Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2)

by Noreen Wald

  Kate had swallowed the last of her Baked Alaska and was sipping her cappuccino when Swami, who’d almost chugged his espresso, grimaced, clutched his stomach, and fell face first into the tiramisu.

  Dallas Dalton reacted quickly, grabbing his collar and gently lifting Swami’s head up. She sniffed, then said, “I smell something…”

  Removing Dallas’s grip on Swami’s shirt, Jack Gallagher knelt next to the yogi. “Almonds.”

  For Kate, sitting next to Magnolia, gardenia still trumped all other scents, and everyone’s movements seemed blurred.

  “Cyanide!” Dallas Dalton screamed. “Call 911. Now!”

  Magnolia McFee whipped a soft white mask out of her purse and shoved it into the doctor’s hand. “Use this while you resuscitate him. You, of all people, know better than to inhale without a filter, Jack.”

  Danny Mancini fumbled in his breast pocket, then pulled out a cell phone.

  Did Magnolia carry a mask with her at all times? Strange? Or convenient?

  The older woman clutched her right hand across her heart—looking as if she were about to recite a passionate rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance. She gasped, then said, “Who’d have thought he’d be the first to go?”

  Though Jack Gallagher worked heroically to revive him, Swami Schwartz was dead.

  “So someone has murdered him?” Sanjay Patel might have been talking to himself. He looked shell-shocked.

  Mary Frances, who’d been standing, slid back down on her chair, and made the sign of the cross. “Why would anyone want to poison a saint like Swami?”

  Turning toward Mary Frances, Kate watched as a smile formed on Laurence McFee’s face, quickly fading when he met her eye.

  Tiffani Cruz sat in Jack Gallagher’s empty chair, weeping wildly. The restaurateur behind her spoke to a 911 operator, barking directions but appearing dazed.

  A siren could be heard in the distance.

  Just about then Kate reached a frightening conclusion. During all the confusion of the dancers returning to the table, the sugar bowl, the Anisette bottle, the demitasse cups being passed around, and Tiffani pouring espresso while Danny was serving cappuccinos with cute dolphin-shaped stirrers made of brown sugar, each of them had both the means and the opportunity to have poisoned Swami Schwartz.

  But who had the motive?

  Six

  “Any chance Mary Frances killed Swami?” Marlene sounded hopeful. The relationship between Kate’s former sister-in-law and the former nun ran from cool to cold to, on occasion, frigid.

  They were sitting in Kate’s living room with a sleepy Ballou curled in a white furry ball at Marlene’s feet, half-on, half-off. Without Charlie Kennedy—who in his widow’s opinion had been the sharpest homicide detective ever to grace the NYPD—around to discuss every detail of the yogi’s death, Kate had phoned Marlene as soon as she’d returned home, even though by the time the police had finished it was after midnight. Since Marlene routinely watched Letterman, Kate knew she’d be awake and available to fill in for Charlie.

  “Mary Frances idolized the man,” Kate said, admitting to herself that she had too.

  Marlene snorted. “Yeah, but from what you’re saying about Tiffani’s reaction to Swami’s demise, her idol had both the proverbial feet of clay and a roving eye for nubile young women. Sounds like the yogi might have been sharing more than a lotus position with Tiffani. Maybe Mary Frances found out and laced his coffee with cyanide.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Kate tried to muster a smile but couldn’t.

  “Right, our tango champion wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her title. Too bad.” Marlene reached down to move Ballou gently off her foot. “If you want to pick my brains in the middle of the night when I should be in bed getting eight hours of beauty sleep in preparation for my date to die for, I require Johnny Walker Black and potato chips.”

  Kate followed her into the kitchen, putting the kettle on while Marlene poked around in a kitchen cabinet. Like the rest of the apartment, it seemed too bland. Too many neutral tones. Too clean. Too Spartan. Charlie had added color to her decorating as well as to her life.

  “Don’t you have any onion dip mix?”

  “Would you settle for a cup of tea and a piece of crumb cake? I made it myself.”

  “Oh, Kate, you’re still so June Cleaver. Well, when trapped in a TV twilight zone somewhere in the sixties, I can play nice.” Marlene reached into an aluminum canister and pulled out two English breakfast decaf tea bags. “Here we go.”

  Taking a seat at the table, Marlene gestured toward the cake. “Hey, if I’m giving up booze and dip, give me a hunk of that.”

  As Kate attempted to cut the cake, her hand shook, scattering crumbs across the place mat.

  “Let me do that. Sit down. You’re really upset about this Swami Schwartz’s death, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Kate handed Marlene the knife. “Such a vital man, a truly good man, and his meditation classes have helped me so much. I can’t believe he’s gone.” She wiped a tear with her napkin.

  “So who wanted him dead?”

  Kate sighed. “According to Detective Carbone that would be Tiffani Cruz.”

  “Ah. Our old pal, Nick Carbone, is on the case.” Marlene cut a slice of cake the size of a shoe and put it on her plate. “Hasn’t the Palmetto Beach Police Department put him out to pasture yet?”

  This time Kate managed a smile. “Carbone claims he’s South Florida’s answer to Lenny Briscoe.”

  “Hmm…great cake, Kate. Did you really make it? Or were you just trying to keep me from having a scotch?”

  “Of course I made it,” Kate said, hoping she’d thrown away the box. “But you wouldn’t want to drink so late at night anyway before your big date tomorrow.”

  “That’s true. And I have to get to bed, so let’s move this mystery along. If we eliminate you and the dancing nun, I figure one of seven people must have murdered Swami Schwartz. Our new neighbor, Dallas Dalton, for one, who’s been tearing up Ocean Vista’s entire top floor, making us all hate her before she even moves in. Did you hear she leased a suite of rooms at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach while the world’s largest condo unit is being completed?” Not waiting for an answer, Marlene continued, counting on her fingers. “The very rich, very social, very philanthropic Magnolia McFee. Her wastrel grandson, Laurence. That Indian doctor you like so much, Sanjay What’s-His-Name. Jack Gallagher—by the way, I heard him interviewed on TV—pompous ass, isn’t he? Danny Mancini. He seems like such an old charmer, but I hear he has extremely dangerous friends. Or Detective Carbone’s first choice, Tiffani Cruz. And why would our favorite waitress, a walking, talking blonde joke, be his prime suspect?”

  “Well, she did brew the espresso and serve the double demitasse cup, and that cup’s dregs did have an almond odor. Nick Carbone latched onto that and wouldn’t let go.” Remembering, Kate shook her head. “And Tiffani reacted as if she’d been much closer to Swami than any student or part-time employee should have been.”

  “You said Danny Mancini called 911. What were all of you doing while waiting for help to arrive?”

  Kate nodded, trying to freeze-frame the group’s frantic movements. “Dr. Gallagher made a valiant attempt to revive him, but we all knew he was gone before the medics got there. They tried too. Hooked him up to an IV. The police arrived minutes after the ambulance, but by then there was no question that Swami was dead.”

  ‘Tell me about Jack Gallagher’s valiant attempt. Was the doctor the first one to reach Swami after he’d landed in the tiramisu?”

  Kate closed her eyes, trying to recall. “No…Dallas Dalton lifted his head up, literally, by the collar, yet with a gentle touch, I thought. Said she smelled something. Then Jack Gallagher pulled her hands away…again, gently. I guess the doctor got a whiff, too, because he said, ‘A
lmonds,’ then started mouth-to-mouth—wait no—before he got started, Magnolia McFee handed him a mask.”

  “A mask? Why would she have a mask?”

  “Apparently, despite the way she and her grandson danced that lively Charleston, Magnolia McFee is a very sick lady. To quote her ‘My lungs are on their last legs. And my heart’s no valentine either. I never know when I’ll require resuscitation. Do you think I want some stranger breathing into my mouth without a mask?’”

  Marlene grinned. “Not to mention what the Good Samaritan might catch from Magnolia.”

  “Exactly. Or what might have happened to Jack Gallagher if he hadn’t been wearing that mask. Sanjay Patel told me that even inhaling cyanide can kill you.”

  Seven

  Jack Gallagher appraised his mahogany deck and the sleek white fifty-foot yacht moored at its far end with smug satisfaction. Hell, he more than deserved all his pretty toys: the custom-made Mercedes, the mansion on the Intracoastal, the Louis XVI furniture—somewhat out of place in a South Florida setting, but what he treasured most of all. He liked to think that Thomas Jefferson might have sat on one of his satin armchairs, supposed to have graced Versailles.

  He’d worked hard, too damn hard—racing the clock all of his life—but now time had caught up with him. Though he jogged daily, had the blood pressure of a teenager, could stand on his head lost in meditation for fifteen minutes, and looked a decade younger, he would be turning seventy-nine this spring. And no matter how hard he ran, he couldn’t stay far ahead of the grim reaper.

  “Cheer up, old man,” he said aloud. When had he started talking to himself? “You have more than enough years left to complete your mission.”

  He turned his face upward, savoring the clear blue sky. Sunshine always lifted his spirits. One of the reasons why he’d decided to move to Palmetto Beach all those years ago.

  Yet this morning as the sun’s rays peeked through the slats of his blinds, he’d woken up with a dull ache at the back of his skull and not from last night’s champagne. His head still hurt. And why shouldn’t it? Hadn’t his friend died last night? And when Detective Carbone—from whose thick head he’d removed a bullet a few years ago—ad said that Horatio Harmon, Palmetto Beach’s long-time coroner, was out of town, he’d offered to perform the autopsy today, a procedure he hadn’t done since medical school. Gruesome business. He dreaded it. After tagging the blood samples and sewing the body back together, he’d probably throw up. At least he hoped events would be in that order.

  Friday evening’s dinner party had been the start of the worst night of Jack Gallagher’s life—and he’d survived some pretty rough nights. He suspected there would be a lot more to come.

  His cell phone playing the “Marseilles” startled him. He glanced at the caller ID. Magnolia McFee. Damnation. Oh, better answer. She knew he always had his phone with him.

  “Dr. Gallagher here.”

  “Oh, my poor darling. What a tragic end for our Swami. And to think, you of all people will be doing his autopsy. You know I plan to lobby Congress against that barbaric procedure. And I swear I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Heartbreaking. I ache for you, my dear, dear Jack.”

  If she weren’t the fourth richest woman in America and hadn’t endowed both the Yoga Institute and the Medical Center so generously, he would have played the grief card and hung up. Instead, he gritted his teeth and forced a smile into a voice. “You always put others above yourself, Magnolia.” Knowing it would drive her crazy, he added. “You need your sleep. I’ll prescribe something for you.”

  “Oh, no. I take too damn much medicine already. What’s wrong with you, Jack? You know I want to keep my body as pure as possible.”

  Had he gotten her mind off Swami? And the autopsy? “I plan to have a memorial service at my place. A celebration of Swami’s life.” Her voice caught, but only for a moment. South Florida’s most celebrated hostess was on a mission. “When will the body be ready?”

  Magnolia, raised in the lap of tobacco luxury in Winston-Salem, had gone through life assuming no one would ever question her decisions. Why fight her? “I’ll be doing the autopsy later today and should have the results of the tests and the blood work ready for the police by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for the undertaker to pick up the body then. How’s Tuesday morning for your memorial?”

  “I’d like to pick out the casket.” Jack could picture Magnolia checking off items on her ever-present to-do list. “Is the Adam’s Family Mortuary handling things? I’ll need to coordinate with them. Swami should look his best. A new Nehru jacket, I think.”

  “They are. But, Magnolia, there’s no need for a jacket. Swami will be cremated.”

  “Cremated?” He could hear the outrage in her voice. “How can you allow that? As a Christian, don’t you believe in the Final Judgment? And the resurrection of the body when it joins its soul for eternity?”

  “Swami didn’t plan to be murdered. As the executor of his will and his best friend, I’m convinced that, under these totally unexpected circumstances, he would have wanted to be cremated.” Jack could feel sweat breaking out all over his body.

  “An autopsy and a cremation. Your behavior belies all that I believe in. All that I thought you believed in, Jack.” Magnolia groaned sadly, then made a sniffling noise. “I’m taking this up with the elders at the next Lazarus Society meeting.”

  “May I remind you, my dear, we are the elders.” Not wanting to push the old witch too far, he switched from curt to caring. “Now have a cup of tea, Magnolia, then start planning a great memorial service and an elegant reception. Invite all of the A-list. Think of it as a going away party. I’ll bring his ashes in my favorite Indian urn. You know how much Swami always loved your parties.”

  Eight

  Ocean Vista’s lobby had been decorated with too much gilt, too much marble, and way too many mirrors for its aging population. The fountain in the center featured a faux alabaster statue of Aphrodite surrounded with Hallmark-card-cute Cupids in some seventies’ interior designer’s misguided vision of grandeur.

  However, the comfortable green couch and several groupings of easy chairs made the lobby a gathering place for gossips. Several sat there now, chatting the fine Saturday morning away.

  The front desk, off to the right as Kate and Ballou came out of the elevator, was manned by the miserable Miss Mitford. With her sullen expression firmly in place and a severe black suit covering her thin frame, the sentinel was guarding her post like a U.S. Marine MP guarding his prisoners.

  Rather than cross the lobby with Ballou, a violation of the condo’s rules, Kate made two quick right turns and exited into the pool area. They’d walk on the beach instead of along A1A. “We’re flexible, right, Ballou?”

  The Westie yelped eagerly. Kate took that as a yes. Charlie had always insisted Ballou understood English better than several of his fellow employees at the NYPD.

  While she had no real agenda, Kate did have a vague notion she might just check out Mancini’s on their morning stroll.

  She skirted around the sunbathers sprawled on chaise lounges, all lined up in rows facing east. Nary a head turned as she and Ballou crossed the pool area behind them. Much as she resented Charlie dying, leaving her alone in a retirement place of his choosing, Kate had to admit this was one gorgeous morning. On the beach, palm trees swayed like fat hula dancers in the light breeze. The ocean, white-capped with winter waves—not nearly as high as the summer waves at her beloved Jones Beach—was a Wedgewood blue today, diluting to a hint of aqua in the shallow water. And the sun that Ocean Vista’s residents were worshipping deserved nothing less. Big, bright, bold, and beautiful, it sent rays of warmth down Kate’s back as she and Ballou trudged north through the sand.

  While he preferred woods to water, Ballou seemed delighted to be out for a walk in this glorious weather, investigating the odd dead crab, digging
fiercely and spraying sand in his wake.

  Uninvited, Swami’s death floated into Kate’s mind and anchored there, dragging her spirits down, turning the sunshine sour.

  What a waste of a wonderful life. A man who’d devoted his time and energy to helping others achieve a healthier body and soul. A man who’d convinced Kate she could move on, cherishing Charlie’s memory, and knowing her husband’s love would always be with her, by living—or trying to live—in the moment.

  Why would anyone want to kill a man like that?

  As they neared Neptune Boulevard, Kate marveled at the size of the crowd.

  Snowbirds, only in Florida from New Year’s to Easter, seemed determined to make the most of their season in the sun. Pale tourists lay on hotel towels, their necks and noses turning red, and it wasn’t even ten a.m. Local families toting kids, coolers, and picnic hampers were all set for a long Saturday at the beach. Surfers flirted with pretty girls while waiting to ride a wave. Had she ever been so tanned, so toned, or so young? With her milky-white skin, her teenage preference for Steinbeck over sports, and her “having been born old”—according to Marlene—Kate decided: No. Never.