by Noreen Wald
Unincorporated Broward County stretched almost to the Everglades. What the county’s old-timers—part of that increasingly rare breed of South Florida natives—thought of as swampland had morphed into highly desirable communities, complete with man-made lakes, imported trees, and enormous homes, with prices starting at well over a million dollars.
In the spanking-new development of Westfield Pines, a filled-in marsh more than a forty-five-minute ride from the A1A, Kate and Marlene pulled into a winding, Royal Palm-lined driveway leading up to one of those mini-mansions.
“Well, we sure as hell had enough time to plan our strategy, didn’t we?” Marlene put on the brake.
A smiling parking attendant opened her door. A second solicitous young man helped Kate out of the front passenger seat, grabbing hold of her elbow. “Watch your step, ma’am. These slates can be slippery.”
They stepped into a buzz of mosquitoes, swarming in the thick, muggy, jasmine-sweet air.
Tempted to yank her elbow out of the young man’s hand, Kate felt achy and ancient, sure she must look every bit as bad as she felt.
A smooth baritone voice, backed by a band and singing “When I Fall in Love,” jarred her. Decades ago, she and Charlie had co-opted those lyrics and turned them into their anthem.
She missed a step. Embarrassed, she mumbled, “Sorry,” then wondered if she was apologizing for being old.
Not a very promising start to an evening of detective work.
Kate straightened her back and lifted her chin, forcing a smile. She’d allowed herself twenty minutes and, despite her sore head, worked fast, putting on makeup and pressing her blue silk pantsuit. By God, she wasn’t about to let all that effort go to waste.
“Welcome to my casa.” Sean, in a Gatsby-era navy blazer and white lightweight wool trousers, loomed in the open front door. He held a highball glass in one hand and listed tipsily to the left. Sweat glistened on his brow, droplets dribbling down into the creases in his jowls.
Great. Greeted by a half-drunken host before the wake had gotten underway.
“What an interesting house, Sean.” Kate laced her voice with enthusiasm. Marlene, right behind her, gasped, no doubt to swallow a giggle.
The huge U-shaped ranch, purple with lavender trim, and covered in twinkling lights, had to be the ugliest house in South Florida. Given the competition, no small distinction.
“Follow me, girls.” Sean kissed Kate’s cheek then reached for Marlene’s. “Everyone’s out in the piazza.”
As he led them across a gilded foyer, its red velvet walls lined with portraits of circus clowns, to sliding glass doors, Kate yanked a wipe out of her purse and swiped her cheek.
They entered a festive courtyard, flanked on either side by the U-shaped building’s wings that stretched down to a teak dock abutting one of those much-maligned man-made lakes. A white yawl—Kate figured it had to be a thirty-six-footer—was moored there.
In the piazza—designed to look like a center ring, complete with a striped canvas top—buffet stations laden with ham, turkey, roast beef, and salads of every kind were manned by skilled waiters dressed like clowns. Kate spotted two very busy bars.
“‘It’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea.’” Jocko, in his clown suit and part of a six-piece band off to one side, couldn’t have chosen more appropriate lyrics. Who knew the clown could sing?
Holding a wake in this circuslike atmosphere repulsed Kate, but hers appeared to be a minority opinion. The other mourners acted as if they were having the time of their lives.
“Happy hunting,” Marlene said, then walked away.
They’d decided to divide and conquer. Since Marlene had already had a go at Linda, Kate would take on the doll lady tonight. Would Linda stick to her lies or change her tune and tell the truth? Unless she’d worked with an accomplice, Linda had Marlene herself as an alibi for Carl and Freddie’s murders. So why had she lied about her past?
Marlene would tackle Suzanna Jordan and her darling daughter, Olivia. She’d accepted that assignment with relish, saying, “I want to check out Olivia’s widely rumored romance with Whitey. If it was more than just a crush, the girl could have motives for all the murders, especially Freddie’s. Or her icy mother might have melted and murdered all three men to protect her daughter. God, Kate, don’t you love a mystery?”
Kate did, indeed, though she shuddered at the thought that tonight Sean Cunningham was all hers.
And her conversation with Nick continued to nag. Why would four people who didn’t even like each other lie for each other? Unless. Her stomach jumped. Could it be a conspiracy?
“A peanut for your thoughts, Kate.” Sean grabbed her wrist with a damp hand. “May I have this waltz?”
Dancing with the devil might be more than she’d bargained for, but Kate swallowed bile and stepped into Sean’s arms.
As they took their first spin, she realized the band was playing “The Merry Widow Waltz.”
Sean leaned in, his breath stale and smoky, and whispered, “I’m dying to know, have you figured out whodunit, Kate?”
Thirty-One
Marlene cornered Suzanna in the ladies’ room. A most impressive loo, located off the courtyard in the right wing of the U-shaped house. It reminded Marlene of the elegant ladies’ room in the Waldorf Astoria, which she’d ranked number one in New York City, after the Plaza moved theirs so far away from the lobby that no lady could find it. The Algonquin—though, God knows, getting down those narrow stairs became more of a challenge each year—Saks Fifth Avenue, and Lord and Taylor’s completed her list of the best public bathrooms in midtown Manhattan.
While Marlene hated to credit Sean with even a modicum of good taste, someone had designed a classy john for Chez Cunningham. The loo held four stalls with cherry-wood doors, each equipped with its own sink, flattering pink lighting, and an excellent supply of toiletries.
Feeling as if mosquitoes had invaded her French twist and flown down the deep vee neckline of her A-line dress, she’d fled to the ladies’ room to brush away bugs and to repair and respray her platinum twist.
She had the damage under control and was sitting in a comfortable club chair before returning to the creepy wake, when a stall door opened and Suzanna exited.
The cool brunette nodded, saying, “Hello,” then turned away to appraise herself in a full-length brass mirror.
Marlene thought, what’s not to like? Suzanna exuded more class than the ladies’ room. A tall, lean body, tight stomach, and compact butt. Plus Audrey Hepburn’s cheekbones and her great hair style from Wait Until Dark. As usual, Mama Jordan was dressed simply—and expensively—in a white silk shirt and crisp black linen trousers. How come the heat and the bugs hadn’t wilted Suzanna? Were women like her sweat-proof?
Jealousy made Marlene go for the jugular.
“Tell me, Suzanna, do you believe that business with your brakes was an attempt to murder you? That you were meant to be the killer’s first victim?” She sounded like a soap opera drama queen, but couldn’t contain herself. “Who tampered with your car? Who wanted you dead? If you can answer that question, we’d know who the killer is, wouldn’t we?” Sometimes Marlene hated herself, but this was kind of fun.
Suzanna spun around, eyes wide. “Are you suggesting a serial killer?” Could that indignation be hiding fear?
Marlene took guilty pleasure in commanding the woman’s full attention. And she suspected Suzanna had considered and rejected a serial killer theory long before this. Maybe the ice queen had jimmied her own brakes to set herself up as a victim, then went on to murder Whitey, Carl, and Freddie.
Suzanna sank into a matching club chair across the lounge from Marlene’s. “You could be right.”
Marlene, unprepared for agreement and having no clue where Suzanna was heading, said nothing.
“White
y checked out those brakes himself, and concluded they’d been tampered with, that someone had wanted me or Olivia dead. My daughter often drove my car, you know.” Sincere. Eager to share. Concerned, but not frightened. A brave mother protecting her daughter? A brazen murderer protecting herself?
“A serial killer?” Marlene spoke before editing. Suzanna shrugged. A graceful gesture.
“Maybe. Or perhaps the killer only wanted me or my poor Olivia dead—though I can’t fathom why—but then, in a kind of domino effect, had to get rid of Whitey, Carl, and Freddie because each of them had learned his identity.”
Marlene caught the masculine pronoun. She pictured a glass ball containing a winter scene with small figures in holiday attire gathered in front of a miniature house. A ball that filled with snowflakes when you shook it. Not many of those for sale in South Florida, but Suzanna’s snow job would blanket one of those balls like the blizzard of ’47.
“Perhaps,” Marlene agreed, keeping a straight face.
“A crazy person,” Suzanna said, warming up to her theory, transparently pleased to be sharing her conclusions with Marlene.
“Why a crazy person?”
Suzanna’s mouth formed an O, and she raised her brows. “Well, the killer must be crazy, Marlene. Why would a sane person want to harm either me or my daughter?”
“So we’re looking for a madman?” Marlene prodded. “Anyone we know?”
“I’ve heard enough.” A startled Marlene swung her head around in time to see the door to the last stall open. Linda stormed out, waving a roll of toilet paper. “You two playing cat and mouse have my knickers in a twist and my bowels in an uproar.”
Suzanna gasped. “You witch, always sneaking around, spying on us.” Marlene felt like a tennis spectator, her neck swinging from Linda to Suzanna. The latter had gone pale. Her posture-perfect shoulders sagged.
“If you and your frump of a daughter weren’t up to no good, you wouldn’t care who spied on you. Not that I ever did such a thing, you snooty, over-the-hill broad.” Linda threw the roll of toilet paper. It flew like a football past three stalls, into the lounge, and smacked the right side of Suzanna’s head. “Used to play darts. I once won in the local pub’s women’s division. Still have great aim, don’t I?” Suzanna screamed, then flung her purse.
It fell far short of its target, who chortled. “Missed by a mile. No muscle left in that skinny old arm.”
Jeez! This was too much. Marlene moved in between them. “Ladies, please.”
“That British tart slept her way through two countries. When Whitey dumped her, she freaked out,” Suzanna screeched like a shrew. A vein throbbing in her forehead appeared ready to pop. All resemblance to Audrey Hepburn had vanished. “You sneaked back in, didn’t you, Linda? After we’d all left the bathroom, you returned, knowing he was drunk, and you killed my poor Whitey.” Damn! So they’d all been in the bathroom while Whitey soaked in his tub for the last time. Marlene, no prude, felt queasy.
“He wasn’t your Whitey. He always loved me. You were just one of his diversions. Like your daughter, Olivia.” Linda’s laugh was cruel. “Maybe you’re the one who came back. You had a key, did you? We’ll never know for sure how you got in, will we? You shot Carl because he’d witnessed you going back in, or spotted you coining out for a second time, after you’d killed Whitey.”
“You’re mad!” Suzanna, stronger than she looked, shoved Marlene out of her way.
“And you killed Freddie because photographs don’t lie.” Linda sounded triumphant. “His evidence would have sent your bony bum to death row.”
Thirty-Two
Kate danced back a step so she could meet Sean’s olive eyes. “I’ve narrowed down the suspects.”
He tightened his grip on her waist. Conscious of the less-than-firm skin in her midsection—too many bagels with cream cheese and not enough sit-ups—she decided she didn’t care what Creepy Cunningham thought, then realized she didn’t give a fig what any man thought. The resulting sense of freedom made her laugh.
“Something strike you as funny, Kate?” Sean shook his jowls. “Triple murder is nothing to laugh about.”
“Just rejoicing in newfound freedom.” Kate grinned, feeling good about herself.
“You’re a strange woman.” Sean’s words wavered between flirtation and fear.
She nudged him in the right direction. “You’re in the top four.”
Jocko sang, “‘Waltz me lightly, hold me tightly.’” A smooth tenor baritone.
Sean stumbled and missed a beat, his heel coming down on her toe.
“Sorry, Kate,” Sean said. “You startled me. Innocent men often react that way.” She could feel his clammy hand through the silk fabric of her jacket. “Why do I deserve to be in your top four?” He tried a light touch, but sounded strained; his voice had lost its lilt.
“Oh…” She spun out, twirled, and returned to his arms. “Let me count the motives. To get your hands on photographs that would have confirmed suspected elephant abuse in the Cunningham Circus. To shut up Whitey, the man who’d called the Humane Society. To remove an eyewitness to Whitey’s final visitors and the photographer who’d shot both the abuse pictures and those visitors.” Sean smelled of rancid sweat, and he was dancing faster than the music, spinning her in wider and wider circles.
“Let’s move on to opportunity.” Kate felt dizzy but confident, and, as she spoke, her conviction that Sean had murdered the three men grew stronger. “You were at Whitey’s on Sunday night, and you were in the circus yesterday afternoon when Carl and Freddie were shot.”
“Don’t bother with means, Kate. The police don’t agree with you. Detective Carbone hasn’t any evidence—or any reason—to arrest me.” Sean spat as he spoke. “Indeed, quite the contrary. I’ve proven to the detective’s satisfaction that I was never alone with Whitey on the night he died. Not even for a moment.”
“Was it a conspiracy, Sean?” The words spilled out. “Like Murder on the Orient Express! Did all four of you plot to kill Whitey?”
Sean whirled her around so fast she lost her balance. He lurched for her as she started to fall, keeping her upright, but twisting her elbow. “You look tired, Kate. Why don’t you go home, get into bed, and curl up with Agatha Christie?”
“May I cut in?” Nick tapped Sean’s shoulder.
Kate hadn’t seen Nick’s approach, and his question made her partner squirm.
“Certainly,” Sean said, as his wet jowls shook in a negative nod. “However, Mrs. Kennedy was just leaving.”
She glared at Sean. “No, I’m not going anywhere. I have a few things I need to discuss with Detective Carbone.” Giving Nick a weary smile, she moved out of Sean’s arms and into his.
The band segued from waltz tempo to a fox trot, playing “The Second Time Around.”
“Mrs. Kennedy, you never know when to quit, do you?” Nick’s tone was critical, but she thought she saw a hint of admiration in his eyes. “So what do you need to discuss?”
He led well. Who’d have believed such a heavy man would be so light on his feet, especially after hurting his knee earlier that day?
“Sean thinks he’s home free. That they all are. He’s so smug, it’s sickening. Nick, the four of them were in the bathroom with Whitey.” Kate licked her lips, dry as the desert. She must look like death. “One must have come back, right?”
“It never occurred to you that I might have thought of that, Kate?”
“Well,” she hesitated, embarrassed, then plunged on, ignoring his comment. “I…er…there’s another possibilty. It could be a conspiracy. Maybe they all killed him.”
His booming laughter caught her by surprise. “And maybe Sean’s right. Maybe you should go home and curl up with Christie.”
The teasing tone and its accompanying pat just below her waist reminded her of Charlie. She
resisted a sudden impulse to kiss Nick’s cheek. How tired was she? Had she lost her mind?
“What about the other two murders?” Nick asked. “Would they be part of this conspiracy theory?”
She shook her head. “I guess you’re right. Every time I think I’ve figured something out this mess moves in a new direction. It’s just so frustrating.”
“It’s not your job, Kate.”
“I need a drink.” She wanted to get away from him, to go home and crawl into bed alone, and forget about her fleeting desire to kiss Nick Carbone.
He escorted her over to the closest bar, ordered her white wine, and said, “Drink up, find Marlene, and get out of this circus.” Then he turned and walked away.