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

by Noreen Wald

  Twenty-Nine

  Friday, July 28, Fifty-Six Years Ago

  What was in the envelope? Kate couldn’t even imagine, but at night when she tried to sleep, the possibilities kept her awake. She’d read enough Rex Stout and Agatha Christie novels to suspect—no, to be positive—that it hadn’t contained an apology note to Mrs. Provakov’s sister. Unless Muriel Goodman was Sophie’s aunt.

  Kate, reading every word and studying every photograph in the newspapers, now all predicting Mrs. Goodman’s arrest probably knew the Goodmans’ relatives better than they did. Sophie’s mother wasn’t among them. Not Muriel’s sister, not even a kissing cousin. And the woman in the Russian Tea Room’s bathroom mirror had been Muriel Goodman.

  Why would Mr. Provakov have lied to her? Could she have passed a secret to a spy? Or had she just seen too many spy movies?

  She’d thrown up in the middle of the night. This morning her mother wanted her to go see Dr. Einhom, who lived right across the street. Kate thought she should be going to see Father Cunningham in the confessional, but didn’t know what—if any—sin she’d committed. Still, she felt guilty. Maybe she could just talk to the priest. Or maybe not

  Could passing information, even without knowing that she had, get her in trouble with the FBI? Priests can never reveal what they hear in confession, but if she confessed nothing, just discussed her suspicions, would Father Cunningham feel obligated to turn her in?

  Sophie seemed to have vanished. Or, at least she hadn’t returned Kate’s phone calls. Three days had passed without even a thank-you for the cross.

  “I hope you’re not coming down with a stomach flu,” her mother said, coming through Kate’s bedroom door carrying a tray that held a tall glass of pink stuff. A really ugly shade of pink.

  “What is that?” Kate had already made up her mind she wasn’t going to drink it.

  “Pepto-Bismol. Your father swears by it.” Her mother lifted the glass. “Here, down it fast. You’ll feel much better.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “Don’t be so silly, sweetheart. Be a good girl. If you swallow quickly, you won’t even taste it”

  “Just leave the glass on the nightstand, Mom. I want to go to the bathroom first.” And dump that god-awful mess down the toilet. Just like she’d gotten rid of the peas.

  “This is not a vegetable, Kate. It’s medicine. And I’m not leaving until you drink every drop.”

  A standoff. Kate, surprised that her mother had known about the flushed peas, caved first. The ugly pink stuff tasted worse than she’d expected, but fifteen minutes later, when Marlene arrived, her stomach had calmed down.

  “Jeepers, Kate, you can’t be sick; not when your father’s taking us to dinner at the Park Sheraton.” Marlene laid her garment bag at the foot of Kate’s bed. “I brought over two outfits to model. You can tell me which one I should wear.”

  Wallowing in guilt, she’d forgotten all about tonight. Her father had invited Marlene and her parents to dinner at the hotel, then a visit to the famous Mermaid Lounge to hear Cy Coleman. Daddy, who played piano himself, was a big fan of Cy’s.

  “Get out of bed, Kate,” Marlene ordered. “I’ll polish your nails.”

  Feeling better than she had in days, Kate obeyed. “Toes too? I just bought a brand-new bottle of Cherries in the Snow.”

  Kate’s mother poked her head in. “Come on, girls. Scrambled eggs and English muffins are on the table. And we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

  Smiling as Marlene doused her eggs in ketchup, Kate was almost enjoying herself.

  “So, Mrs. Norton, what are you wearing tonight?” Marlene’s gold-flecked eyes sparkled.

  “Well, I have two choices.” Maggie Norton sighed.

  “We’ll have a fashion show and vote for our favorites,” Marlene said. “My mother’s out buying a dress right now. Said she didn’t have a thing to wear.”

  They all laughed, knowing that Barbara Friedman had two closets and half of her husband’s filled with pretty clothes.

  “Did Mr. Norton meet Cy Coleman at the Mermaid Lounge?” Marlene asked Kate’s mother. “It’s neat to know a celebrity.”

  “I really shouldn’t have another half,” Kate’s mother said, reaching for one. “The waist on my blue silk dress is a little snug already.” She spread a tiny dab of strawberry jam across the muffin. “Let’s see. I think Bill first met Mr. Coleman in the Park Sheraton’s barbershop. It’s in the basement, you know. Albert Anastasia was a client too.”

  “The gangster?” Marlene looked impressed. “Gee, Mr. Norton’s getting his hair cut with some interesting people.”

  “Well, Bill’s office is only a couple of blocks away on Fifth Avenue,” Maggie said, sounding proud. “And he does enjoy having a cocktail and listening to the music in the Mermaid Lounge, especially now that he’s friendly with Cy.”

  Kate figured her father, who always enjoyed a drink, would have been stopping at the bar, celebrating his haircut, even without the piano player.

  “Okay, girls, let’s clear the table. And try on our dresses. Etta’s off having a perm. She should be back in an hour or so. Then at four thirty we’re taking a taxi into the city with your parents, Marlene. Bill will meet us in the lobby.”

  “Is it a special occasion, Mrs. Norton?” Marlene drained her tea. “My mother wondered.”

  “Yes, Kate’s father has just been promoted to division manager.”

  Kate wondered if she could get a new bike. A division manager, who had his hair cut with celebrities, ought to be able to afford a red Schwinn for his daughter.

  Her father met them in front of the Mermaid Lounge. “I thought we’d have cocktails here.” He kissed his mother, his wife, then Kate, then Mrs. Friedman, and, finally, Marlene.

  Mr. Friedman put out his hand, “Congratulations, Bill.”

  The long mahogany bar, lined with leather stools, faced a couple of huge glass containers holding exotic fish and one beautiful mermaid. Most of the patrons were men. Kate stared at the mermaid, fascinated. How could she hold her breath for so long? Then Kate spotted a narrow tube spiraling upward from the girl’s mouth.

  Soft piano music filled the smoky room. Cy Coleman waved at Kate’s father. She felt very special and didn’t even groan when her father ordered Shirley Temples for her and Marlene.

  “Could I see the barbershop, Mr. Norton?” Marlene asked. “I hear that Albert Anastasia got his hair cut there.”

  Her father put down his scotch Old Fashioned. “Sure, I’ll take you and Kate on a little tour.” He turned toward the four grown-ups. “We’ll be back soon.”

  They walked across the lobby—not as grand as the Waldorf Astoria’s or the Plaza’s, but far nicer than the Biltmore’s or the Roosevelt’s. Kate and her mother had visited and rated the ladies’ rooms in at least fifteen different hotels. With the exception of Saks Fifth Avenue, hotels had much more elegant bathrooms than department stores.

  “Someday, Kate, we’ll have your wedding reception here, in the rooftop ballroom.”

  Her father was always talking about the future: high school graduation, college, now a wedding. Kate hated to plan ahead. All she wanted was a red bike.

  The Park Sheraton’s barbershop was tucked away in a narrow corridor of the basement. Nothing fancy. Jackson Heights had more attractive barbershops.

  Marlene had her nose pressed up against the window, no doubt hoping to spot either a celebrity or a crook. But there were only two customers. And one had his face covered with a towel.

  Kate stared at the tall, skinny man, standing with his back to the door. He turned and she gasped. It was the guy who worked with Mrs. Provakov. Her friend.

  “What’s the matter, Kate?” Her father asked.

  “Nothing. I…er, nothing. I guess I thought the shop would be bigger.”
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  The barber removed the towel from the seated man’s face. This time, perhaps better prepared, Kate hid her shock. The man in the chair was Sophie’s father.

  Thirty

  The Present

  “If we can find out who made that phone call to Detective Parker while he was interviewing you, we’ve found the killer.” Marlene spoke around a bite of bagel. Not Einstein’s—almost as good as New York’s—but frozen Arnold’s bagels, toasted and spread with cream cheese, but light-years away from coming close to the real thing.

  Kate had spent a restless night debating, among other things, if she should reveal S. J. Corbin’s true identity to Marlene today or wait until after she’d confronted Sophie alone. Still jarred, she leaned toward the latter, though she wasn’t sure why.

  While it was true Parker had abruptly ended his interrogation about Kate’s activities during the summer fifty-six years ago after taking the mysterious call, the even bigger mystery was who’d told Parker to ask her about that summer in the first place. Only one person could have: S. J. Corbin, AKA Sophie Provakov, her old friend. But why would Sophie have done that? Oh, God. Kate had to talk to Sophie before she told Marlene. Before she told anyone.

  Ballou, who’d been walked and fed an hour ago, begged shamelessly at Marlene’s knee. She slipped him a piece of bagel.

  “I saw that, Marlene.”

  “Don’t be such a curmudgeon. Now listen, I have a plan and we don’t have much time. A hurricane’s headed our way and we’re going to be evacuated...again.” Murmuring endearments, Marlene picked Ballou up—with effort, Kate noted—and settled him on her lap. Thanks to his Aunt Marlene, the Westie was putting on weight.

  “Okay, what’s the plan?” Kate glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes ’til the board meeting. She poured another cup of tea.

  “We’re going to pull off a Watergate-style break-in right here in our own condo. Well, actually, you are. I’m going to aid and abet, but not on the premises.”

  Kate almost dropped the teapot. “It’s been coming for years, Marlene, but you’re finally ready to be committed.”

  “Look, this may not even be against the law. How can it be breaking and entering if you have a key? As condo president, I have access to the keys to all the units. I’m turning one of them over to you.” Marlene put Ballou back down on the kitchen floor, then stood, and reached into her bra. “Voila.”

  Kate shook her head. “No way.” Then, without intending to, asked, “Whose apartment?”

  Marlene grinned. “Bob Seeley’s, of course. He’s our main man, isn’t he?” She held the key in the open palm of her right hand. “He cooked the books, not only Weatherwise’s, but Rosie’s mob boyfriend’s too. He’s a former Ranger, experienced in martial arts. You overheard Bob having a fight with Walt on the night before he was murdered. And Bob lied about being in bed. He could have stabbed Lee Parker, gotten rid of his bloody clothes, and changed into those crisply pressed pajamas.”

  Kate clasped her hands together as if in prayer, afraid she might reach out and grab the key. “Not that we’re going to, but if we were, how would we pull it off? What if we got caught in the act?” She turned her two index fingers into a steeple. “Let me amend that: What if I got caught? I’d be breaking in alone, wouldn’t I? You’d be at the meeting, right?”

  “You won’t be breaking in, Kate, you’ll be entering. And, yes, alone. But don’t worry, I’ll be covering your back. I’ll keep the meeting going until you finish your search and join us.”

  “And what, exactly, would I be looking for in Bob’s apartment?”

  “Where the old man keeps his medals.”

  “You really are crazy, Marlene.” Kate stood, and Ballou, ever hopeful, headed toward his leash.

  “No, I’m on target. Fussy old Bob would store all his important stuff together, not like me. My treasures are strewn about.”

  “An understatement.” Her sister-in-law thrived on chaos. After a long search, Kate had once located Marlene’s favorite black cocktail dress in the kitchen broom closet. “We can’t all be June Cleaver. But you think neat and that’s why you’re perfect for this job.” Marlene smiled. “Just like you. I’ll bet he has all his important papers, like family birth and death certificates, passport, canceled checks, old income tax forms, army discharge—and yes, his medals—plus whatever stuff he has on Weatherwise, in one location. A file cabinet. Or in folders in his desk drawers. Or on a shelf in a closet.”

  “If he stowed everything in a safe, we’re sunk.” Kate grabbed a paper towel and wiped her damp forehead, realizing she’d just committed to breaking into—no, to entering—Bob’s apartment.

  “Well, then we move on to Plan B.” Marlene whipped out her compact and lipstick.

  “Which is?” Kate, reaching around Ballou, rummaged under the sink for her plastic gloves. Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints, would she?

  “I’m working on it.” Marlene appraised herself in the dining room mirror, gave Ballou a pat on the back, kissed Kate on the cheek, then checked her watch, “It’s 9:55. Be in the rec room by ten fifteen. I can’t make a one-item meeting last forever. No matter what happens, don’t stay in Bob’s apartment any longer than fifteen minutes.”

  Thirty-One

  Not wanting to be spotted on the elevator, Kate dashed to the enclosed stairwell and climbed up to the seventh floor. No one in Ocean Vista, except for Rosie, ever used the stairs. She’d never been in Bob’s apartment—in the same tier, but four floors above hers, his balcony would have an even better view.

  Panting hard, she pushed open the door into the corridor that led to Bob’s unit. If anyone spotted her here, she’d have to abort the mission.

  Children’s laughter stopped her cold. Kids were seldom seen, never mind heard, in Ocean Vista’s hallways. Oh God, yes. Lydia Rosen’s two grandsons were visiting from Cleveland.

  Lydia probably hadn’t gone to the meeting, had stayed home with the boys. Maybe to take them to the pool. Or maybe to get ready to evacuate. If they left the apartment within the next sixty seconds, Kate would be caught in the act.

  The act of what? Was she committing a crime or wasn’t she? Still undecided, she pulled Bob’s spare key out of her pocket and, with a shaky hand, inserted it into the lock.

  The living room was as sterile and as spare as Marlene had imagined. A ubiquitous South Florida off-white couch, this one structured, severe. Square, modern tables. Firm, narrow club chairs, designed exclusively for people with bottoms as skinny as Bob’s. Not a pillow in sight. Not a stray piece of paper anywhere. Not an opened book on a table. And no bookcases. No magazines. No newspapers. Didn’t he read? White plantation shutters covered the balcony door, keeping out the sunlight and blocking the ocean view.

  Okay, where would the old man keep his medals? She’d start in the master bedroom.

  The books were in the bedroom. Except for the public library, she’d never seen so many books in one place. Biographies, novels (including a complete set of Dickens), Roman history, nonfiction (heavy on the paranormal), financial planning guides, lots of erotica, and two shelves of bibles, ranging from the King James version to the Latin vulgate to the Book of Mormon, filled nine bookcases, covering three walls.

  An art-deco bed was centered in the wall opposite the door. Framed black and white photographs of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing were displayed above the walnut headboard.

  A tall armoire, also art deco, with double doors, stood to the right of the bed.

  She had no doubt the armoire would be where the old man kept his medals. And with any luck, as Marlene had predicted, everything else that mattered to him.

  Adjusting her plastic gloves, she darted across the room and opened the double doors. Three wide, deep wooden drawers held neatly labeled file folders, about twenty to a drawer. Bob Seeley had used black ink to print big,
block letters identifying each folder’s contents on its upper right-hand corner. She knelt in front of the bottom drawer, reached straight back to the W’s, and pulled Walt Weatherwise’s file. Her knee cracked as she stood up.

  The folder held a standard, business-size white envelope. If she ripped it open, Bob would know that someone had been in the apartment. It wasn’t sealed all the way to the corners. Maybe she could pry open the flap, then reseal it. She used her pinkie to gently prod. Bit by bit the flap lifted. Hooray! The envelope held a single sheet of folded paper. A key fell out, landing on the white tiled floor, clanging louder than a church bell. The paper was blank. The key would open a safe deposit box in a Sun Trust Bank in Oakland Park. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Could there be something else? Where should she look? Which file should she start with?

  Kate fought a strong urge to dump all the folders on the floor. Make a mess. Make Bob mad as hell. Then, in the front of the second drawer, she spotted a file with five red stars highlighting a label that read: Kirk Island.

  Oh God, help me. She sank back down on her knees.

  So it had come to this: Her past flying out of the dark, unexamined corner of her mind and blindsiding her. Had she somehow known all along? She’d suspected, then rejected, a Long Island connection, hadn’t she? One of the Kirk Island children now grown old? Or Sophie herself?

  She stood, shaking, her fingers sweating in the plastic gloves. She lifted the folder, opened it, and, feeling guilty and ashamed, rifled through it.

  A photograph of a smiling boy, about six or seven, wearing a suit with short pants, standing between a tall, handsome man and a pretty, dark-haired young woman. An inscription on the back read, EASTER SUNDAY, KIRK ISLAND. Dated sixty-two years ago. A marriage certificate for Ruth Ann Evans, 22, and Robert Matthew Seeley, 24. A deed to a house on Kirk Island. A birth certificate for Robert Matthew Seeley, Jr., place of birth, Kirk Island, New York. A death certificate for Ruth Ann Seeley, 35, place of death, Kirk Island, New York. A death certificate for Robert Matthew Seeley, 37, place of death, Kirk Island, New York. Both the same year, the year she’d turned thirteen.