by Noreen Wald
“Yes. Our little secret, Katya. The lady is a cousin of my wife’s. They have had a falling out. In the note, my wife apologizes.”
As he handed her the envelope, Kate wondered how Mr. Provakov had known his wife’s cousin would be at the restaurant. And why Sophie couldn’t have delivered it.
In the gilt and gold ladies room, the woman smiled warmly when Kate offered her the envelope, then took it without a word, and turned away. Kate met her eyes, reflected in a mirror. In those dark eyes, Kate saw fear and sorrow. And she looked so familiar.
Kate started, trying to swallow a scream. She’d seen that face in the newspapers.
The woman bolted into a stall.
Oh my God! She was in the bathroom with Muriel Goodman.
Twenty-Seven
The Present
Mary Frances seemed determined to cry all the way to Ocean Vista. And on the radio, the broadcasters all cried hurricane.
Kate didn’t scoff; the weather service might have been off by miles with Harriet, but most of the time they got it right. Igor wasn’t due to land for several days, but he was picking up speed and, right now, they were predicting the greater Fort Lauderdale area would be ground zero. If Igor stayed on course, they’d be evacuating A1A from Miami to Palm Beach.
“Enough, already. This time I’m going down with condo,” Marlene said, then turned to Kate. “Hand the weeper a tissue, will you?”
Kate reached into her bag and did as instructed.
Marlene beeped at the driver in front of her as the Neptune Boulevard Bridge came down and locked into place. “Move it, buddy!”
The driver gave her the finger.
Marlene retaliated, then whirled around to face the backseat. “And, for God’s sake, Mary Frances, stop that sniveling. Joe Sajak isn’t worth your tears, never mind your virginity.”
Kate had to laugh.
“What’s so funny, Kate?” Mary Frances asked, then blew her nose for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “I need more tissues.”
“Okay, but this is the last of my Kleenex.” Kate parted with the packet reluctantly. She felt insecure without her supply of tissues and Pepcid AC. But she was worried. Mary Frances, always so perfectly turned out, looked like hell: her Maureen O’Hara red hair disheveled, her khaki pantsuit wrinkled, and her beautiful face, minus makeup, revealing sags and wrinkles that Kate had never noticed before.
“Marlene, are you sure Joe has been seeing another woman?” Mary Frances gulped.
“Make that plural, sweetie,” Marlene said. “The man fancies himself a lady-killer. If you don’t believe me, just ask Rosie O’Grady. She’s seen Sajak in action at Ireland’s Inn too.”
“Is Lucy one of his paramours?” The former nun came across like the schoolteacher she’d once been.
“Paramours?” Marlene roared. “You make Sajak sound like Louis the Fourteenth.”
Good God. Could Joe be having an affair with Lucy? “Why do you ask that, Mary Frances?” Kate poked Marlene, hoping she’d get the message and keep quiet.
“Because Joe serves on Lucy’s bylaws committee.” Mary Frances sobbed. “The two of them are rewriting an entire section about not letting kids under three in the pool. The diaper issue. A real hot button. He’s been working at her place ’til all hours of the morning.”
Marlene kept her eyes on the bridge and her mouth shut. Kate, figuring that wouldn’t last long, changed the subject. “How about when we get home we change our clothes and take Ballou for a nice long walk on the beach?” Kate had been worrying about the Westie, home alone all day. And if Mary Frances tagged along on his outing, Kate could pump her. The former nun might know much more than she realized about Lucy Diamond, unlikely temptress and proven liar. “Maybe we can go to the pier and have the shrimp dinner at the Neptune Inn.”
“There’s a hurricane coming, Kate,” Mary Frances said.
“Oh, not for days. We have lots of time to get ready.” Why was she so driven to solve these murders? The need felt personal, physical, like an unquenchable thirst. But why? She hardly knew the victims. And what little she’d known about them she hadn’t liked.
Marlene pulled into Ocean Vista’s parking lot. Cops filled every corner. A tow truck, attached to Rosie O’Grady’s Lincoln, was headed toward the exit. Rosie protested loud enough to be heard in Cleveland. No one responded. A young policeman waved Marlene to the far end of the lot next to the fence on the beach side. They lucked out—a snowbird’s spot was empty; otherwise they’d have been driving up and down Palmetto Beach’s side streets for hours, trying to find a place to park.
Rosie ran after the truck, yelling, “Stop, thief!”
If Rosie weren’t so frantic and appearing so vulnerable in a faded blue robe, it might have been a funny scene. Instead, Kate felt outraged. Where was Carbone? Why hadn’t he been here to oversee this mess?
“Can they seize her car like that? Isn’t she protected under the Bill of Rights?” Mary Frances demanded, as they hurried toward Rosie, who was hurling expletives at the tow truck driver.
“It’s a crime scene,” Kate said. “They need to process the evidence.”
Marlene reached Rosie first, putting an arm around her. “I’m marooned here without my car, Marlene. They’ve stolen my independence and they won’t even tell me when I’ll get it back.” Rosie sobbed. “And God knows my Lincoln will never be the same after them bums get finished ripping out its guts.”
“You’ll come with us to dinner at Herb’s tonight,” Kate said. “And I’m going to call Nick Carbone and tell him that you need your car returned as soon as possible.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” Rosie said. “When are we eating?”
One of Palmetto Beach’s finest winked at Kate. Marlene and a bit mellower Rosie led the way into the lobby with Mary Frances, who’d stopped crying, and Kate trailing behind.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Miss Mitford checked her watch. “Welcome home, Miss Costello.” Mitford moved on. “Ms. Friedman, the other board members have been trying to contact you to discuss hurricane emergency preparations. Both Mr. Seeley and Ms. Diamond asked me to call them the minute you showed up.”
“Oh, hell,” Marlene said. “I’ll be tied up for a while. I’ll catch up with you later at Herb’s.”
“As vice president, shouldn’t I be included in the discussions?” Mary Frances asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Marlene said, checking her watch. “It’s five thirty now. First, I’m going to shower and change. Then I’ll call a quick meeting. Mary Frances and I will try to be at the Neptune Inn by seven. Get a table with an ocean view and order me a double martini.”
Kate sighed. Damn, after all her great plans to question Mary Frances, she’d be stuck with Rosie.
A very excited Westie jumped up, almost making Kate lose her balance, then jumped again, licking her hand. “I love you too, Ballou. Now, if you behave and be patient a little longer, you’re going out to dinner with me and Rosie O’Grady.” Kate didn’t dare say walk or she’d never get into the shower.
Throughout her toilette, a matinee-idol, thirty-something weatherman—Weatherwise’s replacement?—kept updating dire predictions of a Category Three Igor, turning into a Category Four, then heading in a direct path toward Fort Lauderdale. The young man’s words chilled, yet annoyed, her.
By six fifteen, Kate, Rosie, and Ballou were on the beach, walking north toward the Neptune Boulevard Pier. White-capped navy blue waves rolled ashore a few feet away. The sky, as muted as an impressionist painting, brushed against the horizon.
The happy Westie led the way, pulling Kate along. Ballou’s happiness proved to be contagious. Kate’s mood improved. She couldn’t question Mary Frances about Lucy Diamond, but she could get some answers from Rosie. Make a few waves of her own.
And she wouldn’t pussyfo
ot around.
“Rosie, someone told me you had a weather vane in your tote bag on the night Weatherwise was murdered. Is that true?”
“Son of a gun. Old big-mouth pansy Bob, told you that, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Is it true?” Kate tried to rein in Ballou, who’d picked up his pace.
“Yes, damn it, it’s true. I saw Bob poking around my stuff. Do you suppose he told the police too?”
Well, if Bob had told Lee Parker, Rosie would have had good reason to want the detective dead. Wait...she’d have needed Bob dead too. “I don’t know, but somehow, I don’t think so.”
“Damn. And double damn.” Rosie kicked a pile of sand, sending it flying.
Ballou yelped with indignation.
“Why did you have the murder weapon in your tote bag?”
“See,” Rosie spoke through her teeth, “that’s why I didn’t tell nobody. You right away jumped to the conclusion that, because I had a weather vane in my bag, I musta killed Weatherwise. I didn’t know it was a weapon, did I?” Kate waited.
“Walt asked me to hold it for him. When we was on the bridge, crossing to the mainland. He couldn’t hold the weather vane and hang on to the rope. I put it in my tote bag.” Rosie shook her head. “Someone must have spotted it at the shelter later and decided it would make the perfect murder weapon.”
So maybe, if Rosie spoke the truth, Weatherwise’s murder hadn’t been premeditated. “Any idea who that someone might be?”
“Well, duh, his cheating business partner, Bob Seeley.”
Twenty-Eight
“A double scotch Old Fashioned, no sugar, light on the bitters, a dash of club soda, muddle well, especially the orange, and no cherry.”
“You should carry a card with those instructions, Rosie,” Herb said, laughing. “Good thing I’m tending bar tonight. You’d drive a lesser man to drink.”
“I’ve driven many men to worse things than drink,” Rosie said.
Kate had no doubt.
The Neptune Inn had been her favorite restaurant since before Charlie died. When they’d visited Marlene, Kate and Charlie had always eaten at Herb’s. The six-six, three-hundred-pound owner’s big heart and warm, welcoming personality had made the Neptune Inn a standout in a beach town filled with good restaurants. Its location on the pier with a great view of the Atlantic didn’t hurt business either. And Kate believed Herb served the best fried shrimp platter in South Florida.
They were sitting on backless stools that would have damaged an agile teenager’s spine. What had Herb done with the old leather stools that were more like director chairs?
Kate had hoped to entice Rosie to a table where she could question her in privacy, but the former Rockette insisted on having a “cocktail or two” at the bar. Should she start now? Rosie didn’t appear to be having trouble with the uncomfortable seats. And, except for a few surfers, they wasn’t anyone else at the bar.
“Igor could be our Katrina.” The young weatherman, on the oversized television screen positioned above the bar, smiled as he predicted disaster. “Enormous waves, followed by flooding in the coastal communities.” One of the surfers applauded the possibility.
Kate, repelled by both the weatherman and the bleached-blond beach boy chugging a Long Island iced tea, turned her attention to Rosie and what she might know about Bob Seeley’s past. “Rosie, I suspect Bob might have been hiding Weatherwise’s money in an overseas bank account. If you have any knowledge—or proof—of that, you really should tell Nick Carbone.”
“Me? Talk to the cops? Whadda ya, crazy?”
“You wouldn’t want Bob to get away with murder, would you?”
“Jeez, no.” Rosie drained her Old Fashioned. “But I can’t go the cops. I can’t reveal my source.”
How Woodward and Bernstein. “Your source?” What information did Rosie have? And, more intriguingly, how had she gotten it?
“Herb, hit me again. You want another white wine, Kate? This round’s on me.”
Kate didn’t want any more wine, as she was so tired she might fall off the barstool, but she said, “Thanks.” Ballou had his head on her left foot. Kate, seated under an air-conditioning vent, appreciated his furry warmth.
Rosie said nothing until her cocktail arrived, then she took a long sip and faced Kate. “Okay, I’m gonna trust you. Here’s why I can’t talk. A wiseguy I used to date in New York—high up in the mob, a capo—now lives in Boca. Quite the gentleman, has a big, fancy house on a golf course. I still see him once in a while. You know, a little roll in the hay for old time’s sake. Anyway, Bob was my friend’s financial planner. Seeley made some smart investments, adjusted a few statements, and, guess what? The wiseguy’s profits are in an offshore account. Way off shore. Like Switzerland.”
“Bob Seeley has mob connections?”
“Are ya deaf or just dumb?” Rosie shook her head.
Kate almost lost her balance, knocking Ballou off her foot. The Westie yelped with indignation. “He seems so meek. Such a mild manner.”
“Mild manner, my foot. He may look like a scrawny, old guy, but Bob Seeley was a U.S. Army Ranger, trained in the martial arts. He’s still pretty strong. I saw him at Gold’s Gym. Works out there three times a week. I sure as hell didn’t give Parker a karate chop, but Bob could have.” Kate remembered the pressed pajamas. Bob hadn’t been sleeping as he’d claimed, but he hadn’t been covered in blood either. Of course, he could have changed. Or maybe the killer had worn a plastic cape—or some sort of cover-up—and took it with him or her.
“Where’s my double martini?” Marlene asked, startling Kate. “Herb, my friends have forgotten to order me a drink, and I really need one.”
“One double martini coming up,” Herb said, smiling at Mary Frances. “Nice to see you back home.”
Mary Frances looked as harried as Marlene sounded. “We’re holding an emergency board meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to plan Ocean Vista’s evacuation. Bob and Lucy are putting notices under everyone’s doors as we speak. I told them Mary Frances and I had an important engagement, so we couldn’t help.” Marlene sighed. “Damn, I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.”
“Since when?” Kate asked, remembering Marlene had smoked at lunch and after they’d met Mr. Moose and again after visiting Daphne Dubois.
“Since I ran out of cigarettes before the meeting.” Marlene shrugged. “I figured if I could sit through that without going crazy, I don’t need tobacco anymore. Of course, I may go back.”
Rosie pulled out a package of Virginia Slims and lit up. Should be a fun dinner.
“Kate, did you and Rosie see Joe Sajak around?” Mary Frances asked. “On the beach or the pier?”
“I thought you went back into the convent, Mary Frances,” Rosie said. “Why are so interested in Joe’s whereabouts? In fact, if you’re a nun again, whadda ya doing here? Did ya come for your dolls?”
A really fun dinner. “Shall we go to our table?” Kate asked with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
“For your information, Rosie, I have not reentered the convent. I’ve been on retreat. Reflection, prayer, and mediation,” Mary Frances said. “Good for your soul.”
Rosie winked. “But not for your body.”
The television weatherman screeched, “Igor has picked up more wind. This hurricane could be our biggest ever.”
Rosie pointed her cigarette at Mary Frances. “Just so ya know, sister, Joe’s going dancing with me tonight at Ireland’s Inn.”
“I thought Joe was interested in Lucy.” Mary Frances’s voice shook. She flushed the feverishly bright pink that only redheads can, from the nape of her neck to her hairline.
“Nah,” Rosie said, “I’d have heard if he was seeing Lucy. He ain’t interested in me, either.” Rosie seemed rueful, but
kinder, willing to swap girl talk. Eighty-four-year-old girl talk. “Sajak plays the field. Fancies himself quite the catch. If you’re out of the convent and on the make, you could do a lot better than him, Mary Frances.” To Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances nodded, seeming to consider Rosie’s advice.
When they finally ordered, Rosie, finishing her third Old Fashioned, reminisced about her Radio City dancing days. “Cocktails at Twenty-One. Dinner at Tavern on the Green. Supper at the Copa. Those were the days, my friends. I loved the Mermaid Lounge at the Park Sheraton. Any of you gals been there? Well, you New York gals, not Miss Minnesota, here.” Rosie gestured at Mary Frances.
“Wisconsin,” Mary Frances said.
“It’s all the same.” Rosie waved Herb over. “Another round, please.”
“Not for me, thanks, Herb,” Kate said. “You know, I do remember the Mermaid Lounge. My father took me there to hear Cy Coleman. The summer I turned thirteen.” The sudden flashback jarred her. She’d forgotten her visit to the Park Sheraton, having tucked it away in a seldom-visited, never-examined comer of her mind, along with other, more disturbing memories from that long ago summer.
“Hello, Kate,” a cheerful voice said. Dazed, she looked up into the smiling face of S. J. Corbin. “How are all you ladies doing?”
“Why don’t ya join us for a drink, S. J.?” Rosie asked.
“I’m sorry, I’m meeting Joe Sajak for dinner, but I’ll take a rain check.” The Realtor extended her hand to Mary Frances. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m S. J. Corbin.” Mary Frances stared at S. J., saying nothing, looking like a startled doe.
Kate shook off her past, and turned toward S. J., smartly dressed in a black linen jumpsuit. “Another time, then.”
“I’ll count on that, Kate.” She fingered a chain around her neck, adjusting the hammered silver Russian cross hanging from it.