Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) Read online

  Stepping out of the shower, Kate smiled. For sure, Marlene, in the middle of her hot date-to-die-for, wasn’t worrying about either ethical or legal concerns.

  Kate towel-dried her hair, and put on a white, French terry sweat suit that her daughter-in-law had given her last Christmas. How did everyone seem to know she’d reached the age of elastic waists and loose tops? Though this smartly cut one sported a designer label. She expected no less from Jennifer, an elegant, style-conscious stockbroker. Slipping into sandals—boy could she use a pedicure—Kate considered herself dressed. Maybe this South Florida casual living wasn’t all bad.

  Rescuing the rumpled Life Preserver papers from her pants pocket, she then dumped all of her morning attire into the hamper and made herself a nice cup of tea.

  With Ballou at her side, Kate settled into the beige and white tufted chaise on the balcony, placing the file, the teacup, and a cheese and tomato whole wheat sandwich, liberally spread with both mayo and mustard, on a nearby rattan table.

  At high noon on a Saturday, the beach was awash with activity. Since Ocean Vista was the nearest condo to the south side of the pier, and this was a public beach, locals, tourists, snow birds, and surfers waiting in hope of the next big one, had joined Ocean Vista condo owners on the wide stretch of white sand beneath her balcony.

  Umbrellas of every stripe, folding chairs, blankets, picnic hampers, and tire tubes were spread from the Ocean Vista’s pool’s gates to the water’s edge.

  The ocean and the sky were color coordinated in shades of blue, the first accented with whitecaps, the second with a few small clouds.

  Hungry, she devoured the sandwich, then returned to the kitchen to fetch a slice of lemon pound cake and another cup of tea. Carbs were her favorite food group. She’d never be able to exist on either the Atkins or the South Beach diet.

  Finally sated, she uncurled the papers, and read the Life Preserver prospectus. Then read through a second time, remaining confused about what the company actually did. Medical research to be sure, with laboratory tests and experiments on small animals, employing sophisticated blood work, cells and embryos, all sounding like some sort of cloning, but with jargon too technical for her to translate into layman’s terms. In addition to what was described as a state-of-the-art lab, there would be a storage area, with its temperature kept below freezing. And the lab would be working on a medical treatment, referenced only as Neuro Option, to perfectly preserve patients. Another of Life Preserver’s goals: Vitrification. What the devil was that?

  Kate got up, went into her bedroom, and looked up the word in her dictionary. “The process of transforming.” Well that certainly cleared everything up.

  Back on the chaise, she decided to make an appointment with Dr. Jack Gallagher. Something about the gobbledygook in the Life Preserver prospectus scared her. Hard to believe Swami had been a partner in this mysterious company. She wondered if Gallagher’s press conference was over. And, though she’d been ordered not to go, she couldn’t shake her guilt about not accompanying Tiffani to the police station. Would the girl call when she finished there? If not, Kate would call her.

  Two toddlers, walking with a young woman near the shore, caught her eye. For a moment she was back at Jones Beach forty years ago, Kevin holding one hand, Peter holding the other. A soaking wet, ruggedly handsome Charlie coming out of the ocean and swooping the boys up in his strong arms, then leaning over them and kissing Kate.

  Blinking back tears, she closed her eyes.

  Seventeen

  Charlie kissed her toes. He’d always said she had cute feet and he loved her toes painted in Sunburst Coral polish, peeking out of high strappy heels. “Sexy, Kate. Like your long, chestnut hair.”

  But she needed a pedicure, didn’t she? And her hair wasn’t chestnut anymore.

  She went back to the image of the redheaded Charlie working his way up from her toes. What she liked best about dreaming was rewinding to the good parts.

  A shrill ring awakened her. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and both the sky and ocean were darker shades of blue. A chill in the air made her shiver. She glanced out at the beach. Far fewer people. How long had she been sleeping? What time was it anyway?

  The phone rang again. Kate jumped up and went through the sliding glass doors into her sterile off-white living room. She must add some color. Maybe the cornflower blue of the earlier midday sky. On the fourth ring, she grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello,” her words thick with sleep.

  “Is this Mrs. Kennedy? Kate Kennedy?”

  “Yes, it is.” She recognized the voice, but still groggy, couldn’t connect it to a face. A woman. Older. Southern. Refined.

  “Good. This is Magnolia McFee.”

  Of course. Sweet sound. Steel delivery.

  “We’re holding a memorial service for our beloved Swami Schwartz at my home, in the garden that faces the sea, on Tuesday morning at eleven. A reception will follow. I trust you’ll be joining us, Mrs. Kennedy.” No question. A simple declarative sentence.

  “Thank you for inviting me. I’d be glad to attend.” Marlene would be pea-green not to be invited to this funeral.

  “I’m up in Palm Beach. Off A1A, a few houses north of Mar-A-Lago. You can’t miss the McFee crest on the front gates.” She sighed. “I just don’t understand how they ever allowed that dreadful man to buy Marjorie’s lovely home and turn it into a private club. The noise carries right over onto my verandah.”

  Kate, who’d had the former Marjorie Merriweather Post estate pointed out to her by Marlene on more occasions than she could count, said, “I think I know exactly where you are.”

  “Splendid.” Magnolia sighed again. “One more thing, Mrs. Kennedy. I’m something of a perfectionist. And we want this memorial to be beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. Swami deserves no less. Don’t you agree?”

  “Er…yes.”

  “Well, then please come to a rehearsal tomorrow evening at seven. I’m inviting all the board members who were present at Swami’s last supper. And his dear friend, our host, Danny Mancini. I feel we should all say a few words at the memorial. With a run-through, we won’t be repeating ourselves, now will we? I’ll be serving cocktails and a light repast. Formal attire will not be required. My driver will pick you up at six thirty. And you might take a look at St Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. I believe you’ll find inspiration there. Good day, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  Magnolia hung up, gently but firmly.

  A sharp rap at the front door jarred Kate before she could process her conversation with Magnolia McFee.

  Ballou barked. He loved company. Except for Mary Frances.

  On her way through the foyer, Kate glanced at the grandfather clock. It actually had belonged to Charlie’s grandfather, and was one of the few possessions they’d brought with them from Rockville Centre. Why did so many seniors throw away so much of their past when they moved to Florida? Kate missed her Cherrywood four- poster bed almost as much as she missed her bedmate, but Charlie had wanted “a fresh start.” Some start. He’d dropped dead at the closing, never sleeping, even for one night in their new bed.

  The condo, all spare lines and neutral colors, had been decorated by her son Peter’s long-time partner, Edmund, a plastic surgeon with a flair for interior design. Naturally neat, Kate had adapted to the cool tones and easy-to-clean surroundings, but mourned the warm traditional furnishings she and Charlie had sold or given away before the move.

  The clock chimed three tunes. She’d had a long nap. Thank heavens she’d put on sunblock. Still, her face felt tight. As tight as her heart.

  Suddenly Ballou began barking and leaping against the door. “Who is it?” Old habits died hard. Did she really have to check on the rapper’s identity? Could a trespasser triumph over all those locks and manage to get into the building? Well, maybe, but he’d never be able to sneak past Miss Mitford.r />
  “Open the door, Kate.” Marlene sounded stressed. She pushed her way in, crying, as she swooped up the little dog, ecstatic to see her.

  Strange. Marlene always had been quick to anger, but slow to cry. What happened up in Palm Beach? Or could this be some residual damage from having been locked in the freezer?

  “Come in.” She kissed Marlene’s spotty cheek. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea. It looks as if we’re both having a really bad day.”

  Eighteen

  Dr. Jack Gallagher smiled at his reflection in the glass doors on his way into the NBC affiliate station’s green room. His on-camera performance had been a smashing success, and the favorable PR had made his drive down to Fort Lauderdale more than worthwhile.

  Some of the questions—especially the print reporters’ questions—had been rough, almost hitting too close to home, but even today, one of the busiest and most difficult days of his life, he’d fielded them well, employing the charm and grace that had become his trademarks.

  All of the newspaper men—the women were never in doubt—would be in his corner, except for that lean and hungry young New York City transplant, Jeff Stein, editor of the Palmetto Beach Gazette. How ironic. Jack Gallagher’s hometown paper would be the only one to hint at something…but the hint would be as vague and unformed as Jeff Stein’s wild questions. Vague enough to do no harm to the town’s most beloved doctor. In fact, any ugly innuendo might backfire on the editor.

  Jack just had to keep going, plowing through this sunny Saturday, a day when he’d violated all that he believed in. A day demanding precision planning. A day utilizing all of his skills as a surgeon. A day draining him dry as he’d performed the autopsy—even more bloody and gross than he’d remembered.

  At twenty-one in medical school, a stranger’s body had revolted him, but this time around had been unspeakable. He would never have offered to do the procedure if it hadn’t been for Swami Schwartz, his long-time friend and business partner. He’d thought of Swami as a son. That’s what made all of this so tragic.

  With a bit of time before his next appointment, and he sure as hell wasn’t relishing that encounter, he deserved a break. Why not leave the car in the Riverside Hotel’s parking lot and take a stroll down Las Olas Boulevard? Might put him in a better mood.

  The young men lounging in the sidewalk cafés got better-looking every season. Jack smiled at a magnificent creature with dark curly hair, so slim and perfectly groomed he had to be a model.

  Not too many years ago, Dr. Jack Gallagher would have merited a nod or a smile in return. Some small gesture of acknowledgment. But now he’d crossed over into old age and, like so many senior citizens, had become invisible. Younger people never noticed people of a certain age. Looked right through them. He hated being an invisible man.

  He supposed age had its compensations, though at the moment he couldn’t think of one. All he wanted was to see a glint again in some young admirer’s eye. Or the hint of a wicked grin. Some indication that he was still considered attractive. Virile. Appealing.

  “Jack, you old sweet thing, fancy running into you.” Dallas Dalton was under his nose before he saw her coming. “I’ve just found the perfect chapeau to wear at Swami’s memorial service.” She gestured with her left hand, causing the large hat box hanging on her wrist to swing in his direction.

  “Hello, Dallas.” He had to get away from her. Now.

  “Why don’t you buy me a Scarlett O’Hara, sugar? This being South Florida, we can’t wait for the sun to be over the yardarm. I could really use a drink. Let’s go to the bar in the Riverside Hotel. It’s nice and dark in there. Cool, too. All these sidewalk cafés are so outdoorsy. And you and I need to talk in private, don’t we?”

  “I’m really sorry, Dallas. I’ll have to take a rain check.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m running late as it is.”

  “Sorry don’t cut it, sugar. Not when I’m funding your research to the tune of two million dollars. We need to talk about Thistle.” She thrust the hat box at him, opened her Hermes, pink Birkin—leave it to Dallas to have the “baby” Birkin—and handed him a cell phone. “Cancel your appointment, Doctor.”

  Jack shook his head, but took the phone.

  “I want my horse here with me. No more excuses. I moved to Palmetto Beach so I could be near Thistle. Now I’m here and he’s not. You keep stalling me. I want that horse transported to South Florida tomorrow. What’s wrong with you? We had a deal. In Texas, we honor our word. And Swami promised. How can you be so cruel?”

  “Please, Dallas, lower your voice.” Several passersby were staring at them.

  “Don’t you understand? We never had children. Thistle was like my son. People visit their loved ones who have gone on before them. Even an iceberg like you ought to appreciate how comforting that would be. Well I can’t visit Thistle if he’s in Arizona and I’m here, can I? And you know I moved here because of Life Preserver. I had to get Thistle out of that situation.”

  He stared at the phone, wishing that Dallas Dalton would disappear. A woman of a certain age…all too visible.

  “I have contingency plans, Jack.” Her face looked hard and cruel in the bright sunlight. “And I’ve instructed my bankers to stop funding Life Preserver’s research program if my horse isn’t here by Monday.”

  Know when to fold, old boy. Don’t call her bluff. Cancel your plans.

  He dialed Harry Archer.

  Nineteen

  After decades of dealing with her sister-in-law’s real and imagined crises, Kate knew Marlene would talk in her own good time. To rush her would be futile. And, indeed, once she started talking, it might be difficult to shut her up.

  Trouble was best handled in the kitchen, so Kate silently fussed over tea and biscuits, while Marlene sat stone-faced in a white Formica chair, with a faux-leather seat cushion. Why had Kate allowed Edmund to convince her and Charlie that Formica was the way to go in South Florida? The dinette set looked like it belonged in a school cafeteria.

  Kate poured boiling water into a china teapot holding two English breakfast tea bags.

  Their silence wasn’t uncomfortable, merely anticipatory, like a sotto voce overture promising cymbals and trumpets.

  Ballou had given up comforting Marlene and was curled at her feet. She petted him aimlessly, minus her usual enthusiasm.

  Since they’d been kids, Kate and Marlene had found comfort in each other’s presence: comfort that, on occasion, didn’t require conversation.

  Marlene finally spoke. “You always were so damn lucky, Kate. Even now with Charlie gone, you’ve got the boys and those two beautiful granddaughters.” Her voice caught in a sob. “And you kept your figure. I’m just a fat old broad with no one to love me.”

  Whatever Kate had been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been anything like this. Had Marlene been drinking? She usually only became maudlin after three martinis. Should Kate cajole her? Or challenge her? Or maybe a little of both.

  “Come on, Marlene. Kevin and Peter are your nephews. Didn’t Charlie and I name our Kevin after his brother, your husband?” She saw no reason to mention that Kevin had been Marlene’s second ex-husband. “Lauren and Katharine are your great-nieces. They both love you. Remember when they played dress up in your evening gowns? And you must know my daughter-in-law likes you better than me.” That was true. Jennifer, despite her Lowell heritage and her own air of casual entitlement, always lit up when Marlene entered a room. “Edmund adores you. They all do. They’re your family. And what about me? You drive me crazy, but I love you too. And, for the record, when did you start thinking I had a figure worth keeping? You’ve been telling me since puberty that I’m flat-chested.”

  Marlene almost smiled, just the barest hint of a twinkle in her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Now tell me what happened today to put you in a state of such negative energy.” Maybe she c
ould persuade Marlene to join her for a yoga session on the beach. “I have a lot to tell you too.”

  The phone rang. Jarring. Obtrusive.

  Kate said, “Sorry,” then reached for the kitchen extension. “It might be Tiffani. Carbone whisked her off to the police station late this morning. He’s convinced she killed Swami.”

  No question about it. Nothing like a murder investigation and the chance to champion an innocent suspect to chase away the blues. Marlene’s eyes lit up.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Kennedy, it’s me.”

  ‘Tiffani! What happened? I was getting worried.”