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

by Noreen Wald

  Kate ran into the ocean, not even reacting to the cold jolt that swept over her body.

  Sophie dove into a huge wave, popped back up, and, using a strong Esther Williams-style breaststroke, swam into the deep water.

  “Hey,” Kate yelled, “my mother doesn’t want us in over our heads.”

  Not to mention that Kate felt terror when she couldn’t touch bottom.

  “Okay, let’s swim sideways, away from the jetty.”

  “Great backstroke,” Sophie said. And Kate couldn’t believe how much her mood improved.

  Sitting in the damp sand, watching the boys watching the girls, Kate said, “My father works for Sinclair Oil in a skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, near Tiffany’s.” She hadn’t planned to say any of that; the words just tumbled out. “Some job in management. His address is 666. Dad says it’s the sign of the devil.”

  “Yes, it’s in the Bible.” Sophie laughed. “My father would consider the address appropriate for an oil company.”

  Figuring in for a dime, in for a dollar, Kate asked, “What does your father do with all those charts and graphs?”

  Sophie frowned. “I’ve never asked Poppa what he does.”

  “And he doesn’t talk about it?” Kate found that hard to believe. “My father bores us to death at dinner, rambling on and on about Sinclair.”

  “Not really.” A stream of wet sand ran through Sophie’s fingers. “Whatever the project is, it’s been going on forever. Something to do with tides and winds. Something to do with the weather.”

  Fourteen

  The Present

  An exhausted Kate, dying to get out of her clothes and into her version of pajamas—one of Charlie’s oversized t-shirts and sweatpants—paced. Where the devil was Detective Parker?

  The clock in the front hall—her late husband’s favorite Kennedy family heirloom and one of the few treasures from Kate’s beloved Tudor in Rockville Centre—chimed nine.

  Damn Parker. She added discourteous to the detective’s growing list of negatives.

  If Miss Mitford had gone home—doubtful; the sentinel probably slept in some cubbyhole behind die front desk—Kate would have to buzz Parker into Ocean Vista. Unless, of course, he was interviewing another suspect first.

  When had she accepted that she was a suspect?

  She’d give him ’til ten, then pull her phone, turn off her cell, and disconnect her intercom. He could just reschedule tomorrow. Parker deserved no less.

  Tomorrow. The mess in the living room nagged her. She’d finish the hurricane cleanup in the morning. Kate thrived on order. Charlie used to tease that June Cleaver and Frank Gilbreth, the efficiency expert in Cheaper by the Dozen, were her role models. She laughed as she headed for the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Oh, Charlie, did you ever know how right you were?”

  Trying to decide between high-test or decaf Lipton, Kate jumped when someone rapped hard on the front door. Ballou, who’d retired for the night, barked. Kate shut off the whistling kettle and hurried back to the hall, the Westie at her heels. How could the detective have gotten into the building without being announced or buzzed up?

  Maybe her caller wasn’t Parker. She used the peephole for the first time in the fifteen months that she’d lived here. Drat. She couldn’t see a bloody thing.

  “Who is it?” She sounded strident.

  “Lucy Diamond. Open the damn door.” Lucy’s voice, pitched several decibels higher than Kate’s, bordered on hysteria.

  Kate opened the door. Her uninvited guest in a bright green sweatsuit strode into the living room, Ballou sniffing at her sneakers.

  Without being asked, Lucy sat—almost collapsed—on Kate’s off-white couch. She looked haggard. Frightened.

  “Would you like a cup of tea? Or maybe a drink?”

  “Scotch. Straight up.” Lucy barked, then chortled. “Thanks. Sorry, guess I’m too upset to mind my manners.”

  Kate located a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black on a shelf behind the wet bar in the dining room. Nary a highball or a lowball glass in sight. A testament to the changing tastes in booze over the last few decades. Only wineglasses. Hmm? Red or white?

  “What’s wrong, Lucy?” Kate handed her a red wineglass half filled with scotch.

  “Detective Parker.” Lucy coated her words with venom. “Thinks I killed Walt.” She downed most of the scotch in one gulp. “Do you think so, too, Kate?”

  Nothing if not direct, Kate almost replied, “You’re certainly on my list,” but instead shook her head and said nothing.

  “That’s why I was out there at Coral Reef Police Station this afternoon, but you knew that, didn’t you?” For a woman drinking Charlie’s best scotch, Lucy Diamond behaved as if she were prosecuting Kate. And, for sure, this hadn’t been Lucy’s first drink of the night.

  Kate, too tired to take her guest’s guff, lashed out. “When we were being evacuated, did you cross the bridge next to Walt Weatherwise?”

  “What the hell difference could that possibly make, Kate?” Lucy drained her scotch. “But, for your information, Walt crossed between Rosie and Bob.”

  Damn. Why, of all the questions she’d wanted to ask Lucy, had she started with that one? Dumb move, Kate.

  “You overheard me fighting with Walt in the gym, didn’t you?” Lucy held out her glass. “God knows, I wanted to kill the bastard, but I didn’t. Pour me another drink and I’ll tell you a story. A sad story.”

  Suspecting this would be another long night, Kate poured herself a white wine.

  Turning, she raised her glass. “To sad stories. I’m listening.”

  Kate hadn’t overheard much of anything between Lucy and Walt in the gym, but if Lucy believed she had, why should Kate correct her?

  Lucy nodded, quiet now. Preparing her opening statement?

  Kate sank into a chenille armchair. Edmund had described the chair’s color as butter pecan. If she had to compare the chair’s color to ice cream, Kate thought it looked more like toasted almond.

  For a fleeting moment, she could hear the ring of the bell on the Good Humor man’s bicycle, feel the cold blast from the freezer box in front of his handlebars cooling her sweaty face, taste her favorite toasted almond bar, savor the last lick of ice cream off the wooden stick. Then she started, scolding herself: Focus, Kate, focus. Get the hell out of the past.

  “Weatherwise and I go back a long way.” Lucy’s agitation had vanished. She appeared stronger, calmer. Had some of her earlier histrionics been an act? Or had her professional demeanor taken over—going on automatic pilot—as she prepared to present her case?

  It was Kate’s turn to nod.

  “Fifteen years ago,” Lucy said, “long before my hair turned white and I began dying it black, long before I retired and started collecting Social Security, long before I lost most of my muscle tone and any semblance of a positive attitude, I met Walt Weatherwise in Miami Beach at the Blue Parrot, a swinging singles bar for middle-age loners. Make that losers.”

  Kate sipped her wine, hoping she could nurse it through Lucy’s maudlin saga.

  “He not only stole my heart, he compromised my integrity. A deadly combination for a federal prosecutor’s suitor.”

  “What happened?” Kate tried to steer Lucy away from emotion and into a few facts.

  “Well, as you know, Walt wasn’t much to look at, but back then the man’s conquests were legion. The PR people at the TV station planted tabloid stories bragging that Weatherwise had bedded 20 percent of his female viewers. Our affair began at his oceanfront mansion in South Beach; it would have put Hugh Hefner’s to shame.”

  Had Lucy visited the Playboy mansion too? Kate decided she didn’t need to know.

  “Early on and totally smitten, I figured Walt lived way above his income. Yes, he had a high salary, but his lifestyle and his
toys, including a yacht with gold faucets in the head, seemed far too grand, even for a television icon.” Lucy paused and drained her drink. She held up her glass, seeming surprised to discover it was empty.

  “Another?” Kate felt like a pusher.

  “Make it one for the road,” Lucy sang, then laughed as if she had Jay Leno’s wit.

  On her way to the bar, Kate cut to the chase. “Where did Weatherwise get all that money?”

  “If I could have answered that question, I’d have prosecuted the bastard. He broke my heart, Kate.”

  A woman scorned. Worse, a federal prosecutor scorned.

  Kate thought of Rosie O’Grady dating Albert Anastasia. Of Marlene’s penchant for bad boys. Was she the only woman in Ocean Vista who’d slept on the right side of the law?

  “I gave it my best,” Lucy said. “Tried to get Walt for income tax evasion, for hiding assets—probably from illegal trading, maybe using another name—then transferring the cash into a foreign account, but I could never locate the source of the money or gather enough proof to indict the son of a bitch.”

  “Strange that both you and Walt wound up at Ocean Vista.” And what about Bob Seeley? Kate felt sure Walt’s threat to Bob last night and his demand for money had been connected to all this. Could Bob have been a partner in Weatherwise’s crooked deals? Had fussy old Bob been a money launderer?

  “Not strange at all. Walt had a new lady in his life. He convinced the network that he could report the weather from its Fort Lauderdale studio, and he moved from Miami to be near his lover.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  The phone rang. Damn. Lee Parker, she presumed. Kate had to take the call.

  “Hi,” she said, motioning to Lucy to stay seated.

  “Kate, it’s Mary Frances. This is the first chance I’ve had since the hurricane to sneak a phone call. How are my dolls? Were they in harm’s way? Any water damage? Are Jackie and Marilyn okay?”

  “Yes, they’re all fine. Marlene and I are doing okay too.”

  “Well, thank God. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve been so worried about my girls. And, er, about you and Marlene, and, of course, Joe.”

  “All is well here at Ocean Vista. Look, I can’t talk, Mary Frances. I have company.”

  “I’m coming home, Kate. I’ve made a decision regarding my virginity.”

  A loud banging at the front door made Lucy drop her drink. She jumped up and started toward the hall. The clock chimed.

  “Pro or con, Mary Frances?” Kate asked.

  Lucy opened the door.

  Rosie O’Grady ran in, screaming, “Kate, come quick. There’s a dead body bleeding all over the backseat of my Lincoln Continental.

  Fifteen

  The man lay facedown in a pool of blood, a knife stuck in his neck. Kate, kneeling on the front passenger seat, didn’t want to touch or move the body. She had no need to see his face. She’d know him anywhere. Why hadn’t Rosie recognized Detective Parker?

  “Call the police,” Kate yelled to no one, to everyone. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the dead man.

  “And an ambulance,” Lucy said, suddenly sober.

  “Right,” Kate agreed, though she felt certain it was too late to help Lee Parker.

  “Whaddaya think?” Rosie said. “I watch Law & Order. I knocked on Marlene’s door first and asked her to call the cops; then I took the elevator up to get you, Kate.”

  “So much blood. You wouldn’t think there’d be so much blood.” Lucy, trying to peer over Kate’s shoulder, sounded like Lady Macbeth. She must have performed well in the courtroom.

  Of course there would be a lot of blood. The killer had sliced the jugular. Parker’s head listed to the left, as if his neck had been broken. Could that, too, be result of a knife wound? Somehow Kate didn’t think so.

  And why in the world had Parker gotten into the backseat of Rosie’s car? The body hadn’t been there when she and Marlene returned from the Sea Watch and parked next to the Lincoln, had it? She didn’t remember looking into the car, so she couldn’t be sure. And the blood looked fresh. He couldn’t have been dead long.

  Not wanting to leave fingerprints, Kate inched out of the front seat and through the passenger door the same way she’d crawled in, without using her hands. “It’s Detective Parker.”

  Lucy gasped, then teetered. Had she not recognized the body either?

  “Why did that cop have to get himself killed in my car?” Rosie hurled her question at Kate as if she expected Kate had the answer. “I just had the seats reupholstered, ya know. Cost me more than my entire July Social Security payment. There ain’t no justice.”

  “Life’s a bitch, Rosie,” Lucy snapped, then wiped her eyes.

  Strange. Parker’s demise might let Lucy off the hook for Weatherwise’s murder, but she was carrying on as if she’d lost the love of her life. Or was she mourning unrequited love?

  Kate turned to Rosie and realized for the first time that the former Rockette was dressed to kill. In blood red. A full-skirted chiffon cocktail dress, not unlike a bridesmaid circa 1957. Matching strappy sandals, flattering those great legs, last noticed wrapped around Uncle Weatherwise’s neck. And enough rhinestones, glittering like tinsel, to trim a tabletop-size Christmas tree.

  “Where were you going?” Kate assumed that Rosie hadn’t been driving home with a dead detective in her backseat, but still, ten p.m. was pretty late for an eighty-four-year-old to be starting out.

  “Dancing.” Defiant in body language and tone. “At Ireland’s Inn.”

  Kate waited.

  “I was watching my Lawrence Welk video and got nostalgic, ya know, wanted a little companionship. A little smooth dancing. In someone’s arms.” Rosie stared down at the ground. “Maybe an Old Fashioned. My favorite cocktail.” It had been Kate’s father’s favorite too. “I figured I’d run into Joe Sajak at Ireland’s.” She jerked her thumb toward an empty spot across the parking lot. “His car wasn’t there, so I was right, he’d gone dancing.”

  Kate had dropped the phone before hearing Mary Frances’s decision. She hoped the former nun wouldn’t be losing her virginity to snaky Sajak.

  A Paul Newman lookalike, once a suspect in his wife’s murder, Joe had most of Ocean Vista’s widows and divorcées dropping off casseroles and inviting him to dinner on Las Olas and plays—that they “just happened to have an extra ticket for”—at the Broward County Performing Arts Center. The man made Kate squirm. How well had Joe known Uncle Weatherwise? And what time had he left for Ireland’s Inn?

  “Kate!” Marlene, her platinum hair in huge pink plastic rollers, wearing a marabou-trimmed, white satin dressing gown, had arrived, dragging an ashen Bob, in tailored—probably Brooks Brothers—pressed pajamas, behind her.

  An ambulance’s siren heralded its arrival and a Palmetto Beach Police car, lights flashing, pulled into the parking lot behind it.

  “The 911 operator wouldn’t let me off the phone. Reporting a dead body isn’t easy. Questions. Questions. Details. Details. I finally told her I’d been stabbed too, and hung up.” Marlene groaned. “So here I am, and not a second too soon.”

  “Let me go, Marlene.” Bob looked even thinner than usual. And frightened. “You roused me out of bed, mumbling something about a murder in the parking lot…” He came across as vague, his breathing labored.

  Marlene gestured to the police car, literally shoved Bob at Lucy, and whispered in Kate’s ear. “Around eight thirty or so, I was sitting on my balcony having a nightcap.”

  A nightcap. After three Cosmos at dinner. Kate sighed, then asked, “And?”

  The August night air surrounded them like wet woolen drapes, smothering, relentless in its stillness.

  “And I watched as someone left the beach, came through the pool gate, and headed into the parking
lot.” Marlene had stepped back, but kept her voice low.

  “Who?”

  Marlene’s dramatic delivery, an obvious attempt to build up suspense, was annoying Kate.

  “Your new best friend, S. J. Corbin. At the time I didn’t think much of it, figured she’d been checking out the beach and was on her way to get her car.”

  “Kate Kennedy.” She spun around. Nick Carbone, sweating in a wrinkled blue shirt, walked toward her. “So you’ve discovered two bodies in two days. Is that your personal best?”

  “Hey, I found this stiff.” Rosie oozed indignation. “If ya got any questions, Detective Carbone, fire away. I’m kinda in a hurry, ya know. And when can you get Detective Parker’s body out of my car? I’d like to catch the last set at Ireland’s Inn.”

  Carbone flushed. His olive skin turned redder than Rosie’s dress. “You’re not going anywhere, Ms. O’Grady.” Kate leaned against the hood of Marlene’s car, feeling faint from the heat, but trying to focus. Pajamas popped into her mind. Why were Bob Seeley’s pajamas so crisply pressed if, as he said, Marlene had just roused him from bed?

  Sixteen

  In what Kate considered very unorthodox police procedure, Nick Carbone had led them all, including Miss Mitford, who’d been hovering at the front desk, into Ocean Vista’s recreation room, ordered them to sit there and wait, instructed a uniformed officer to stay behind, then returned to the scene of the crime. The sudden move from oppressive heat to aggressive air conditioning left Kate wishing she had a sweater.

  The young policeman, in his slightly wilted but otherwise spiffy Palmetto Beach uniform, inhibited conversation. Too bad. Some of Kate’s many questions might have been inadvertently answered; people said the damnedest things under stress.

  Oh well, there was always body language.

  Miss Mitford’s crossed arms and furrowed brow shouted indignation. She sat, her back ramrod straight, far removed from the condo owners, in a chair near the door to the lobby, seemingly ready to return to sentinel duty as soon as the inquisition ended.