by Noreen Wald
“Detective Carbone scared the hell out of me. Questions and more questions. He’s convinced you and I were up to no good on the computer this morning. But I didn’t admit anything. He wants me to take a lie detector test. So I went over to talk to Sanjay. To Dr. Patel. To see if I should hire a lawyer.”
“Oh.” Kate once again wondered what Tiffani and Sanjay had been discussing at the small bar in Mancini’s last night when Dallas Dalton had gone out the front door and then returned through the back door, just prior to Swami’s murder.
“Yeah, well, I guess I ought to speak to an attorney. What do you think. Mrs. Kennedy? Can you recommend one?”
Kate hoped she wouldn’t be needing one herself. Should she hand the Life Preserver file over to Nick Carbone? Or should she throw it away? Well, certainly not before she showed it to Marlene.
“I’m here with Mrs. Friedman, Tiffani. Why don’t you come over and we’ll discuss it?”
“I’m working the dinner shift at Ocean Vista tonight. And the early birds start coming in at four thirty. Can I stop up when I finish? Around nine thirty?”
“Yes. We’ll talk then.”
“Thanks, Mrs. K. Bye.”
Kate hung up and said, “Let’s take our tea out on the balcony, Marlene. We need a game plan.”
Almost everyone had left the beach and the tea had long since turned cold by the time Marlene got around to Harry Archer dropping the Lazarus Society bombshell.
Kate had filled Marlene in on her morning’s adventures, including the Life Preserver prospectus heist.
Then she’d ooohed and aaahed in all the appropriate places while Marlene had recounted her visit to Dallas’ digs and how she’d ended up locked in the cooler. Both shivered at the thought. They’d discussed at great length why Dallas would have installed a room-size refrigerator, but came up empty. They agreed that Marlene, as condo president would take the heat. All through the tale, Kate had sensed Marlene’s melancholy had not stemmed from her misadventures in Dallas’ apartment or even by her fear of Ocean Vista’s residents impeaching her. No, Kate had smelled a rat: Marlene’s date-to-die-for.
But she hadn’t thought he’d be a weirdo as well.
“Up to then, he seemed totally normal? Or had you found him odd even before he started selling immortality?”
“Completely charming. I’m telling you, he seemed perfect. I was falling in love again.”
Kate couldn’t even count the times she’d heard that song before. “Did you leave then?”
“Of course not. I remembered you saying Dallas Dalton had been asking Dr. Gallagher about the Lazarus Society last night at Mancini’s. I figured that the Society—and possibly, Harry Archer—might have something to do with Swami’s murder.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I accepted his invitation with pleasure.” Marlene seemed a lot perkier. “When opportunity knocks, even a brokenhearted woman must answer. Though I must say all his chatter about immortality—almost like he’d bottled some strange mix of science and spirituality—spooked me.”
Kate bit her lip. Could this Harry Archer be dangerous? Or working a scam? But con men weren’t usually violent, were they? And how else could she and Marlene find out about this mysterious society?
“Harry gave me this.” Marlene reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “I didn’t want him to know that I wore glasses, so I left them home. Here, you read it, Kate.”
“My God, Marlene. Handsome Harry works for Life Preserver!”
Twenty
“Mix me a martini.”
Too many afternoons in retirement seemed to segue straight from tea time to cocktail hour. At least investigating Swami Schwartz’s murder added purpose to the libations. Marlene was right; though Harry Archer and Jack Gallagher might be dangerous, they couldn’t let this opportunity pass them by.
But Kate could delay the cocktail hour. “Why don’t you go change your clothes? We can take Ballou for a run on the beach. I’ll buy you that martini at the Neptune Inn, then we’ll have an early-bird dinner and plan our strategy.”
“Okay, but I need a shower.” Marlene pulled a strand of platinum hair from her French twist and sniffed it. “And I want to wash away any lingering scent of Harry Archer’s cologne. Why don’t you walk Ballou? I’ll meet you in the lobby at five thirty.”
Feeling almost happy, or if not happy, more alive than she’d felt since Charlie died—though these good moments somehow made her feel disloyal—she said, “While we’re having dinner, we can review all the suspects and their motives.”
“Not before you buy me that martini.”
On the beach, a happy Ballou led his mistress south toward Fort Lauderdale. Usually the Westie turned north toward the Palmetto Beach pier, but as the late afternoon sun cast golden shadows over the sand, he’d set off in the other direction with a stride that brooked no argument.
Savoring the salt air, her short hair blowing in the crisp breeze, Kate replayed the conversations she’d had today and tried to process the information she’d gathered. Focused on Swami Schwartz’s Tantra Workshop and wondering just what went on during one of those sessions, she started when she heard a shout from behind, “Hey, Kate.”
She stopped and turned. Ballou yanked on his leash, determined to keep on going. “Just a minute, Ballou.”
As Mary Frances drew closer, he barked defensively. No doubt about it, the Westie didn’t like her. Well, too bad. He’d just have to mind his manners. “Sit. And be nice.” He did, but his unwagging tail and suspicious attitude continued.
“Kate.” Her voice sounded tight, strained. “I need to talk to you.”
Echoes of Tiffani’s need to stop at the Yoga Institute.
Marlene’s need to wash that man right out of her hair. Kate’s need to find Swami’s killer.
Ballou yapped, then tugged on his leash again. “Quiet. Sit. I mean it!”
While the dancing ex-nun, wearing a green jogging suit that matched her eyes, looked lovely—Kate couldn’t recall Mary Frances ever looking less than lovely—even in the sun’s diminished light she appeared drained.
“Your dog doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t…”
“It’s okay. I don’t much like him either. He senses that I’m not an animal lover. Most dogs do. Cats don’t care.” She shrugged. Somehow the gesture had an edge of sadness.
“Okay, Mary Frances, I’m listening.” How often had she said that to the boys? To Charlie? Her granddaughters hadn’t wanted to confide. At least not lately. She missed Lauren and Katharine. And she missed being an on-duty wife and mother. Missed being asked to listen. She felt as if she’d been laid off from a forty-five-year career and her skills were getting rusty.
The tension lines around Mary Frances’s mouth relaxed. “I don’t want to go to Detective Carbone. Not yet.” The strain on her face may have eased, but she still sounded frazzled.
Kate shushed Ballou, shifted his pooper-scooper from her right to left hand, then reached out and touched her arm.
Mary Frances sighed. “Even discussing this with you, I feel disloyal to Swami. I’d considered him to be the finest human being I ever knew.” Kate caught the past tense in the ex-nun’s assessment of the yogi. “I have so many questions.”
Following her long-proven formula, Kate nodded, saying nothing.
“I heard Sanjay accuse Swami of toying with Tiffani. He’d raised his voice—he never does, you know—shouting, ‘She’s an innocent girl and you’re old enough to be her father.’ They had no idea I was right outside the office.” Who knew so much eavesdropping had gone on at the Yoga Institute? “It’s just awful, Kate. I’ve tried to erase the accusation from my mind, tried to pretend that Sanjay, who has an obvious crush on Tiffani—and, I assure you if she’s an innocent, I’m Mother Ter
esa—had to be mistaken. Now,” her voice cracked, “now I wonder if Swami had been involved with Tiffani and Sanjay had been jealous enough to murder him.”
“Awful,” Kate agreed, thinking if Mary Frances had a need to talk, carpe diem. Funny how Latin phrases from her high school days lingered in her head fifty years later, helping her solve crossword puzzles and maybe catch a killer. She would seize the day. And the moment. Get to Mary Frances while she seemed so open to discussing the yogi’s murder. “Talking about Swami and sex,” Kate watched Mary Frances flinch, “what do you think about those Tantra Workshops?”
“How do you know about the workshops?” Even Judi Dench couldn’t have feigned the shock on Mary Frances’ face.
Kate didn’t want to admit to her computer caper…and didn’t want to lie either. “I sort of stumbled onto some information. Seemed rather sleazy.”
Her explanation sounded weak even to herself, but Mary Frances jumped right in. “Sleazy, indeed. Swami’s sideline went against all decency. Tantra wasn’t even part of my vocabulary until Dallas Dalton told me about the workshops. She urged me to join, said the exercises would elevate my spirituality and enhance my sexuality.”
Kate gathered that Dallas hadn’t heard about Mary Frances’s perpetual state of virginity.
“Totally disgusting, Kate. The second chink in Swami Schwartz’s honor.”
“When did Dallas tell you about the workshops?”
“Last night at Mancini’s. In the ladies’ room.”
“When?” Kate sensed the timing was important. She couldn’t recall Dallas and Mary Frances going off to the loo together.
“Shortly before Swami collapsed. I’d been dancing with Jack Gallagher, we came back to the table, then I went to the ladies’ room. I think you were still dancing with Swami.”
It had been on the dance floor with Swami stepping all over her new shoes that Kate had spotted Sanjay and Tiffani together at the bar, and Dallas Dalton heading out the front door. Laurence McFee had been dancing with his grandmother. And Mary Frances had been dancing with Jack. When the doctor had returned to the table, he’d asked where Dallas had gone and Sanjay, back from the bar, had answered, “Ladies’ room.” Maybe Sanjay believed that. Maybe not. Hadn’t Mary Frances been at the table then? Kate thought so, but couldn’t swear to it. Dallas had returned a few minutes later via the back door, located near the ladies’ room and, maybe, she’d stopped there for a very brief visit. Yet…Dallas had left her Chanel clutch on the table. Would she have gone to the ladies’ room without it?
As the sun bathed her in the last of its golden rays, Mary Frances appeared to have a halo.
Had Dallas used the ladies’ room to try and conceal that walk around the block right before Swami’s death? And, as part of her cover up, engaged Mary Frances in a topic that she wouldn’t forget?
Or had the ex-nun lied? And, if so, why?
Twenty-One
The pier was alive with the sound of music. Tourists, local teenagers, condo retirees, and young couples with toddlers in tow listened to the steel drum’s beat. A young man, wearing dreadlocks and a purple flowered silk shirt, sang, “Daylight come and I wanna go home.” The festive mood proved contagious, taking Kate’s mind off murder. Well, who said she and Marlene couldn’t combine business with pleasure?
“The souvenir shops are doing great, aren’t they?” Marlene pointed to a group of Canadian women all carrying shopping bags.
“There may be no room at the Inn.”
“If not, we’ll sit at the bar while we’re waiting for a table, and you can buy me that martini. They’re two for one during Happy Hour.” To Kate’s relief, Marlene had bounced back from her traumatic day.
“Fine, I want to ask Herb Wagner to recommend an attorney for Tiffani anyway.”
The Neptune Inn had been a Palmetto Beach landmark for over forty years. With a front entrance off the pier and a side entrance off the sand, its two main attractions were the spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean and the best fried shrimp, French fries, and coleslaw plate in South Florida.
Only a few months ago the pier, along with the restaurant and all the shops, had been about to be razed. Kate and Marlene, whose efforts helped keep the status quo, were glad to see Herb’s Saturday night business booming.
“Ladies, welcome!” The deep voice came from a great bear of a man, around 6’6” and almost three hundred pounds. Herb Wagner hugged Marlene first, then Kate, who always worried during these greetings that he’d crack her ribs, then led them to the far end of the bar near the patio dining room. On cue, two young local guys in shorts and polo shirts jumped up and offered them their seats.
“Thanks, boys,” Herb said, then turned to Kate. “What are you gals drinking? It’s on me.”
“A martini, three olives, light on the vermouth, shaken not stirred.” The twinkle was back in Marlene’s eye.
Kate laughed. “When you’ve taken care of James Bond, I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
Ensconced on her bar stool, Marlene seemed totally relaxed in what she often referred to as her natural habitat As Kate was deciding whether to go over their suspects now or wait until they were seated at a table, Marlene’s expression changed. “Here comes trouble.”
Kate spun around to see Dallas Dalton, in skintight jeans and a spangled denim jacket, racing toward them.
“Sugar,” she said. “I’ve been tracking you and Madam President down. Miss Mitford tipped me off that’d you’d be here.”
“Your table is ready,” Herb Wagner said, staring at Dallas.
“Could you make that a table for three, sugar?” Dallas’s smile dazzled.
Herb, seemingly struck speechless, nodded.
“Well, lead the way, big boy. We gals have some serious business to discuss.”
If Kate weren’t so eager to question Dallas Dalton, she’d have resented and rejected the Texan’s party crashing. For the second time in one day, Dallas had invited herself to Kate’s table.
Once seated on the screened-in patio at a table inches from the sand, where they could hear the now-dark ocean’s waves breaking, Dallas ordered another round of drinks, and a Cosmopolitan for herself. “Everything’s on me, ladies, so eat large.”
“What do you want, Dallas?” Marlene had kept quiet so far, but her testy tone bothered Kate. She didn’t want Dallas leaving in a huff before she had some answers.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t want, Marlene.” Dallas sounded almost sincere. “I don’t want you worrying your pretty little head about my condo or about the problems we may encounter with the building inspectors or any other agency. Just remember, there isn’t anything we can’t fix. I promise you that. No matter how many changes are required. No matter how much those changes will cost.”
Kate kicked Marlene’s leg, urging her to remain silent.
“My dearly beloved late husband Shane left me a silo filled with money. More than enough money to make sure I’d never have to deal with devilment again. And aren’t government employees agents of Satan? No matter what they require us to repair, their demands, however unreasonable, will be met. And in addition, I plan on making a donation to the board, a most generous gift, to make Ocean Vista an even more wonderful place to live.”
Herb placed the drinks on the table, but apparently realizing they were engaged in Dallas’s “serious business,” only smiled and left.
In one swallow, Dallas downed almost half her Cosmopolitan. “I do want to fess up that I have one other teeny concern we need to address.”
The need word again. Dallas wanted something. “What’s that?” Marlene asked.
“I actually moved to Palmetto Beach because of Thistle. Shane’s horse. Thistle was more famous than Trigger. And a better actor, I might add.”
Kate giggled into her wine glass. Marlene didn’t bother
to cover up her laughter.
Dallas plowed on. “Thistle may—now mind you, just may—have to move in with me.”
“You want to move a dead horse into Ocean Vista?” Marlene’s voice carried, causing several diners to turn and stare at them with blatant curiosity.
Fascinated, but fearing fireworks, Kate said, “Well, I’m sure Thistle must be stuffed or…” Realizing she had no idea what she was talking about, she shut up. What did taxidermists do anyway? And how were those amazingly lifelike bears, tigers, elephants, and even whales in New York City’s Museum of Natural History preserved?
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I assure you Thistle’s body is perfectly preserved.”