Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) Read online

  “Well, she is a former nun, Marlene. That’s why she’s back in Wisconsin; she’s having an identity crisis. Mary Frances may be sixty, but in her heart, her soul, she’s still sixteen.”

  “Show me a sixteen-year-old virgin and I’ll spend a month in contemplation myself.” Marlene giggled. “But not in a computerless convent in Wisconsin. How would I get on Last Romance?”

  Kate laughed too, glad that Marlene had snapped out of her funk. Now if she could just snap out of hers.

  An hour later, Kate and Marlene were walking on the beach with Ballou, amazed at how much of the cleanup had been completed.

  Though Kate held the leash, the Westie led them. Today’s destination, north toward the Neptune Boulevard pier.

  “Ladies, please wait up a moment.” Bob Seeley’s voice sounded even more querulous than usual.

  Kate spun around as Ballou kept moving forward, almost losing her foothold in the sand. “Sit, Ballou.” Fat chance.

  The frail man appeared nervous. “Marlene, as Ocean Vista’s chair of finance, I need to report some important information to our president.”

  Kate swallowed a giggle. Poor Bob. Such deference. You’d think Marlene was president of the United States.

  “Yes, Bob, please give your report,” Marlene said, sounding as if she were.

  “A bid has been made on Walt Weatherwise’s apartment. The offer comes from S. J. Corbin. And not for a client. Ms. Corbin wishes to reside here herself. Or so she says. Rather odd, since she already has a mansion on the Intracoastal.”

  Ballou struggled; Kate stumbled, but held firm. The light wind scattered sand on her terry cloth cover-up.

  Marlene smiled. “Great. S. J. Corbin’s the biggest Realtor in Broward County. Maybe she wants a pied-à-terre on the ocean. Whatever. Ocean Vista’s hot. The body isn’t even cold, and the most successful woman in the county wants to buy Walt’s condo.”

  “That’s the problem, Marlene.” Bob sounded grave. “The offer arrived early this morning before the news of Uncle Weatherwise’s death went public. Before S. J. Corbin or anyone else, except for Kate and the police, could have known there was a body.”

  Twelve

  “The killer knew,” Kate said, spearing a coconut shrimp. “Maybe after murdering Weatherwise, he or she called S. J. Corbin. For God’s sake, Bob made it sound as if I called her. As if I might have pierced Uncle Weatherwise’s heart.” She stabbed a second shrimp.

  “Nah. Bob doesn’t believe that.” Marlene poured more melted butter on her lobster tail. “Who knows? Could the killer have been on commission, working for Corbin’s firm, and decided to phone in a hot lead?” She adjusted her bib, just in time to blot the dripping butter. “Or could S. J. Corbin be the killer?”

  Kate sniffed. “Or could Bob Seeley want you and our other neighbors to question my behavior in order to cast suspicion away from himself?”

  “I know you overheard him threaten Walt, but come on, Kate. Can you picture prissy old Bob plunging a weather vane into another old blowhard’s heart?”

  Their favorite local haunt, the Neptune Inn, hadn’t opened today, the staff still mopping up. Kate and Marlene had gone south to Sea Watch, more upscale and much dryer.

  They’d both ordered cosmopolitans, served in art deco glasses. The seafood was, as Marlene had promised, to die for. And they had a beautiful view of the twilight over the ocean. Kate should have felt mellow; instead, she felt belligerent.

  “Money might be the motive. I’ve never seen Bob like that before.” Kate replayed the conversation she’d overheard in the school gym. “Desperate. In a rage. And Weatherwise threatened Bob.”

  “Bob appears too well bred to kill a roach. Still, he did try to sell us that cockamamie story about Rosie’s tote bag.” Marlene hailed a waiter. “Another round, please.”

  “Not for me,” Kate protested. “Detective Parker is supposed to drop by tonight, though he hasn’t called yet.” She fingered her cell phone, at the ready next to her bread plate.

  “If you don’t drink yours, I will.” Marlene waved the waiter away.

  “Then I’m driving.” Less than a mile to Ocean Vista, but Kate wouldn’t chance it, not with Marlene at the wheel after having downed three cocktails the size of Cleveland.

  “Okay,” Marlene said, then finished her first round. “What about Lucy Diamond? You gotta like a federal prosecutor for the killer. Unlike bland Bob, that broad has the temperament to stab a man in the back or in the heart. But does she have a motive?”

  Kate nodded. “I’m wondering if she and Walt knew each other before Ocean Vista. Maybe in Miami? She called him an old fraud at the shelter. Sounded as though they had a history. Could Lucy have prosecuted—or attempted to prosecute—Uncle Weatherwise?”

  “I’ll check out Lucy’s career on the computer tomorrow morning.” Marlene appeared pleased with herself. “Don’t worry, Miss Marple, Della Street is on the case.”

  ‘Talk about mixing mystery genres.” Kate smiled, feeling less tense. Less alone. “Thanks, Marlene.” How many times had she said that to her best friend over the years? Countless. A rush of gratitude enveloped her. Her forever friend had come through again.

  “Speaking of mixing, what the hell is taking the bartender so long with our drinks?”

  A slightly tipsy Marlene had handed over her car keys without a quibble. Kate navigated the big Chevy into its assigned spot in covered parking without scratching Rosie’s Lincoln Continental.

  At seven thirty they walked across the pool area and through the back door into the lobby. Miss Mitford, never off duty, stood at her station, talking to an attractive brunette.

  Marlene poked Kate between her shoulder blades and whispered, “That’s S. J. Corbin.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her picture’s in Gold Coast magazine all the time. Her real estate company runs a full-page ad in every issue.” Marlene slurred the sentence, especially the word issue, but that didn’t stop her. “Corbin’s face always fills half the space.”

  “Let’s go say hello to our new neighbor.” She spoke before thinking. Marlene could be outrageous sober; with three Cosmos under her belt, God only knew what she might say. Kate didn’t care; curiosity outranked concern. She had too many questions.

  Marlene burped, then made a beeline to the front desk.

  Miss Mitford raised a disapproving eyebrow as Kate approached.

  “Good evening.” Kate’s smile encompassed both Mitford and Corbin. She pivoted and extended her right hand to S. J. Corbin, gesturing toward Marlene with her left. “I’m Kate Kennedy and this is my sister-in-law, Marlene Freidman. Welcome to Ocean Vista.”

  The Realtor flashed a set of teeth so white they dazzled. Kate must start using the bleaching kit and plastic apparatus that the dentist, at Marlene’s insistence, had custom-made for her. The tray and the bleaching gel had cost almost four hundred dollars and now sat, unopened, gathering dust, in her medicine cabinet. However, Marlene’s bleach job, bright as it was, couldn’t compare to Corbin’s movie-star smile.

  “I’m delighted to meet you both. I’m going to love it here. I’ve always wanted to live smack on a Florida beach.”

  S. J. spoke fast, like a New Yorker. Not with Lucy Diamond’s hard g on the end of going, so often a dead giveaway of Long Island or Brooklyn roots, and not with nasal vowels, that residue from Rosie O’Grady’s Bronx childhood, but more like Kate’s own accent, the a in Florida sounding like er.

  “Marlene and I love it.” Kate tried to match the new owner’s enthusiasm.

  S. J. smiled, oozing warmth. A true sales personality. “At first I’ll only be at Ocean Vista part-time. But I’m planning on retiring, selling the big house. Not getting any younger, you know.”

  “That’s for damn sure, S.J.,” Marlene said, bowing. “Welcome to the old
folks’ home.”

  Kate, lost in thought, didn’t bother to intercede.

  Some Fort Lauderdale wag had once dubbed Broward County a bedroom community of New York City. Interesting how many of Ocean Vista’s residents, including Kate, Marlene, and Rosie, had migrated south from the Big Apple. And, as Rosie often pointed out, Lucy Diamond and Bob Seeley had grown up “on the ass end of Long Island.”

  Coincidence? Kate thought not. Again, visions of the old Park Sheraton danced in her head. She took a deep breath, then plunged. “Ms. Corbin, I’m curious. How did you know that Walt Weatherwise’s apartment was available?” No mincing words. Just the facts, ma’am.

  Kate hoped her query might startle the Realtor.

  No such luck. Corbin, unfazed, said, “Kate, please call me, S. J., all my friends do.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So how about answering your new friend Kate’s question?” Marlene listed to the left; Kate could smell the booze, feeling certain that S. J. and Miss Mitford could too.

  “Walt told me.” S. J. held her palms straight up, not unlike a magician proving he had no tricks up his sleeve.

  Kate started, but spoke before Marlene, who had her mouth open, could. “Walt told you? Now I’m really confused, S. J. When you made the bid on the condo, Weatherwise was already dead, but his murder hadn’t been reported anywhere.”

  “I had no idea Walt was dead. How could I have known?” S. J. sounded sincere, but then she sold real estate for a living. “I did know he would be moving. Nevada? Arizona? Somewhere in the desert He’d listed his condo with me yesterday afternoon. Before the hurricane hit. His asking price seemed very low. I had the impression Walt must be in a hurry to sell, to move. He said his attorney would act as his agent, handle all the details. This morning I decided I wanted the apartment for myself, and I made my bid. Weatherwise’s attorney accepted it.”

  “Really?” Marlene sounded doubtful, but Kate figured the Realtor must have documentation to back up her story. “Were you and Weatherwise friends?”

  “Let’s say Walt and I traveled in the same social set.” S. J. kept smiling. “Miss Mitford tells me the police are conducting a thorough search of the condo, so, though I’m dying to start renovating, I have to hold off.”

  “Murder can be bloody inconvenient,” Marlene said. Ignoring Marlene, S. J. turned to Kate. “I can’t wait to live here, Kate. I think we’re going to be great friends.

  Thirteen

  Tuesday, July 4, Fifty-Six Years Ago

  “I think we’re going to be great friends,” Sophie had said as they parted the previous afternoon.

  Her words lingered in this morning’s memory.

  “I don’t want to go to Rockaway, Mom.” Kate grabbed the jar of peanut butter and slammed the refrigerator door. “Can’t I stay home with Etta?”

  “Your grandmother is coming with us, Kate. It’s the Fourth of July. Families celebrate together.” Maggie Norton sighed. “And don’t you dare bang that door again. Do you have any idea how much money your father spent on my present? It’s a Westinghouse, Kate.”

  As if Kate could forget the brand name. She’d only heard it two thousand times since Christmas.

  The iceman used to deliver once a week. Messy business, but kind of fun. Her mother and grandmother often slipped, referring to the fancy new refrigerator as an icebox.

  “Kate, pay attention.” Her mother sounded annoyed. “You need to treat everything in this house with respect. Even appliances.”

  “Okay, I’ll try.” Kate meant it. She’d always been a compulsively neat but careless girl, breaking glasses, dropping dishes. “But, listen, Mom, I can stay here alone. I’m thirteen. You let me babysit the Martins’ kids; why won’t you let me spend a holiday by myself?”

  Kate put two slices of toasted Wonder bread on a blue china plate and covered them both with peanut butter and strawberry jam.

  “And why can’t you use the everyday dishes?” Her mother was filling a gallon-size Thermos with grape juice.

  “Because I like nice things, because food tastes better served on a china plate, and because the way you hoard the Wedgwood, we’ll all wear out before it does.”

  “Watch your mouth, Katharine Norton.” The full name treatment.

  Kate had gone too far. She might as well change into her suit right after breakfast. Squeezing her Lipton tea bag hard against the china cup, she knew she’d be spending the day on the beach.

  Etta entered the kitchen, her silver bob covered with a wide-brim, navy blue beach hat that matched her old-fashioned skirted bathing suit. She was buttoning up an ankle-length terry cloth robe. “I’m ready. Should I start on the sandwiches? Egg salad?”

  “Yes, please.” Kate’s mother smiled. If she resented her mother-in-law living with them, Maggie Norton had never shown it.

  Kate felt good about them getting along. Marlene’s mother was always fighting with her mother-in-law, who lived in Rego Park and only visited on Sundays. Such scenes. Poor Mr. Friedman, caught in the middle.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to invite Marlene?” Her grandmother ventured where Kate and her mother hadn’t gone. For seven summers, every Saturday and most Sundays, Marlene had driven down to Rockaway with the Norton family. Why would Etta even suggest such a thing? Where was her sense of loyalty? Kate had cried in her grandmother’s arms after Marlene’s betrayal.

  “I will never speak to Marlene again.” Kate dropped her tea cup into the saucer. She wished she could invite Sophie. Would her father find her new friend too weird? What would Sophie think about Kate’s boring family?

  “You’re lucky that cup didn’t break.” Her mother sounded sad rather than angry.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Kate wiped up the spilled tea with her napkin.

  “Look, Kate,” her mother said, “you can’t stay here alone. Your father would have a fit. Would you like to ask someone else? Another friend? Maybe the girl you met yesterday at Miss Ida’s.”

  Kate couldn’t believe it. Had her mother read her mind? Sometimes Maggie Norton amazed her. Of course, Kate had talked a lot about Sophie over dinner last night.

  “Can I call her now?”

  An hour later, Sophie climbed into the black Buick’s backseat with Kate and Etta.

  As they drove along Woodhaven Boulevard, Kate felt grateful that her father wasn’t asking Sophie a lot of dopey questions. Instead, Mom and Sophie were discussing Kon-Tiki. Both were reading it; Sophie was further along. Etta chimed in about how much she liked Miss Ida, but didn’t get too far. Mom and Sophie’s book-review club lasted all the way to Belle Harbor. Kate, getting a little jealous, was about to change the subject when her father beat her to it.

  “What does your father do, Sophie?”

  “Do? I don’t understand, Mr. Norton.”

  “For a living.” Kate’s father spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “You know, what’s his line of work?”

  Kate cringed.

  “My mother goes to work. She’s a secretary.” Sophie also enunciated, as if crafting her response. “My father stays home.”

  Please God, make my father shut up. I’ll go to Mass every day for a month. I’ll never drink tea in a Wedgwood cup again. Just make him shut up.

  Miraculously, he did. Kate would be getting up for nine o’clock Mass for the next thirty days, but her father’s silence would be worth every hour of lost sleep.

  Still...Kate wondered why Sophie hadn’t mentioned her father’s graphs and charts. Boris Provakov had been working on something yesterday. They’d interrupted him.

  Twenty minutes later they were on Rockaway Beach, where Queens met the Atlantic Ocean.

  Her grandmother didn’t like the sun, but her parents and Kate loved it, basking in its rays from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

  Hopping in the hot sand, they spread out
their blankets and set up their beach chairs at just the right angle. Kate and her parents would be rotating their positions every fifteen minutes to follow the sun.

  No matter how hard she tried, Kate never tanned. Too fair-skinned like her father. While her Mom took on a golden brown, Coppertone glow, Kate and her dad just got redder and redder. But she loved how the sun turned the hairs on her arms to gold and streaked her chestnut brown curls with blonde highlights.

  Etta sank into a folding chair, facing the boardwalk; she’d spend the day shifting away from direct sunlight.

  Kate’s father had brought his homemade brew of Lipton tea, Lanolin, and baby oil. He’d been using the smelly mix for years and, though the tea stained his skin to a red-bronze, he never tanned either.

  Sophie, wearing an old-fashioned, navy wool bathing suit, had dynamite color. “Tar Beach,” she answered when Kate’s mother asked where she’d gotten her beautiful tan.

  Kate’s parents and Etta laughed at Sophie’s response. Kate didn’t get the joke. “Where’s Tar Beach?”

  Her father laughed again. “On the roof, Katie. When we lived on the West Side, we went to Tar Beach all the time. Swam in the Hudson River too.”

  Never having lived in an apartment house or a tenement, Kate felt deprived. The only one never to have experienced Tar Beach.

  While her mother set up housekeeping—Maggie Norton liked order, even in the sand—Kate and Sophie walked to the water’s edge.

  A good-looking young lifeguard waved at them. Well, at Sophie. In her two-piece yellow gingham bathing suit, Kate looked flat-chested. Looked like a child.

  The jetty to their left was covered with seaweed, the waves breaking at their feet, the smell of salt tingling her nose. All her favorite memories from summers past. Kate should be happy, but something felt wrong.