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

by Noreen Wald

  “Okay, darling, I’ll see you Saturday.” She fleetingly thought of telling Katharine about Billy, but decided to wait. “Email your flight information, and Auntie Marlene and I will pick you up.” Kate sighed. “Or it might just be me and a little surprise package, if the flea market corridor reopens before Saturday.”

  “I’m sure there’s some sense in what you just said, Nana, but you can explain it to me when I get there. Love you a bunch. Bye.”

  On Neptune Boulevard, Ballou veered west toward the bridge. He probably wanted to stop at Dinah’s, the last coffee shop in South Florida that permitted small pets to accompany their mostly senior masters.

  “Sorry, Ballou, this is a business trip.” She waved the pooper-scooper and small baggie under his nose. “So do yours, I have to get going.”

  “Kate, is that you?”

  She spun around and saw MonaLisa and Tippi approaching them from the east. Tippi once again dropped to her stomach and eyed Ballou, who sniffed, straining to reach Tippi’s nose and other body parts.

  MonaLisa ran her hand through her hair. “Oh, God, Kate, have you heard the news?” She sounded harried and, in the bright midday light, looked drawn.

  “What?” Kate reached out and touched the younger woman’s arm. “What’s wrong, MonaLisa?”

  “The police found Freddie Ducksworth’s body, apparently last night, but they just announced it now. I just heard it on the news.”

  Kate shivered in the sunshine. “Where?”

  “At the circus. In the elephant area, stuffed into a crate where they keep the feed.” MonaLisa gulped. “It looks like a big coffin.”

  “Shot.” Not a question. Kate was certain.

  “Through the head. Just like Carl.”

  Twenty-Four

  Sean Cunningham proved to be a cheapskate as well as a snake. No reception for poor Whitey. Not even an invitation to stop for a good-bye toast at one of the many bars or restaurants within walking distance on Las Olas.

  “You’d think that tightwad would treat us to a round of drinks, but no such luck,” Linda said, gesturing to a small yellow sports car. “Follow me home, Marlene. I live on Harborage Isle. We need to have a little chat, don’t we? I’ll have my houseboy scrape up some lunch, then you and I can have a couple of champagne cocktails out on the terrace and give poor Whitey a proper sendoff.”

  Harborage Isle? Probably the priciest real estate in Fort Lauderdale. A houseboy serving lunch? Champagne cocktails on the terrace? Linda would have to sell a hell of a lot of Queen Annes to afford that lifestyle. The doll lady must have another source of really big bucks.

  Marlene called Kate, leaving messages on both her home and cell phones, saying she wouldn’t be home for lunch, but she hoped Kate would make Mary Frances’s noon deadline.

  She followed Linda’s yellow convertible—Italian, she thought, maybe a Ferrari, but without her reading glasses, she couldn’t be sure—east on Las Olas toward the ocean, then south on A1A.

  The beach—so close to the road along the Fort Lauderdale strip, Marlene felt as if she could reach out the window and touch the ocean—was packed with college students, celebrating an annual rite of passage: spring break.

  Beautiful bodies lay supine on colorful towels spread across the sand, soaking up the sun. Young women in bikinis and tankinis dipped painted toenails into the surf. Young men with pumped-up muscles played volleyball. The surfers, always ready, stood with their boards erect, keeping one eye on the waves and the other on the girls.

  As she drove past the t-shirt shops, the old seedy bars, and the new upscale boutiques, she decided that Fort Lauderdale was now, and always had been, more than just a tourist trap. The city, like the state, represented growth and change, sleaze and style and, even hidden under its glamour and grit, Southern charm.

  “Where the Boys Are,” Marlene sang aloud, remembering all the words to the theme song from the quintessential spring break movie. What a mad crush she’d had on George Hamilton. One of many youthful crushes that now made her cringe and wonder, what was she thinking?

  She laughed…as if lust had anything to do with logic.

  It would have been easy to miss the turn off A1A leading to the bridges to Harborage Isle. The residents of that exclusive area didn’t encourage either tourists or local gawkers. If Marlene hadn’t been tailing Linda, she’d have sailed right by.

  After crossing several bridges with isles off each, Linda drove through tall black gates, instructing the uniformed guard to allow Marlene to follow her into the enclave. Awesome, like amazing, had become an overused adjective, mostly uttered by dithering contestants on reality shows like The Bachelor, but with no exaggeration, the stunning homes on Harborage Isle truly awed and amazed Marlene.

  Her hostess pulled into the circular Moroccan tile driveway of what Marlene decided might be best described as a mansion. Old money had built this baby. Not much property, but then its backyard abutted the Intracoastal. A good-sized, bright green front lawn, surrounded by a wall of hydrangea bushes and graced with two royal palm trees, led to a porch with white double doors.

  An Arab butler, complete with turban, opened the front door before Linda had time to either fumble for a key or knock. The foyer with its twelve-foot ceiling housed bookcases filled with Linda’s Gone With the Wind doll collection, including a lifelike Scarlett O’Hara in her mother’s green velvet drapes. The Arab butler came as a surprise; Rhett Butler did not.

  “Good morning, Omar. It is still morning, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed, madam.” A slight accent and a deep sexy voice. He nodded at Marlene.

  “Ms. Friedman will be joining us for lunch. On the terrace. Lemon sole, I think. And a goat cheese salad.”

  Us? Marlene pondered the meanings of “us.”

  “Very good, madam.” The butler turned and smiled at Marlene, his teeth gleaming like a toothpaste ad. “Welcome to Xanadu, Ms. Friedman.”

  So the modest mansion had a name. How tres South of France for South Florida.

  “And we’ll start with champagne cocktails, just as quickly as you can pop the cork.” Linda swept into the sunken living room, bathed in sunlight and furnished with Middle Eastern treasures.

  By the second round, served in crystal flutes on a silver tray, Linda was Marlene’s new best friend.

  A motor yacht sailed by, the captain waving at them from the helm.

  The multilevel terrace—with an Olympic-size pool on one level—sloped down to the Intracoastal. From their table, Marlene could almost reach out and shake the captain’s hand.

  Where had all this money come from? The lady of the house didn’t strike Marlene as being to the manor born. Just how much could she get out of Linda? In South Florida, polite people didn’t pry into acquaintances’ previous lives. Former drug lords and white-collar criminals had too often morphed into knights in shining armor, endowing libraries and building opera houses. Should she start by confiding in Linda, establishing trust? Rapport? Hell, she didn’t have time for subtleties.

  She chuckled, like she’d ever been subtle.

  “Something strike your funny bone, Marlene?”

  “Just reflecting on my checkered past.” Not bad for openers.

  Linda gazed at her, long and hard. Her hostess had changed into a gauzy white caftan, pulled her hair back in a ponytail and wiped off her makeup, saying she wanted to work on her tan. Even in the bright sunlight, the doll lady appeared years younger.

  “You do remind me a bit of my old mum.”

  Not exactly what Marlene had expected—or wanted—to hear. Well, of course, Linda was young enough to be her daughter, but she had trouble picturing herself as anyone’s “mum.”

  “Really?” Marlene tried to sound flattered.

  “Drove me away from home, the old tart did.”

  “
Oh…”

  “Slept her way through Liverpool, didn’t she?” Linda winked. “The twig doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Again Marlene merely nodded. “I quit school at sixteen, ran away from that ugly counsel house, and married a strung-out rocker—thought he looked like the reincarnation of John Lennon. Came over here to the States with him. But he left me for the drummer, who, oddly enough, looked uncannily like Ringo Starr.” Linda paused, then drained and refilled her flute. “Another?”

  Knowing she had to drive home, Marlene said, “Yes, please.” What the hell, she’d drink a lot of coffee.

  “So there I was, stranded in Sarasota.”

  Marlene started, thinking of the midget. “I…er…once had a fling in Sarasota.”

  “Not much else to do there, is there?” Linda twirled the ends of her ponytail. “Lunch should be ready soon.”

  “What did you do after he left you?” To her surprise, Marlene was genuinely interested.

  “Got a job in the circus, then bounced around Florida, and moved to Fort Lauderdale about fifteen years ago. I got a job at a club and became their hottest lap dancer.” Linda shrugged. “Long story short—I landed in the lap of luxury. Married a Texas oilman. I adored George. We had a wonderful life, like the movie, only we were bloody rich, didn’t need an angel. He bought this house for me. A Saudi prince had lived here. Try the bathroom off the living room. Mirrored walls. Mirrored floors. Mirrored ceiling. Absolutely decadent. You’ll see parts of your body you never knew you had. Anyway, the butler was part of the deal. I didn’t ask any questions. My dearest love died five years ago. Heart attack. I met Sean at Ireland’s Inn shortly after George’s death. I loved dolls, and I desperately needed something to do. The flea market and Precious saved my life.”

  “Where is Precious?”

  “Out having her weekly shampoo and pedicure. Omar will bring her home later.”

  “I guess the flea market will never be the same.” Marlene’s venture wasn’t the smoothest segue, but she felt tipsy herself and hoped the champagne would keep Linda talking.

  “Whitey Ford, charming toad that he was, set the flea market on its heels long before this mess.”

  According to Sean, Whitey had dumped Linda. Her judgment might be skewed.

  Damn this tiptoeing around. Full speed ahead. “Do you think Whitey was murdered because he discovered that Suzanna’s car crash hadn’t been an accident?”

  “That could be one of several motives. Maybe a motive for Olivia. You know, given the right opportunity, I might have killed my mum.”

  Why had Linda singled out Olivia? And what other motives did the doll lady have in mind? “Strange how Olivia lashed out at Sean in church this morning. Yesterday, he told Kate and me the girl had a crush on Whitey.”

  “More than a crush. Ask Freddie, he has the photographs to prove it.” Linda smirked. “But he has other incriminating pictures, as well, hasn’t he?”

  The butler, silent as a cat, appeared at Linda’s side.

  “Madam, I just heard on the telly in the kitchen that Mr. Ducksworth is dead.” He paused. “And I gather not from natural causes.”

  Good God! Suddenly, Mary Frances’s earlier theory about all the vendors being targets no longer seemed so bizarre. Maybe there really was a serial killer in the flea market.

  Twenty-Five

  Kate believed the best bagel in South Florida—or, at least, to a New York purist, the taste that came closest to the real thing—could be purchased at Einstein’s Bagels, located near an Italian gourmet deli with great homemade ravioli. Two delicious reminders of home in one strip mall.

  She and her fellow former New Yorker, Jeff Stein, the editor of the Palmetto Beach Gazette, met at Einstein’s every Sunday morning. First by accident, then by design. She missed her sons. He missed his mother. So on Sunday mornings, they met, they talked, they ate, almost like family.

  Today was Thursday, but a bagel and a schmear still seemed to be in order. Einstein’s weekday customers, mostly office workers on lunch break, ate much faster than the Sunday morning regulars, who tended to chat with each other or read their newspapers. Right now, the bagel shop’s turnaround time averaged about ten minutes, so Jeff and Kate found a tiny table for two in the back, hoping not to be disturbed.

  “I wanted some history on Whitey Ford and Sean Cunningham, and what Carl Krieg might have found out that got him murdered. But now that Freddie’s dead too, I don’t know where to begin.” Kate spoke as she spread strawberry cream cheese to the outer limits of her plain untoasted bagel. Einstein’s bagels were too fresh to toast.

  “Let’s start with the latest victim and work our way back.” Jeff, in khakis, pale blue shirt, and a neatly knotted tie—the latter unusual for anyone other than bankers, financial planners, or con men in South Florida—smiled. He had an easy charm, a quick, fertile mind, and tweedy good looks, like a youngish professor who’d removed his jacket. “Want to try some of my cream cheese with chives?”

  “No way.” Kate laughed. “Strawberry is as far as I deviate from tradition.”

  “I knew Ducksworth,” Jeff said around a bite of bagel. “Great collection of comic books.”

  “Are you a collector, Jeff?” Kate again thought of her sons and how they—though they’d swear to the contrary—had never completely forgiven her for throwing out their Marvel comics.

  “Yeah, I am.” He blushed. “Since I bought so many first editions from Freddie—he was great about special orders—I had a nodding acquaintance with all the vendors in the corridor.”

  “Good.” Kate nodded. “Your impressions of that bunch can only help me fill in the blanks.” She pressed a Twining English Breakfast tea bag against her spoon and squeezed it into her large mug, so the wet bag wouldn’t drip. With no saucer, she laid the spoon on a paper napkin, watching Jeff grin at her fussiness.

  “Are you going to write a story for me, or are you just playing detective, Kate?” She heard a slight edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to write, I just don’t know if I can.”

  “That obit you wrote was damn good. Try a feature article, Kate. If it’s lousy, I’m not shy, I won’t use it.”

  She lifted her head and met Jeff’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll write about the flea market murders. And I’ll write about the animal abuse.” The passion of her commitment surprised her. It felt right, like she really could be a newspaper reporter. Hell’s bells, at least she could try.

  “Freddie struck me as an opportunist.” Jeff moved the conversation back on track. “And not above bending the law. When you told me he’d tried to blackmail the Jordan mother and daughter team, I can’t say I was surprised. I’ve spent the last hour adding to what I already knew about all the vendors.”

  “And?” Kate felt a tingle. The same sort of tingle she’d gotten all those years ago while reading Agatha Christie and trying to guess the murderer before Miss Marple did.

  “When Ducksworth was twenty-two, he spent a year in jail in Kansas where he grew up. For a check scam involving old ladies. Though he hasn’t been in trouble with the law since then, a recast customer has been making noise about suing Freddie over a phony first edition of The Phantom. Caused quite a stir in comic-book circles.”

  “You believe Freddie deliberately turned his photography hobby into a blackmailing scheme.”

  “Well, yes. Come on, Kate, when it quacks, walks, and looks like a duck—pun intended—it’s probably Ducksworth.”

  “Really bad pun.” Kate laughed. “Okay. So Freddie was murdered because he’d taken those photographs of Whitey’s final visitors’ arrivals and departures.” Kate’s voice expressed her doubt.

  Jeff shrugged. “Don’t you think?”

  “What about the animal abuse? Maybe the killer wanted to prevent proof of the mistreated elephants from arrivi
ng at the Humane Society.”

  “Kate, that motive for Freddie’s death makes no sense. Whitey called, saying he’d send the photographs, not Freddie.”

  “MonaLisa Buccino, who investigated the abuse, never believed Whitey shot those photos. Maybe the killer knew Freddie had taken them.”

  Jeff drained his coffee cup. “If the abuse photographs were the motive, why wouldn’t Freddie have been the first victim, not the third?”

  “Who killed Whitey and why?” Kate sighed. “Two people may have been murdered because they knew the answer to that question.”

  “Since we’re working backward, let’s look at victim number two, Carl Krieg.” Jeff stood. “Let me get another cup of coffee.”

  “And tea for me, please.” Kate glanced at her watch. Twelve forty-five. Good. She planned to fetch Billy at two and take him to see Donna. She had a message on her cell phone from Marlene, who must have called while she’d been talking to Katharine. Wondering how the memorial service had gone and what Marlene would learn from Linda, she finished the last of her bagel and stinted on her fruit cup.

  Jeff placed a fresh mug of hot water and another tea bag in front of Kate. “Go ahead, do your neat thing.”

  “Then Carl died because Freddie shot those pictures from his front window. An eyewitness once removed.” Kate finished her tea bag brewing ritual. “That narrows our suspect list to four. According to Donna, Carl said Whitey’s visitors were Sean, Linda, Olivia, and Suzanna. Unfortunately, Carl was drunk and couldn’t be sure of the timeline.”

  “If we could find the photos, Kate, we’d have the timeline.” Jeff shook his head. “I’ll bet the killer has them.”

  “What did you find out about Carl?”

  “Well, as you know, he was Donna’s uncle. And he and Jocko—real name Joseph—Cunningham have been active members for years in a local bund. In Davie.”