by Noreen Wald
“Pretty pricey area,” Kate said, adjusting her prescription sunglasses, then glancing at the map. “Corbin must be really successful.”
“I’d say so. And Weatherwise’s house is right next to Versace’s. I wonder if Donatella will invite us in, offer us a glass of white wine.”
Kate giggled, picturing the elegant Donatella Versace, an international fashion designer and business mogul, asking two mature ladies from Palmetto Beach in for drinks.
Why did some old people sound and act so much older than others? Kate felt a surge of gratitude that she and Marlene still giggled like teenagers.
“I think she sold the place, Marlene.”
“Damn.”
Kate looked up from the map, letting the sun warm her face, basking in its rays.
She’d applied a ton of sunblock, so maybe just a tinge of color wouldn’t hurt. She could easily doze off, but had to stay awake and keep the driver company.
The driver was singing show tunes, off-key.
When A1A veered inland, Kate interrupted Marlene’s rendition of “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” “Mary Frances called last night, worried about her dolls. In all the excitement, I forgot to tell you.”
“Is she coming home?”
“Rosie banged at my door, screaming about a bloody body, so I had to hang up, but yes, Mary Frances said she’s coming home and has decided to give up her virginity. Then Rosie banged at my door, screaming about a bloody body, so I had to hang up.”
“Even the dancing ex-nun deserves better than Joe Sajak.”
“You don’t think he could have killed Weatherwise and Parker, do you?” Kate sounded hopeful.
“Negative on Parker’s murder. Joe left Ocean Vista before six thirty yesterday evening. I ran into him in the lobby while I was waiting for you. Said he was driving up to Stuart to visit a lady friend for a few days.”
“So he’s in the clear. Too bad. Mary Frances would never have had sex with a murder suspect.”
A few miles south, they were driving alongside the ocean again. Marlene had stopped singing and appeared deep in thought. Knowing her sister-in-law seldom kept even a fleeting thought to herself, Kate waited.
Not wanting to press her luck and feeling hot and flushed, she’d pulled the brim of her hat down over her face and applied more sunblock. Marlene’s tan, on the other hand, grew darker as they drove.
“Kate, we’re on the proverbial wild goose chase, but unless we find some evidence to the contrary, Carbone’s going to arrest Rosie.”
“You think she did it?”
“Well, according to Bob, she had a weather vane in her tote bag at the gym, and she’s the only certified karate killer in Ocean Vista.”
Kate shook her head. “A black belt isn’t a license to kill.”
“For God’s sake, Kate, the backseat of her Lincoln was the crime scene.”
“If the door was unlocked, someone else could have lured Lee Parker into Rosie’s car.”
“Really?” Marlene’s voice dripped doubt. “And just how would someone else have known the Lincoln would be unlocked?”
Kate hated it when Marlene’s thinking proved more logical than her own. “You have a point.” She sighed. “But I’ll bet someone did. I just can’t picture Rosie as a double murderer.”
“Is old pisspot Bob a better candidate? Maybe. If he was Weatherwise’s financial planner, he might have hidden those funds that Lucy couldn’t track. Or is Lucy our killer? A frustrated former federal prosecutor and a woman scorned. I’m rooting for S. J. Corbin. We need to check out her past. I don’t like her and I don’t trust her. And I’d bet those feelings are mutual.”
“Unlike the others, S. J. doesn’t appear to have a motive.” Kate shook her head. “Still...her trip to the parking lot certainly provided her with the opportunity.”
“Maybe she had the knife in her car along with the tape measure.” Marlene jutted her chin toward the west. “Enough about S. J. Corbin. Look right, Kate. The city of Miami awaits us.”
Miami boasted an impressive skyline. Very tall, very modern office buildings dominated, but traditional church steeples and the old tower clock added contrast and charm. And Kate loved the juxtaposition of the ocean to the left and the sea of glass buildings—many of them tinted green—to the right.
They drove south on Collins Boulevard. Uncle Weatherwise’s gated, beachfront mansion was in walking distance of several popular nightclubs, upscale sidewalk cafes, and refurbished art deco hotels.
Less than fifteen years ago, the hotels had been rundown and filled with retirees. As South Beach and its real estate grew trendier and more expensive, the old folks who’d lived there for decades were forced to move west or north or, maybe, to the cemetery.
Now nubile girls with bare midriffs and well-toned boys, prettier than the girls, skated on the sidewalk.
They valet-parked at an Indian restaurant three blocks from the mansion. It would cost plenty, and they’d have to eat lunch there, also a small fortune, but there wasn’t any other option.
“We’re walking by some of the most expensive property in Florida,” Marlene said.
In America, Kate thought.
The gate to the pink stucco mansion wasn’t locked. Beds of hibiscus in the same shade of pink lined the driveway to a back door, framed with stained-glass windows. The front entrance would open onto the sand.
Wondering if Weatherwise had sold the mansion and a new owner had moved in, or if, maybe, one of the weatherman’s servants would answer, Kate knocked on the tall, thick oak door.
“Coming. You’re early,” a muffled voice called. Then the door swung open, and S. J. Corbin’s startled brown eyes stared at Kate.
Twenty
Monday, July 17, Fifty-Six Years Ago
EXTRA EDITION: DAVID GOODMAN ARRESTED. The Journal-American’s headline almost leapt off the page.
Kate, who had been following the society gossip columns, couldn’t wait to get home. She climbed onto a stool at Irv’s counter, ordered a chocolate egg cream, and read every word of the story.
Not only was Mr. Goodman in a heap of trouble with the FBI, it looked like Mrs. Goodman, whose brother, David Greenglass, had named her husband as the man who’d recruited him to spy for the Soviet Union, might be arrested too.
Even if Goodmans had been guilty—and it sure read like they were—what kind of man would betray his own family? A traitor trying to save his neck, she figured.
Kate had better get going; her mother wanted her to go through her old movie magazines and select only twenty to save. Mom had sounded serious, threatening that if Kate didn’t do as requested, she’d throw them all out.
The clock behind the counter read two thirty and Kate had to be at Sophie’s at three thirty. She ran the two blocks home.
“Katya,” Mr. Provakov said, “please to try a piece of cake with your tea.”
They’d reached the middle of War and Peace. Kate decided several chapters ago that the scenes set in Moscow, dealing with Natasha’s romantic intrigue and social life, were far better than all those snowy battle scenes. Sophie had disagreed, saying the war reflected accurate Russian history and the romance was pure fiction.
Kate preferred fiction; in fact, she’d also decided Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, her former favorite novel, had been heavily influenced by Tolstoy’s War and Peace. The triangle of Natasha, Andre, and Pierre, much like Scarlett, Rhett, and Ashley. And Napoleon’s march much like Sherman’s.
As her father poured the tea, Sophie said, “Maybe Mitchell did borrow some themes from Tolstoy.”
Kate, sitting in an old, overstuffed, faded velvet chair under a Turkish carpet hanging on the wall, smiled, resisting the urge to say “I told you so.” Instead, she reached for a slice of cake.
An afternoon
tea break seemed as necessary to Mr. Provakov as it was to her mother and grandmother. Kate liked that. One similarity in two very different households. No carpets hanging on her mother’s walls.
For the most part, Kate and Sophie had explored and enjoyed the differences. Irish soda bread and black bread with lots of butter each had its own appeal. But some foods were a problem. Borscht. The worst. Noodle pudding. Ugh. Caviar. Double ugh.
Her mother was always after Kate to clean her plate, unaware that she’d been putting peas in her pocket for years, then flushing them down the toilet. She couldn’t chance that as a guest in the Provakov home, so she’d been eating some mighty strange things. Sophie actually loved beet soup. Kate’s grandmother always said, “No accounting for taste.” Though Kate suspected that Etta had been referring to people, not food.
Mr. Provakov stood. “Now is time for you young ladies to get some fresh air. We exercise the brain; then we exercise the body. Walk up to the playground. Climb the monkey bars.”
“Papa, they’re for little children.”
“Then jump rope. Please, you and Katya go now, yes. I have work to do and I have a special dinner to prepare.” She loved being called Katya. “My Kate.” Mr. Provakov had translated the term of endearment for her. It made her feel like part of the family.
Kate had only met Sophie’s mother, briefly, on two Saturdays. Since Sophie’s mother worked long hours as a secretary, her father did the cooking, but he’d never asked the girls to leave before. Were the Provakovs having company for dinner? If they were, Kate wished she’d been invited.
As she reach for the doorknob, he spoke again. “Next week, on Tuesday, is Sophie’s thirteenth birthday. I’d like to take you both to lunch at the Russian Tea Room. Katya, please ask your parents if you can be part of our celebration.”
The Russian Tea Room. Holy smoke!
She’d read about its red velvet walls, its gilded sconces, and its Fifty-seventh Street location—“just a little to the left of Carnegie Hall”—in all the columns. No question her mother would say yes. She’d die if her father said no.
Then she got to thinking about Marlene. They’d shared so many first adventures together, she felt funny that her former forever best friend wouldn’t be part of this one. Sophie was great and she loved books and liked the movies, but she didn’t giggle. Not ever. To tell the truth, she didn’t laugh a lot. Kate’s father had nicknamed her “Somber Sophie,” saying she was a stodgy sixty-year-old masquerading in a twelve-year-old body. Kate had been most annoyed at him; she thanked God he never joked like that in front of Sophie. But there was something to be said for laughter. Kate really missed Marlene’s giggle.
They walked up to the playground on Ninety-fifth Street. No one their age was hanging out there. No teenage boys playing basketball. Just little kids with their moms pushing their swings or waiting for them at the bottom of the slides. The sun felt warm, but a light breeze, hinting at rain, ruffled Kate’s curls. She’d been so wrapped up in War and Peace, she’d lost track of where the boys were these days. Marlene would know.
“I have a dollar my grandmother gave me,” Kate said. “Let’s go to Irv’s. We can each have an egg cream and I want to buy the latest Modern Screen.”
“Okay,” Sophie said. “Then I have to go home. My mother’s bringing someone she works with home for dinner. He’s been coming over a lot.”
Just from the way Sophie spoke, Kate could tell dinner guests had been rare at the Provakovs’.
Irv kidded Kate about two egg creams in one afternoon, and he didn’t know about the tea and cake. Her mother would kill her if she didn’t eat her dinner.
As they stepped out of the candy store, a real threat of rain was in the air. “I’ll walk you home, Sophie. I don’t dare bring another movie magazine into the house today.”
“But it’s almost six blocks out of your way. Just give me the magazine. I’ll keep it until I see you again.”
“No. I want to read while we’re walking.”
Sophie shrugged.
Kate glanced up from the article as they turned right off Ninety-first Street and onto Thirty-fourth Avenue. “Just one more paragraph.”
“We’re here.”
Kate handed Sophie the magazine. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sophie’s mother, dressed in a dark suit and a tall, gawky young man, at the entrance to Sophie’s apartment house.
“Hello,” Sophie called.
“Hi, Mrs. Provakov.” Kate waved.
Sophie’s mother looked startled; she turned away, fumbled with her key, yanked the heavy door open, motioning for the young man to precede her, then followed him into the lobby.
The rain came, pelting Kate’s back.
No way had Sophie’s mother not seen and heard them.
Twenty-One
The Present
“You look like you just saw a ghost, S. J.” Marlene sounded more amused than concerned. “We’re the ones who should be startled. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for a prospective buyer.” Kate watched with fascination as S. J. took a deep breath and managed to regain her composure. “Are you ladies interested in upping his offer?”
“I thought Uncle Weatherwise sold his mansion before moving up to Ocean Vista.” Kate fenced a smile. “I assume you’re acting as his Miami Realtor too.”
“Never assume anything, Kate. It makes an ass out of u and me.”
“That joke’s almost as old as we are, S. J.” Marlene rolled her eyes. “As a cool South Beach player, you really ought to get some new material.”
“You own the place, don’t you?” Kate asked, once again certain the answer to her question would be yes. Had she turned into a mind reader?
“Why, yes, I do.” S.J. showed small, well-bonded teeth in a forced smile. “As I told you, Walt planned to move to the Southwest. With the way real estate’s rocketing, when I heard he was selling all his Florida property, I put in an offer on the house on Tuesday, it was accepted by Walt’s lawyer yesterday, and I have an eager buyer coming today.” She sighed. “If it hadn’t been for the hurricane, I probably would have turned it around already.”
Strange. Kate had assumed—in an excellent example of why one should never assume anything—that Uncle Weatherwise had sold his South Beach mansion before moving to Palmetto Beach. And, according to Marlene, the condo board believed that too. Of course, Bob, as finance chair and possibly Walt’s business associate, might have known the truth.
“Dead sellers make good clients, right?” Marlene said. “No haggling.”
S. J. blanched. “Weatherwise wasn’t dead when I made the offer on this house.”
“That’s right,” Marlene said, “but he was dead by the time his lawyer accepted it. And he was certainly dead, though that information hadn’t gone public, when you made the offer on his Ocean Vista condo. Your real estate wheeling and dealing has left me a tad confused.”
“Which one of you lovely ladies is Miss Corbin?” a voice behind Kate boomed.
“I’m S. J. Corbin.” The Realtor smiled, pushing past Marlene and Kate, and extending her hand to a tall, middle-aged man in a white Stetson. “These ladies were just leaving.”
“Well, good, ’cause I’m in a buying state of mind.”
“The owner’s not in his grave yet, and I hear the house is haunted,” Marlene called over her shoulder as she walked toward the gate.
Kate laughed. “Okay, pull out your addresses. Let’s start with Southern Trust and see what we can dig up on Bob Seeley.”
Eager to get going, they decided not to eat in South Beach—and paid twenty-five bucks for valet parking without a voucher. It broke down to a dollar a minute.
The view from the causeway could convert even the most ardent Florida-phobe. The port of Miami’s berths filled with beautiful cruise
ships and ocean liners, Biscayne Bay’s shores lined with gracious homes, the city skyline’s tall buildings a gleaming tribute to the city’s thriving commerce and industry, and the Atlantic Ocean, with white-capped waves and turquoise water as far as the eye could see.
Miami moved to a samba beat. The business district was crowded with cars, buses, cabs, and well-dressed pedestrians navigating the streets with style and purpose, both in short supply in Palmetto Beach.
The Southern Trust building stood taller than all the other downtown skyscrapers.
Kate entered its marble lobby, trying to project some style and compose herself. She’d better. On the way over the bridge, she and Marlene had concocted a script that required those attributes, plus a lot of lying.
A Playboy bunny posing as a receptionist sat at a desk that could have graced the Oval Office.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Seeley retired three years ago. Moved north to the boonies.”
“Yes, we know, but our friend, Walt Weatherwise, suggested we meet with the planner who’s working with Mr. Seeley’s former clients.” Kate thought she’d delivered her line well.
The blonde mulled that over. “How about I get Mr. Moose? He took over most of Mr. Seeley’s accounts.” Five minutes later, they were ushered into an office the size of a small hotel’s lobby. Mahogany desk and tables, Wedgwood lamps, dark oak floors, leather couches, and maroon velvet chairs. A veritable London men’s club in the middle of Miami.