Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) Page 5

  If she hurried, she’d be on time for her date-to-die-for.

  “Mary Frances, let’s go.” She looked around the ballroom-size living room. No sign of the dancing nun.

  The plumber smiled. “I think that pretty little lady went on tour.”

  “Which way did she head?”

  “South, toward the solarium. Now that’s really something worth seeing. We put in a skylight and the telescope brings you so close to heaven that you think you’re swinging on a star.” He gestured left with his thumb. “Go around the circle in the statuary hall outside the kitchen and keep going till you reach the archway. The solarium is off to the east.”

  Marlene, never noted for her sense of direction, not only couldn’t find Mary Frances, she couldn’t find her way back to the foyer.

  She’d gone round the circle until she felt as if she knew the seven bronze statues—all of dead presidents—on a first name basis. “So Woodrow, where the hell is Mary Frances?”

  She decided to search one more time, then try screaming.

  At the arch, she turned right and entered a long corridor. Had she taken this route before? No. She’d have remembered that large metal door at the end of the pale yellow hallway.

  Would a thick steel door lead to a solarium and a telescope that swept you up to the stars? What would she find behind a door like this? Mary Frances?

  Marlene reached for the knob, so icy cold that her fingers smarted. Strange. The door opened. She stepped in. A blast of frigid air almost knocked her off her feet. The temperature had to be way below freezing. Shivering, she glanced around, hearing the heavy door as it closed behind her. Four steel walls. Cables hanging from a steel ceiling. No windows. No furniture. No Mary Frances.

  Though she’d been sweating all morning, she felt so cold that her fingers and her toes, peeking out of her red patent leather sandals, hurt. She reached into her matching bag and pulled out her cell phone. Useless. No signal. Damn. She had to get out of there. She spun around and turned the knob. Nothing. She tried again. Oh, God. The door was locked.

  Eleven

  Kate had heard more than enough from Dallas Dalton. She stood and said, “Tiffani and I have to leave. Enjoy your cornbread.”

  Back in the almost blinding mid-morning sunshine, Kate readjusted her slouchy hat and big, black sunglasses. If she’d known that Ballou’s walk would turn into a marathon morning, she’d have put sunblock and a lipstick in her sweatpants pocket. She certainly wasn’t dressed for detective work.

  The Westie, happy to be on an extra-long outing, pulled on his leash.

  “Is your car here?”

  “Yes, right over there.” Tiffani looked puzzled. “I live way west of here, Mrs. Kennedy. And I sure didn’t walk across the bridge this morning.”

  Good Lord. Had Kate become a Palmetto Beach provincial, assuming everyone she knew lived east of the Intracoastal?

  Tiffani was pointing across Neptune Boulevard to a faded blue Honda parked in front of the Let’s Just Curl Up and Dye hair salon, a few yards away from Mancini’s.

  Kate had tried and rejected the salon. The owner, a young woman with mange spiked hair, had trimmed Kate’s unruly mane, applied a seaweed mousse, then sent her home with silver spikes. Marlene, however, had been having her hair cut and colored there for years—though she traveled off-island to have her nails done.

  “Okay, Tiffani. Let’s drive for a bit with the air conditioner on, while you tell me why we need to stop at the Yoga Institute to show me something before you meet Detective Carbone at the police station.”

  Talk about need: The beat up Honda desperately needed a good wash. And its interior needed a good scrubbing, but first the clutter in the back needed to be thrown away. Moving an empty Wendy’s bag to the floor, Kate settled into the grimy front seat. Most offensive of all, the car smelled like onions. She rolled down the window.

  Tiffani drove south on A1A at a steady pace in the surprisingly light traffic heading toward Fort Lauderdale on this balmy Saturday morning during the height of tourist season.

  “So, like what do you want to know, Mrs. Kennedy?” Tiffani seemed defensive. Did she regret asking for Kate’s help?

  “I can only give you advice if I know what’s bothering you. You said you needed to show me something. What? If I accompany you to the police station, I expect you to tell me and Detective Carbone the truth.”

  Flashing the right turn signal, Tiffani headed for the bridge. A half-dozen cars were lined up in front of her, waiting to cross.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you. But Dallas Dalton delayed us and we have to get to the Yoga Institute before the cops show up with a search warrant. I heard Detective Carbone say a warrant could take a couple of hours.”

  Hoping not to show any reaction, Kate merely nodded. “There’s some stuff in the computer that’s going to make me look real bad. I swear to you, Mrs. Kennedy, I didn’t kill Swami. Why would I? I loved him.”

  Kate almost whispered her question. “And he didn’t love you back?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Tiffani sounded stunned. “I don’t get turned down often. I felt hurt and…I don’t know…embarrassed…angry. I’d been getting mixed signals from him. I sent him some pretty nasty emails after he’d rejected me. And some totally sappy ones before. Combined, they’ll add up to a motive for murder.”

  “Maybe not.” June Cleaver at her most reassuring. “Try not to worry.” She didn’t want Tiffani tampering with evidence. While the girl might be capable of erasing email, Kate didn’t think Tiffani could be capable of murder. Carbone must know that too.

  “Swami seemed to like me. A lot. Told me my yoga positions were poetry in motion. Then Mrs. Money Bags, Dallas Dalton, rode into town, offering to serve on the board, to endow the institute, and to fund Swami’s research, while crying on his shoulder about her dear, dead husband, Shane. Suddenly Swami became fascinated by a woman old enough to be his mother.”

  Was Dallas old enough to be Swami’s mother? Well, yes. He’d been in his mid-forties. Kate figured that, though well-preserved, Dallas had to be twenty years older than Swami. Of course, Kate could have been his mother too. And he could have been Tiffani’s father.

  Tiffani had said something else that intrigued Kate. “What sort of research had Dallas offered to fund?”

  The girl shrugged, pulling her visor down. The sun’s rays felt more like July than February. The early morning’s cool breeze had long vanished. The Honda’s air conditioner, obviously as beat up as the car, emitted stale tepid air.

  “You got me. Something important, maybe something medical.” Tiffani shook her head, her ponytail swinging from left to right. “Magnolia McFee had recently changed her will, leaving the bulk of her estate to Swami Schwartz for a research project that he was way sold on.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything because I really like Magnolia and she adores her useless grandson, but I overheard a screaming match between Swami and that snobby jerk. Laurence kept shouting that he’d see Swami in hell before his family’s money ended up supporting some science fiction project.”

  A woman scorned? A woman in fear of being arrested, attributing a motive for murder to another?

  As if reading Kate’s mind—or, more likely, her expression—Tiffani said, “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Dr. Patel. Sanjay heard them fighting too. He told me later that Laurence McFee is an angry young man.”

  Switching gears, Kate said, “Will the Yoga Institute be open this morning?”

  “Dr. Patel called me at seven. He was going over there to call all the students and cancel today’s classes. Out of respect, you know.”

  Yes, Kate thought. Or maybe Sanjay Patel had decided it wouldn’t be good for business if the police arrived with a search warrant while the fully packed Saturday classes were
in session.

  “And Dr. Gallagher’s holding a press conference this afternoon to announce that Dr. Patel will be the new director of the Yoga Institute.”

  Kate wondered if Jack Gallagher’s press conference would be scheduled before or after he performed Swami Schwartz’s autopsy.

  Twelve

  Were her fingertips turning blue? Could she have frostbite already? Marlene hopped from one foot to the other trying to stay warm. When exposed to extremely cold conditions, a person is supposed to keep moving, right? She could picture her obituary headline: “Woman Freezes to Death in South Florida.”

  What earthly purpose did this oversized refrigerator serve? How many bloody fur coats could Dallas Dalton own? She banged on the door. Futile. Way too thick. No one could hear her. Surely one of the workmen or Mary Frances would notice she’d gone missing. But what if they just assumed she’d left? The place was so damn big, they might easily believe that.

  Why had Ocean Vista’s board agreed to let Dallas Dalton gobble up so many units and then allow her to do this hellish renovation? Greed. With Dallas’s dough, the board planned on building an indoor garage and remodeling and enlarging the swimming pool.

  As condo president, Marlene held herself responsible. Why hadn’t she vetoed the motion? Cold guilt blanketed her soul. Would this ice box be her coffin? Even though no one could hear, she screamed.

  After her second shriek, the door opened.

  “Poor directions, Mrs. Friedman?” The head engineer seemed testy.

  “Did you hear me scream?” She couldn’t stop shaking. Would she ever be warm again?

  “No, ma’am. Nothing can be heard from inside the freezer, its walls are completely soundproof.”

  “Then how—”

  “Your friend, Miss Costello, returned to the foyer alone. I reckoned y’all might have wandered off base.” Though he smiled as he held the door open for her, Marlene heard the reproach in his soft southern drawl. Well, hell, she hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Are you accusing me of spying, Mr. Jones?” She could be pretty testy herself.

  “Why would you even entertain such a wild idea, ma’am?” Jeff Jones certainly sounded sincere. “I’m just real grateful you’re drawing out.”

  Trailing behind him, she said. “You know damn well that refrigerator is dangerous. Dallas Dalton’s asking for trouble. What will she be storing in there?” Marlene wondered if—and why—the building inspector had approved the plans for that room.

  Without looking around, Jeff Jones shook his head, but as they approached Mary Frances, who appeared to be flirting with the plumber in the foyer, Jones stopped short, turned, and placed his right hand on Marlene’s still cold forearm. “It might be best for both of us, ma’am, if you don’t mention your little side excursion to Miz Dalton.” Then he gave a quick polite half-bow, like a small boy at dance class, and headed back toward the statuary hall. Or maybe to the freezer.

  With the top of her 1958 white Caddy convertible down and the mid-morning sun on her face, a defrosted Marlene was driving up A1A to the Breakers. And, by God, she wouldn’t let her fifteen-minute delay, even those chilling few minutes in the freezer, ruin her date-to-die-for. The single-lane traffic was moving and with any luck—she deserved a break—she might arrive in Palm Beach on time.

  She would have taken I-95; however, highway driving on a Saturday morning in season would totally destroy any shred of serenity—not to mention sanity—that she had left.

  As she passed through Delray Beach, the Atlantic on her right and a Mizner mansion on her left, Nat King Cole sang “When I Fall in Love, It Will Be Forever.” Marlene smiled, not exactly her theme song, but one lived in hope. She raised the volume and sang along with Nat.

  Having a man in her life was like having a bagel for breakfast. She could get along without one, but why would she want to?

  She’d loved all three of her husbands. Truly. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t still be looking, would she? Her heart jumped as Nat sang “Mona Lisa.” Lying to herself, how devious could she get?

  Hell, she’d be looking for a guy even if she’d hated all her husbands. All her boyfriends. All those men who fell into neither category. Truth be told, Marlene needed a man in her life. Sometimes the wrong man. Too often, the wrong man.

  She shuddered in the warm sun, remembering some of the losers. And the one she’d wanted the most, an insatiable itch that made her betray Kate. A careless four-martini one-night stand, when they’d been very young. And, if possible, he’d felt even guiltier than she had. Adultery is an ugly word, so Marlene Friedman and Charlie Kennedy never spoke it aloud again. And Kate, thank God, had never known. Marlene had lived with the residual scars, marring body and soul, blotting what might have been great days.

  Damn it. She was destroying her own serenity. And sanity. She’d have to deal with the guilt, as she’d done for decades. Anything else would only hurt Kate. She loved Kate like a sister. A much longer, far more enduring love than all the others.

  Marlene changed the song and repressed the memories it had stirred up. Fred Astaire singing Cole Porter always cheered her up.

  If Brideshead had been built on the beach, it might have resembled the Breakers. Though she’d been here several times, the approach to one of the most elegant resorts in the world still took Marlene’s breath away. The driveway, wide and sweeping. The lovingly nurtured, abundant foliage, wild with color. The manicured lawns on either side, green and lush. In the distance, off to the right, two impeccably outfitted men were playing golf. The weather-beaten shingles in no way detracted from the grand hotel’s enduring charm: an architectural marriage of beach cottage and manor house that appeared both imposing and inviting.

  In a setting where one almost expected a footman to appear and take your luggage, Marlene settled for valet parking.

  Remnants of the Roaring Twenties lingered in the huge, traditionally decorated lobby. Here, again, the Breakers reminded Marlene of a British estate turned into a hotel. Settees and tables grouped in courtly open areas, as well as cozy nooks for private conversations, two fine restaurants, a beautiful bar with an ocean view, smart, upscale shops, and portraits of Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate who’d put Florida on the map. Old Henry could have been the lord of the manor who’d only sold his country house on the condition that he’d always remain on view.

  Marlene could picture tea dances, cups spiked with gin, bobbed-hair flappers in short, loose, chiffon dresses dancing the Charleston and flirting with abandon.

  It was time to do a little flirting herself.

  He’d said he’d be waiting in the north wing. Well, that covered a lot of territory. Marlene turned left, then right down a long corridor, heading in what she hoped was northeast toward the ocean. After winding up in the freezer, she couldn’t count on her sense of direction.

  Guests in Brooks Brothers or Burberry sports clothes—lightweight wool, navy blue blazers and white trousers reigned supreme for both men and women—sipped coffee, read the Palm Beach Shiny Sheet, inspected their tennis rackets, or just lounged in the comfortable chairs.

  No bathing suits or shorts on parade in this lobby.

  Marlene, the lady in red, was the only primary color in sight.

  “You must be Marlene Friedman. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  She heard him before she saw him. A strong, upbeat voice, coming from her left. She pivoted and watched as a tall, heavyset man with a kind round face and a broad smile rose from a club chair off to the side in one of the lobby’s cozy corners.

  He held out a huge hand. “I’m Harry Archer.” His blue eyes twinkled. And he had good teeth.

  Best of all, she didn’t have to worry about those thirty extra pounds she’d subtracted for her Last Romance profile. Harry Archer had reduced his weight too.

  A kindred spirit. Kind of sex
y. Marlene suddenly felt all warm and toasty. Definitely a date to die for.

  Thirteen

  The Palmetto Beach Yoga Institute’s pastel rose stucco and charming Spanish courtyard design looked more Boca than Broward.

  Sanjay Patel greeted Kate, Tiffani, and Ballou with a shy smile and a pat for the dog, then lowered his eyes. Kate sensed sorrow—genuine—about Swami’s death, mixed with another emotion. Could that be fear?

  “Look, Sanjay,” Tiffani’s voice was high-pitched, nervous. “I need to show Mrs. Kennedy something. We’ll be in my office. Will you be here for a while?”