Death Rides the Surf (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 5)

by Noreen Wald

  “Then why did you follow him to the beach at midnight?” Nick asked.

  Kate prayed, hoping Katharine wouldn’t repeat what she’d told Kate this morning: “I wanted to kill him.”

  “For the same reason I visited his grandmother yesterday afternoon,” Katharine replied. “For the same reason I’ll go to his funeral. I loved him. He was no good, but I loved him. Can you understand that? You have been in love, haven’t you, Detective Carbone?”

  Nick’s olive skin darkened and his eyes telegraphed an emotion Kate couldn’t read.

  The phone on his desk rang. Nick picked it up and balked, “Carbone.”

  Kate watched as his face crumbled into deep furrows. “Okay, thanks.” Nick hung up. “The hotel chambermaid found Grace Rowling dead in her bathroom.”

  Twenty-Four

  Marlene never had put much faith in parapsychology, though she had taken an extension course from Duke University over forty years ago during her first marriage. She’d had the lowest rank in ESP in the entire class. No hearing voices. No predictions that came true. No seeing dead people. However, she didn’t doubt that some people had seen dead men walking…and talking. People like Mary Magdalene.

  She did countenance the idea of reincarnation, hoping she’d come back with Kate and at least two of her three husbands. And she’d behave better the next time around.

  Though she enjoyed tarot cards and astrology, and the occasional visit to a favorite fortune teller in the Keys, she’d never consulted a medium. Now, apparently, she’d become one.

  Despite Florita’s very real grief, it had soon become crystal clear that the owner of the only tanning salon/talking-head operation in South Florida not only believed in Mandrake’s ability to communicate with the world beyond, she also believed she’d been receiving messages from there, specifically from her grandson Jon Michael. Mandrake had sensed Marlene might be a medium; however, though he regretted it, he couldn’t attend the séance.

  Before testing her otherworldly skills, Marlene was sitting through a dissertation about pig’s blood, based on information garnered from a dead surfer. Marlene wished she could swallow it with something stronger than tea.

  Had Florita lost her mind? How could pig’s blood be connected to Jon Michael’s death? Why wasn’t Mandrake joining them? And when had Marlene become Florita’s confidante? Based on her hostess’s miserable attitude when Marlene had left here yesterday morning, that would have required a loaves-and-fishes-size miracle.

  “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight, Florita.” Marlene used a soothing tone, very different from her usual pitch. “Jon Michael contacted you from the grave to discuss pig’s blood.”

  “Of course not,” Florita said, shaking her head. “Jon Michael isn’t in the grave yet. His body is at the coroner’s, but his soul is in the Light.”

  “I’m confused,” Marlene said, thinking that admitting the weaknesses in her thought processing might further endear her to her hostess.

  “Detective Carbone told me Jon Michael’s shark attack might have been premeditated murder. They found traces of pig’s blood on a piece of his surfboard and on a strand of wire too. They think his killer put the pig’s blood in a plastic bag in a small wire cage that had been attached to the bottom of Jon Michael’s surfboard, and then rigged it somehow so the blood would seep into the ocean and attract the sharks.”

  Marlene’s head reeled, thinking what a diabolical way to murder someone, and what an awful way to die. “How was the cage rigged?”

  “I don’t know,” Florita said, “and neither do the cops. That’s what you’re here for, Marlene.” She shook her head, the thick white hair swinging from left to right. “Mandrake told me that when you rang the bell. You have to ask Jon Michael.”

  Hoping to stall that conversation, Marlene said, “Where would the killer have gotten pig’s blood? It’s not like it’s on the shelf at the store.”

  They were sitting in Florita’s kitchen, almost as clean as Kate’s and very attractive and nostalgic. The blue gingham curtains on the windows and the Norman Rockwell prints in white frames on the walls reminded Marlene of Jackson Heights fifty years ago, before the world became weary and she became jaded. Marlene wondered how Florita had decorated the talking skull’s room. And she wondered where she’d stashed the Rolex and her other expensive jewelry. Maybe because she was in mourning for her grandson, Florita wasn’t wearing any.

  “There are three or four religious sects in South Florida and a few witches’ covens, not to mention the devil worshippers, who use animal blood in their rituals,” Florita explained, as if talking to a child. “Several butchers in Broward County have thriving sidelines, packaging and selling chicken blood, lamb’s blood, and pig’s blood.” Her voice broke. “My grandson’s killer wouldn’t have had any problem finding and purchasing the murder weapon.” She moved the teacups off the table. “Let’s get this séance started. Jon Michael’s death must be avenged.”

  “I need to use the bathroom first, Florita. Where is it?”

  “Go down the center hall; it’s the second door on the right. I’ll get the candles.”

  Marlene figured she had three minutes to find Mandrake and, maybe, the jewels. She was convinced if she found one, she’d find the other. And the bungalow wasn’t very big.

  She took the first door to the right and walked into total darkness. Bingo. This had to be the skull’s digs. She fumbled along the wall for a light switch and found it, after working her way around three walls, feeling totally disoriented. Mandrake sat on a pedestal atop an oak table covered in a fine white linen cloth in the middle of the room. Marlene peered at him. The crystal skull, complete with deep eye sockets and crooked teeth, some of them missing, appeared heavier than twenty pounds and less ghoulish than Marlene had expected.

  Except for a large armoire, there was no other furniture. The windows—Marlene had no clue which direction they faced—were draped in maroon velvet. The crystal chandelier rivaled the Phantom of the Opera’s.

  Could the jewels be in the armoire? She ran across the room, yanked the cabinet open, and stared at a display of recording equipment, a veritable miniature studio, capable of producing sound effects on cue.

  Marlene sensed rather than heard the door creak. Panicked, she darted back across the room, thinking she could hide behind the drapes, but in her haste she fell against the altar-like table. The skull crashed to the floor as his owner screamed, “You stupid cow!”

  Twenty-Five

  “Do you think Grace was murdered?” Jennifer asked as soon as they drove away from the police station. “She’d skipped dessert at dinner last night because I said I was watching my figure. Damn, I wish Grace had ordered that blueberry torte with vanilla ice cream.” Jennifer, sounding wistful, sighed. “I wish I had too.”

  Kate did, indeed, think Grace Rowling had been murdered, but she said nothing. A weary Nick Carbone seemed to have come to the conclusion that either Katharine or Jennifer might have killed Jon Michael. Both women had motive and opportunity, though the means—getting and placing pig’s blood in the wire cage—were murkier. Since Kate felt certain that the two deaths were connected, she’d have to sort this out, find the real killer, and clear her granddaughter and daughter-in-law.

  She’d begin now. “When Grace Rowling visited me last night, she neglected to tell me she’d had dinner with you, and I presume that was at your request, Jennifer. But Grace did say she needed to talk to Katharine.” She turned to her granddaughter, sitting next to her in the front seat. “Did Grace get in touch with you after she’d left Ocean Vista?”

  “No,” Katharine said, staring out the passenger-side window.

  Kate heard evasion in the girl’s voice and she’d had quite enough of that. “So you’ve never had a conversation with Grace Rowling?”

  Katharine squirmed, trying to inch as far away
from her grandmother as possible in the small convertible.

  Outside the day looked like a chamber of commerce ad: the Intracoastal Waterway sparkled as they crossed the bridge and soft white clouds dotted the pale blue sky. The top was down, the sun warmed their cheeks, and a hint of color had returned to Katharine’s face.

  “Answer your grandmother,” Jennifer said, tapping her daughter’s shoulder.

  Kate whipped around and glared at her daughter-in-law, who shrugged, but shut up.

  “So what if I did?” Katharine kept her eyes focused on the boats in the water below them.

  “No more secrets, Katharine. Nick Carbone will be asking you a lot more questions and you can’t lie or even evade. Now tell me the truth.”

  Kate had come across harsher than she’d intended, but she’d remembered Katharine saying, “I wanted to kill him, Nana,” and fear motivated her, coloring her judgment.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  Maybe fear wasn’t such a bad motivator after all.

  “By the time I got Grace Rowling’s message last night, I was already with Mom up in the Boca Hotel. She was packing to move down here and I’d just heard from Claude that Jon Michael was dead, so I didn’t call Grace back. I tried her hotel room early this morning, but there was no answer.” Katharine gulped. “Maybe she was already dead.”

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Kate didn’t doubt that Katharine had told the truth…just not the whole truth.

  “Yeah,” Katharine said as Kate turned onto A1A heading home.

  To Kate’s amazement, Jennifer didn’t comment.

  “I met Grace Rowling on Monday morning before I went to visit Florita Flannigan and her talking skull.”

  So Kate now knew where her granddaughter had been yesterday, but she had no idea what had transpired. However, she’d zeroed in on the fact that Claude had called to tell Katharine about Jon Michael’s death. And, at the moment, Claude Jensen was Kate’s prime suspect.

  “I hadn’t seen Jon Michael since he took off on that wave Sunday night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” Katharine said.

  Jennifer stirred in the backseat; Kate swung around, giving her a look that could kill. Jennifer sat still, saying nothing.

  “Grace and I met at Pier Sixty-Six; it’s very pretty there, surrounded by all that water and those beautiful yachts. We had brunch on the patio. She told me the boardsmen were criminals, that she had evidence that could put Jon Michael, Claude, and Roberto in jail.” Katharine turned to face her mother. “Did she tell you that too, Mom?”

  Jennifer hesitated, maybe waiting for Kate’s okay, then spoke. “Not in that detail, darling. Still, Grace’s story frightened me enough that I called you right away, then checked out of the hotel and moved to Nana’s to be at your side. I’d believed Grace when she’d said the boardsmen were dangerous; she never mentioned evidence, but I’d bet it was about the drug smuggling.”

  “One of them must have killed Grace,” Katharine said, catching her breath.

  Kate pulled into Ocean Vista’s parking lot. “That doesn’t explain who killed Jon Michael.” Or why neither Katharine nor Jennifer had revealed these details to Nick Carbone. To be fair, the news of Grace’s death—and they hadn’t been told she’d been murdered—had stopped Nick’s interrogation midstream.

  Still, Kate wondered if her daughter-in-law or her granddaughter would have told him everything. Did anyone ever tell all? People forget. Or deny, even to themselves. Or color their memories to their advantage. And sometimes details or nuances honestly escape them.

  The Ocean Vista lobby festered with holiday spirit. Sunday’s pre-Halloween celebration on the beach hadn’t sated the purists. This was October 31 and by God they were going to celebrate.

  Unadorned, the lobby, decorated with a hodgepodge of statues of Greek and Roman gods frolicking in a huge fountain and more marble than Michelangelo had used to carve David, overwhelmed visitors. Most of the residents had learned to live with its gaudy ostentation.

  Today bad taste had risen to new heights. Literally. Hundreds of orange and black balloons, along with witches, warlocks, ghouls, goblins, and ghosts hung from the rafters. Orange and black streamers were wound around the statues of Aphrodite and all those cupids in the fountain pool, and jack-o’-lanterns glowed on every table.

  About a dozen condo owners, all in costume, were drinking cider while filling their trick-or-treat bags. Would the old codgers really go knocking on doors in the neighboring condominiums?

  Mary Frances Costello was dressed as Raggedy Ann, which was better than Barbie, Kate thought, and not inappropriate for a woman whose doll collection and dance costumes had taken over her apartment. Who was her Raggedy Andy? Behind that makeup lurked a young face and, even in his baggy costume, Kate could see that he was toned and buff.

  “I’m going up to the apartment, Kate,” Jennifer said, heading toward the elevator. “I need to call Lauren.”

  “The good sister,” Katharine said. “The one with the Lowell genes.”

  Kate laughed, laughter accompanied by a pang of guilt. She’d often felt that way about Lauren herself. No question Katharine had been Charlie’s favorite granddaughter, and Kate’s too. She wondered how much her son Kevin, just promoted to battalion chief in the New York City Fire Department, had known about Katharine’s love affair with the surfer and her mother’s relentless efforts to squash it. Very little, she’d wager.

  “Kate,” Mary Frances called. “Over here.”

  Kate cleared a path and walked past Batman, the Phantom of the Opera, and the Cowardly Lion to the reception desk where Miss Mitford reigned supreme. Katharine trailed behind her.

  “Hi, Mary Frances,” Kate said, peering at Raggedy Andy.

  “I feel as if I’m in a Monopoly game, Kate. And winning. Look who I got out of jail.” Mary Frances giggled, gesturing toward Raggedy Andy.

  “Happy Halloween, Señora Kennedy.” Roberto Romero smiled, baring those perfect teeth.

  Twenty-Six

  “So Mary Frances is sleeping with the enemy?” Marlene asked, reminding Kate of her own earlier thought about dating the enemy.

  She’d heard just the slightest touch of envy in her former sister-in-law’s voice and measured her response. “I don’t think Mary Frances is sleeping with anyone. She’s a virgin, remember?”

  “It’s not like being a Floridian, Kate. Or a New Yorker. You don’t have to pack. Virginity is a state you can move out of by simply dropping your drawers or your morals. I think our former nun was ready to rock and roll and Roberto was there to dance with her.” Marlene’s tone brooked no argument.

  They were sitting at the pool, savoring the soft rays of the late-afternoon sun and catching each other up on their adventures. Katharine, perhaps sensing that the two old girlfriends needed some time alone, had taken Ballou for a long walk. Kate had figured Katharine needed some time alone too.

  Jennifer, saying she had to do some work, had retired to Kate’s guest room, where no doubt she was on her cell phone buying and selling oil futures in Istanbul or Timbuktu.

  They’d all agreed to have dinner at Dinah’s at seven. The restaurant, a true early-bird establishment, closed at nine thirty.

  Tomorrow was All Saints’ Day and Kate wanted to go to church in the morning. She hoped Katharine would come with her.

  “Mary Frances has had crushes before,” Kate said. “And to my knowledge, she hasn’t made a move, literally or metaphorically, to consummate them. What worries me is that she’s in a tango contest and hanging out socially with a man who might be a drug smuggler and a murderer.”

  “She must know Roberto’s a suspect. She picked him up at jail, didn’t she? And in his car.” Marlene slid off the chaise and into the pool. “Most men don’t let women drive their cars unless
they’re getting something in return. Especially long black Cadillacs. I’ll bet some Miami matron bought him that pimpmobile. You think Mary Frances knows he’s a gigolo?”

  Kate heard a rustling sound and looked up to see Joe Sajak, dressed as Robin Hood and not too bad in tights, standing in front of her. “Where’s Mary Frances? She promised to go trick-or-treating with me.”

  “Am I her appointment secretary?” Kate asked, sounding as mean as she felt. “I think she’s with her new friend, Raggedy Andy.”

  “When that part-time lifeguard, Claude, was posting the NO SWIMMING and SHARK ALERT signs this morning, he told me that Mary Frances’s new friend sells himself to older women. Did you know that?” Joe wagged his right index finger at her.