that also housed a bookstore, a drugstore, and a bathing suit shop, Dinah’s smelled of freshly baked cornbread and strong coffee.
Kate ordered both. Tiffani only wanted coffee and conversation.
On his best behavior, Ballou lay quietly under the table.
“That Detective Carbone kept me at the restaurant long after you all went home. Me, Sanjay, and Dr. Gallagher. He kept at me, asking questions over and over about Swami Schwartz and me. You know, personal stuff…like was our relationship more than professional.”
Kate, dying to know that herself, but well-trained by Charlie, just nodded.
Tiffani was starting to cry. “Honest to God, Mrs. Kennedy, the way that Detective Carbone kept hammering at me last night, it was like so obvious he believed I killed Swami. After what seemed like hours, he asked Dr. Gallagher to do the autopsy, then ordered me and Mr. Mancini to meet him at the restaurant early this morning. Again with the questions. A few minutes ago, Detective Carbone got a phone call, then he and Mr. Mancini took off, leaving me to help that young cop finish packing up the files. And,” she sobbed, “Carbone asked me to stop by police headquarters at eleven thirty. Do you think I’m going to be arrested?” The girl looked terrified.
Three things puzzled Kate: Nick Carbone’s seemingly irrational suspicion of Tiffani; why he’d asked Jack Gallagher to perform Swami’s autopsy; and where he’d gone with Danny Mancini this morning, leaving his prime suspect behind to gather up what might be evidence. She forced herself to focus on Tiffani’s question.
Kate spoke with a lot more conviction than she felt, “Certainly not.”
“Mrs. Kennedy, will you please come with me to the police station?” Tiffani’s whisper sounded strained. “But we have to stop by the Yoga Institute first. There’s something I need to show you before I speak to Detective Carbone.”
Need. Kate let the word roll around in her head, deciding when a woman expressed “need” rather than “want,” she expected results. If Kate agreed to accompany Tiffani on her morning rounds, would she have to meet her expectations?
“Well, well, fancy running into two of my more charming dinner companions from last night. Neither of you gals spiked the coffee with cyanide this morning, now did you?” Dallas Dalton’s twang carried, causing heads to turn. Or maybe her rhinestone cowgirl outfit turned the heads of the diners in the next booth and at the counter.
“Move over, sugar,” Dallas said, the white fringe on her jacket swaying as she slid in next to Tiffani.
Ballou yelped, but then rearranged himself at Kate’s feet. Dallas ignored the little dog, not even acknowledging she’d stepped on his paw.
Kate gave him a sympathetic pat.
“My gracious, that cornbread looks as good as my mama’s. I think I’ll join you all for some postmortem girl talk.”
“We have to go soon,” Kate said, but her full cup of coffee and untouched food belied her words.
Dallas pointed a French-manicured index finger at her. “So, sugar, whodunit?”
“The name’s Kate.” Dallas made her lose her appetite. “And I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?”
Could that be a look of respect flashing in Dallas Dalton’s big blue eyes?
“Yes—right—Kate. And your last name is Kennedy, if I do recall correctly. Just like my favorite president. Such a tragedy that beautiful man got himself shot in the city I was named after.” Dallas flagged one of the waitresses, then gestured toward Kate. “I’ll have exactly what she’s having, sugar.”
Most of the wait staff at Dinah’s were women in their late sixties. A few of them—married, widowed, or divorced—had worked there part-time for decades to get out of the house and meet people, and now considered their steady customers family who couldn’t get along without their favorite waitress, but the majority of them worked eight-hour shifts, wearing orthopedic oxfords and support hose, to supplement their Social Security checks.
Madge, the waitress Dallas had addressed, was seventy-two and, indeed, had been at Dinah’s for years and loved her customers, but she needed—that word again—the money. She’d once told Kate, without a hint of self-pity, she’d probably die on the job. Though Dinah’s regulars weren’t famous movie stars’ wealthy widows, they were, for the most part, far better mannered than Dallas Dalton.
“You bet, sugar, in a sec,” Madge said sweetly, then walked as slowly as humanly possible over to the sideboard filled with steaming coffee pots. Kate wondered if Madge had ever considered lacing a customer’s cup with cyanide.
Tiffani smiled, a wicked little grin, seeming to support a si
ster waitress’s small defiance.
Dallas fixed her baby blue eyes on Kate. With the sun streaming through the window behind her, she looked older than she had in the soft lighting at Mancini’s…her carefully applied navy eyeliner more noticeable…the gray-blue eye shadow slightly smudged. She had creases on her cheeks, but her chin line was firm, her skin pink and healthy, and her smile—much more wicked than Tiffani’s—bright. Though past her prime—Kate scolded herself, ashamed of her ageism and sexist thought process—Dallas Dalton was a very pretty woman.
“Is the whodunit question still on the table, Kate?” The twang had acquired a smirk.
Tiffani started, spilling coffee onto her saucer.
“Yes.” Kate hoped Tiffani would let Dallas do the talking.
“Did y’all know Swami’s father, David Schwartz, and Danny Mancini grew up in the same section of Brooklyn? That they’d been best buddies back in high school. Went off to war together. I understand they were pretty tough kids. Movable crap games. Fixed fights. All very Damon Runyon. I really loved Guys and Dolls, didn’t you Kate?”
Sitting next to Dallas, Tiffani looked totally bewildered—and why not? She was much too young to grasp any of Dallas’ New York-gangster, musical comedy references.
Without waiting for Kate’s review of Guys and Dolls, Dallas kept talking, “Even in his golden years, Danny Mancini is quite the gambler. Horses. Y’all know Shane and I loved horses—had our own stable—but we only bet on the Kentucky Derby. For Danny, horse racing is an addiction, not a sport. He owed his bookie three hundred grand. And when he turned to his old pal’s son, Swami said no. Now, mind you, he’d already paid off many of Danny’s gambling debts. But this time, Danny was in real danger of losing the restaurant. He’d already mortgaged his house. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager Danny Mancini killed Swami Schwartz.”
Tiffani gasped. “He did insist on pouring the Anisette.” Wondering why Dallas was telling them all this, Kate shook her head. “Though Danny had both the means and the opportunity, what would have been his motive? With Swami dead, he couldn’t borrow any more money from him.”
“Sugar, Danny Mancini is Swami Schwartz’s godfather. He’s in the yogi’s will.”
Ten
Marlene hadn’t been so excited since she’d lost her virginity. Her heart was dancing to a salsa beat. She turned the air conditioner on full blast. February might be South Florida’s coldest month, but hustling around her apartment, bursting with nervous energy and bordering on an anxiety attack, she felt like a hot flash from hell had consumed her body. Sweat seemed to ooze out of the deepest recesses of her soul. And with all the mess—total mess—though Marlene usually preferred to think of the clutter in her apartment as casual disarray, she couldn’t find her red patent leather, strappy sandals. The ones with the four-inch heels.
“Think.” Marlene crawled out from under one of the beds in her guest room. “Where did you take them off?” Talking to herself. A sure sign she was crazed. After all, she wasn’t seventeen and about to hitchhike down to Rockaway Beach with Tony De Luca to share an illegal beer and a robust round of necking under the boardwalk. A half-century had passed; no, flown by.
She was now Marlene Friedman Gorski Kennedy Weiss. Three times a bride. Twice divorced. Once widowed. Well, twice widowed, though Kevin, Charlie Kennedy’s twin brother and her second husband, had died long after their divorce. Still, she’d planned and paid for Kevin’s funeral, thanks to the generosity of Jack Weiss, her third and last late husband. May he and the Kennedy brothers rest in peace.
Enough with depressing memories. Hell, she might be old, sweaty, and, uh, Rubenesque. But today, she would pull herself together and drive up to the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach—a far cry from Rockaway Beach—to her first date with a man who composed charmingly romantic emails and looked like he enjoyed a good meal. If she could only find her goddamn shoes.
Feeling twenty pounds thinner—her new Lycra tummy tucker working its magic, and her hour-long makeup session leaving a golden glow on her skin, defining her hazel eyes, and creating an illusion of cheekbones—Marlene almost waltzed into the lobby. Only to run into Mary Frances Costello, who was waving a letter and wearing her teacher-knows-best face.
“We have a legal problem.”
When the Ocean Vista condo owners had so wisely elected Marlene president of the board of directors in a rather distasteful special election that mirrored the town of Palmetto Beach’s equally distasteful special election, they’d also none-too-wisely voted in the dancing nun as vice-president. Over the last few months, Marlene had been suffering from the results of the electorate’s VP decision on a daily basis.
“What now, Mary Frances? I’m on my way to Palm Beach.”
“Mrs. Lombardo, on the seventh floor, has complained to the town council about one of Dallas Dalton’s king-size whirlpool tubs causing her bathroom ceiling to buckle. A building inspector is on his way. As an eyewitness, I can vouch that Gina Lombardo’s ceiling is ready to cave at any moment and she’s hopping mad. She just had the bathroom painted and put up new wallpaper. And the fawns are wet.”
“Fawns? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Please lower your voice, Mrs. Friedman.” Miss Mitford the sentinel said, sounding vexed.
“The wallpaper’s pattern. Frolicking fawns. That’s Gina’s bathroom’s theme. All the faucets are deer-shaped. Anyway, the fawns were stained by falling wet debris and Gina’s going to sue Dallas Dalton.” Mary Frances paused, then smirked, and read from the letter she’d been waving around. “She’s also suing Ocean Vista’s board of directors for agreeing to such an enormous, under-supervised, and completely unethical expansion.”
Marlene felt the sweat rising, flooding her face from neck to forehead. She reached into her red patent leather handbag, yanked out a wad of tissues, and then gently patted her cheeks, trying not to smear her makeup. “I have an appointment in Palm Beach.”
“You’ll have an appointment in court if you don’t speak to Gina Lombardo and try to calm her down. She’s already hired an attorney and called the Sun-Sentinel. Next she’ll be appearing on Channel Seven.”
Glancing at her watch, Marlene groaned. “Hell’s bells. Where is Gina now?”
“Up in Dallas Dalton’s spread, screaming at her workmen.”
Damn. Since she didn’t have his phone number, she couldn’t even tell her date-to-die-for that she might be late. Marlene headed for the elevator, calling over her shoulder, “Move it, Mary Frances.”
Dallas Dalton owned almost 3,500 square feet, having purchased Ocean Vista’s top floor’s entire right wing, and turned all five units into a massive apartment, with spectacular views of the pier, the ocean, and downtown Fort Lauderdale.
The whirlpool tub in question was located in what had been a one-bedroom unit directly above Gina’s condo, but now that one-bedroom—along with its living and dining rooms, plus the kitchen and bath—had been remodeled into a resort-size spa.
The workforce that Dallas Dalton had hired, ten men strong, including engineers, electricians, plumbers, and two architects, had allowed Marlene and Mary Frances access to the cavernous apartment.
In an entrance hall the size of Marlene’s living room, an irate Gina Lombardo was wagging a finger at a tall guy in designer jeans, while wailing about her ruined wallpaper.
Jeez! Dallas Dalton would need a map to find the kitchen. “Twenty people could live here with room for guests,” Marlene said.
Another older, heavier tall guy, holding a set of blueprints, laughed. “We’re imported from Texas, ma’am, we like wide-open spaces.” He smiled at Marlene and Mary Frances. “Howdy, ladies, I’m Jeff Jones, the chief engineer.”
The designer jeans guy turned out to be the head plumber, also “imported from Texas,” and he was assuring Gina Lombardo that he’d solve the problem pronto.
Marlene’s anger morphed to envy. Being a multimillionaire made life really easy. Then she realized that Dallas’ money had solved her problem too. She took the check and put it in her red handbag. “Thanks.”