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

by Noreen Wald

  As the organist played, “Let There Be Peace on Earth,” and the congregation sang one of her favorite hymns, Kate wondered if Tiffani really hadn’t noticed her boss’s condition. Or had the girl outright lied?

  Enough, Kate. She chided herself and joined in for the second verse.

  After the mass ended, Kate lighted candles for Charlie, her parents, his parents, and for Kevin, Jennifer, Lauren, Katharine, Peter and Edmund, for both of Marlene’s dead husbands, and then feeling guilty, another for Marlene’s only living ex-husband and, of course, for Swami Schwartz and Danny Mancini. The church suddenly seemed ablaze, every candle in the vigil tray in front of the altar flickering.

  Kate wasn’t especially religious, not even spiritual, as so many people professed to be these days. She pictured God as a Santa Claus figure, and she believed in an equal opportunity afterlife—maybe it would include some sort of telepathy so all souls could stay in touch, not unlike, but better than, her one-sided conversations with Charlie.

  Well, her theory made more sense than Life Preserver freezing a “patient’s” head and hoping that one day in the distant future science could reignite his brain and let it grow a new body.

  As luck would have it, the bridge was up, so she arrived at Einstein Bagels a few minutes after eleven. She liked to come here on Sundays to start the New York Times crossword puzzle, enjoy a fresh cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, and sip a cup of coffee. Life’s simple pleasures. Kate was a tea drinker, but the coffee at Einstein’s smelled and tasted so good, she couldn’t resist.

  She found a small table off in a corner, plopped her tray and newspaper down, and opened the magazine section.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  Drat. She looked up, then smiled. She didn’t mind being interrupted by Jeff Stein, the young New York City transplant who edited the Palmetto Beach Gazette.

  “Hi. Sit down, Jeff.” He was balancing a tray holding coffee and an onion bagel.

  With a little rearranging of newspapers, trays, and chairs, he sat.

  “Looking good, Mrs. K.” Jeff had actually seemed to assess her before giving the compliment. “And remember my job offer is still on the table.” He pushed his plate to one side. “Well, it would be if there were any room on this table.”

  A job as a reporter. Kate rolled the word around. Food for the brain. As tasty as her cinnamon raisin with cream cheese. Granted, she’d mostly cover local news. Nothing very exciting. Bingo winners at the Senior Center. Sixtieth anniversaries. Condo meetings. And she’d write lots of obituaries. Still, she’d be a reporter. The idea tempted her.

  “You haven’t hired anyone yet?”

  “No. And I can’t run the Gazette all by myself, Mrs. K.” He wiped cream cheese off his mouth. “Think about it, will you?”

  She nodded. “I promise I’ll let you know in a day or two.”

  “You were at that dinner party Friday night where Swami Schwartz was poisoned, right? Wouldn’t you like to report on that? You know: Where, when, why, and whodunit.”

  “Well, that sounds better than writing his obituary.”

  “Dr. Jack Gallagher’s taken care of that. I found Swami’s obit on my desk first thing this morning. Almost as if the good doctor had written it in advance.”

  “Jeff, what do you know about Life Preserver?”

  His thick black brows flew up in a pretty good imitation of Groucho Marx’s leer. “You never cease to amaze, Mrs. K. Life Preserver. Now that’s a real mystery. Just how do you know about the best-guarded business secret in Palmetto Beach?”

  Kate made a big thing out of slowly chewing her bagel. If she didn’t talk, she figured Jeff’s curiosity couldn’t tolerate silence.

  Jeff took a swig of coffee, then spoke in a low voice. “The mayor is up in arms. He and the town council may not understand most of Life Preserver’s scientific jargon, but they know the company has something to do with cryonics research. Gallagher charmed the zoning board, seems to have them in his pocket, but with all those holy rollers on the town council, the doctor, despite a popularity bordering on sainthood, may have to take his business elsewhere.”

  Kate swallowed the last of her bagel and smiled. “Mind you, I have no proof, but it might not be the first time Dr. Gallagher has moved his business.”

  Jeff stared at her, his mouth a perfect O and his bushy brows shot up again. “What do you mean?”

  “New Horizons,” Kate said with far more confidence than she felt. “I suspect Dr. Gallagher funded that venture—as a silent partner—and when the company was shut down, Gallagher just changed its name to Life Preserver and moved his lab down to Palmetto Beach, where he believed the climate might be more friendly.” She paused, then went for the kill. “And I don’t believe Life Preserver only does cryonics research. I think Dr. Gallagher will be freezing dead bodies and then suspending his patients or, in some cases, just their heads in canisters until a cure for whatever killed them is found.”

  Jeff gulped. “If we break that story, Mrs. K, we’ll be the Woodward and Bernstein of Palmetto Beach.”

  She meant to take a right off Federal Highway, cross the bridge, and head home. But her old car, acting as if it had a mind of its own, wound up in the left lane, so she drove west.

  The entrance to the Palmetto Beach Industrial Park was east of I-95, just off Powerline Road, and three blocks north of Neptune Boulevard. Though located in a marginal area of town, the park itself was more upscale than she’d expected. Kate wondered how Tiffani’s apartment could be nearby; this was definitely not a residential area.

  Behind a chain-link fence—though the gate was open—and amid carefully tended shrubs and lots of green, there were maybe thirty businesses in small, medium, and large beige stucco buildings. Mostly wholesale warehouses: women’s clothes, beauty supplies, an electrical outlet, a costume jewelry factory, a television repair center. All clearly marked. Large signs or billboards heralded the product or service. Since she had no address, she drove around four times before she noticed the tiny bronze plaque on one of the larger beige buildings that identified Life Preserver.

  Midday on a Sunday, the park was eerily empty. No people. No cars. She stopped and stepped out to investigate. Nothing out of the ordinary about the warehouse. What was out of the ordinary was its steel door, barred windows, and enormous NO TRESPASSING sign. Not to mention the armed guard who’d just walked around from the back of the warehouse and was heading straight for her.

  Twenty-Seven

  Jack Gallagher held Danny Mancini’s hand, noting how mottled and veined his thin skin looked. “You’ll be okay, you old fool. And you have only me to thank. Left to your own devices, you’d have been dead decades ago, with no hope of ever coming back.” Jack hated waste and Danny had wasted his first time around, abusing his body, a temple to be revered, and now frittered away these last precious days in the autumn of his life with his compulsive gambling. He destroyed his body with booze and tobacco, and, though a long-diagnosed diabetic, he was a chocolate addict. Amazing he’d remained so slender. Jack had always thought Danny resembled Tony Randall, one of his all-time favorite actors.

  Danny moaned. Jack glanced at the monitor behind his bed. Vital signs were stable. The window in the posh private room on the top floor of the Palmetto Beach Medical Center faced southeast, offering an ocean view, but Danny’s eyes remained closed. Jack suspected his patient wasn’t sleeping, but merely avoiding any conversation with his doctor. Since Jack felt more in the mood to lecture than chat, that worked for him.

  “Swami left you a legacy, the best spot and the finest canister in Life Preserver’s freezer. You’ll be too far gone to preserve, no longer a candidate for vitrification, if you continue to live like a drunk and a glutton. I’m warning you, Danny, you’ll be embalmed and put into the ground, covered with dirt. Buried. For God’s sake, man, do you want to s
pend eternity in a grave? What’s wrong with you?”

  Jack felt disgust and anger, but also pity. Danny blinked, but remained silent, adding another sin to the doctor’s list. “And your godson left you money. Lots of money. You’ll have more than enough to pay off your debts. Wake up and live. Aren’t things bad enough? This is all so inconvenient.”

  Danny opened his eyes. “How much money are we talking about?”

  In the yellow and white waiting room, Jack found Sanjay Patel and Tiffani Cruz—even her name made him shudder—sitting in two of the white wicker chairs. The cozy room, one of many decorated under Jack’s guidance, reflected the Palmetto Beach Medical Center’s image and reputation. Lovely immaculate surroundings, with an excellent caring staff providing the finest medical care in the best HMO in South Florida. Jack loved how the chairs’ yellow and white striped cushions exactly matched the yellow walls.

  But then he loved everything about the building, fussing over it like the child he’d never had: the art deco design, the state-of-the-art operating rooms, the well-equipped rehabilitation wing, the laboratories, like autoclaves where all the patients’ tests were done in-house, and even the cafeteria with, if not gourmet, more than acceptable food.

  What he loved most of all was that the public rooms never smelled like a hospital, weren’t constant reminders of sick patients. He’d banned the scent of ammonia from all the visitors’ lounges.

  “How is he?” Sanjay asked.

  “Much improved.” Jack pulled a wicker hassock up to Sanjay’s chair and showed him Danny’s chart.

  Such a stunning young man. Jack couldn’t wait for him to join the medical center’s staff as soon as he passed the Florida Boards. And so suave. What a great Yoga Institute director he’d make. As much as Jack had admired Swami, the yogi had never lost his brash Brooklyn attitude, making him difficult to work with. Jack had been totally against Swami’s Tantra Workshop. Sex and spirituality, indeed. More like the old girls getting a cheap thrill.

  “Can I see Mr. Mancini?” Tiffani stood up.

  Impertinent little tramp, wasn’t she? What could Sanjay, an educated, refined young man possibly see in her? Even Swami Schwartz had rejected her advances. And he hadn’t been a man who’d said no easily.

  “Sorry, Miss Cruz. He’s sleeping. Maybe if you come back later.” Jack spread his arms out in front of him. “Much later. This evening?” He hoped he didn’t sound inviting.

  “Gee, Dr. Gallagher, have you forgotten we all have a command performance up at Magnolia McFee’s tonight? All us people who were at the table when Swami died.”

  He had forgotten. Or erased it from his memory. “So we do. Well, as I say, you can’t see Mr. Mancini now.”

  Sanjay took her hand. “Come, on, Tiffani, let’s get you home.”

  Jack smiled.

  “Perhaps, you’d like to stop back this afternoon, Sanjay. Danny asked to see you.”

  A bold-faced lie. But it worked. Sanjay nodded. “Please tell Mr. Mancini I’ll be back later.”

  On his way back to reinforce Danny Mancini’s reformation, Jack rehearsed his lines, much as tonight at Magnolia’s they’d be rehearsing their readings and eulogies for Swami’s memorial. That bloody woman always had to be in charge. Ordering everyone around at the Lazarus Society meetings. Deciding how her donations should be spent at the Yoga Institute. Demanding to check out his cryonics research. Well, damn that control freak. Jack had prepared his eulogy and wouldn’t allow his words to be edited. And he’d tell Magnolia that tonight. He’d have to pass on Death Takes a Holiday, but he’d be damned if he’d miss the chance to speak to Harry Archer’s prospects at the reception after the movie, so he might be a tad late for the rehearsal.

  “If Danny continues drinking, smoking, and going on sugar sprees with a vengeance, he’d be better off dying right now, wouldn’t he, Jack?” A grating twang spoke his thoughts aloud.

  “Dallas, what the hell are you doing here?” Jack felt his blood pressure rapidly rising.

  “Is that any way to greet a gal?” Dallas’ throaty laugh filled the quiet corridor. “I spent my first night at Ocean Vista, had my coffee on my balcony, and watched the action on the beach. I knew that ambulance would bring Danny Mancini straight to you, Jack.”

  Don’t let this brassy blonde get to you. Rhinestones in the morning. Jeans two sizes too small. Trailer trash who’d slept her way through Texas. Shane Dalton could have taken first prize in the state fair’s cuckolded husband contest.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Dallas. I have patients to see.”

  “As long as you have Thistle in your appointment book for tomorrow afternoon. I trust those steel workers have completed the sliding door into Life Preserver’s cold storage area. They surely billed me for mucho money.” Her red lipstick cracked in the corners of her mouth. But then, overhead fluorescent lighting was cruel. “Why do you keep staring at me, Jack? You are ready for Thistle’s arrival, aren’t you?”

  “Look here, Dallas, the zoning board has approved the cryonics research, including animal testing in our lab, but the town council may want do an on-site visit. How can I hide a horse?” God knows he had enough to hide. “Can’t you wait a week?” He sounded desperate. “Why are you being so damn unreasonable?” Jack’s voice broke. “Do you want to be responsible for Life Preserver being shut down?”

  “I’ve given you more than enough time. And money.” The twang turned sour. “You’re long past the date we agreed on. So listen up. Give the town council a tour in the morning. Or charm them out of ever taking a tour. Charm’s your stock in trade, Jack. Either way, I’ve gone to great effort and expense arranging for Thistle to be wrapped in dry ice and transported from Arizona in a custom-designed refrigerated van. My horse is scheduled to arrive Monday at four. I expect you to be prepared to accommodate him.”

  Jack cheerfully could have killed her, and he’d make certain that she never had a cryonics chance to be brought back to life.

  “Now, will you kindly direct me to Danny’s room, or do I have to go back to the information desk?” The twang sweetened. “We shouldn’t be squabbling, Jack. Our work is too important. And besides, we’re going to spend eternity together, aren’t we?”

  “The last door on the left, number 401.” He raised his chin. After all, he was in charge of his own medical center. “I’m going with you, Dallas. You can say hello, but that’s all. Danny’s too sick to have visitors.”

  In an uneasy truce, they arrived at the room, but Danny was nowhere to be found.

  How could Danny Mancini have managed to put on his sandy clothes and just walk out of the hospital? No one, not the charge nurse, or the aide, or the orderly, or anyone at the fourth floor nursing station, or the reception desk had seen him leave.

  Jack decided to stop by Danny’s cottage a few blocks west of Federal Highway, though he doubted he would find Danny at home. And he had his priorities. His first stop would be at the Palmetto Beach Industrial Park to confirm the workers had shown up today to complete their final test on the sliding door, making sure absolutely no hot air could penetrate its steel. Then he’d figure out a way to dissuade the town council from visiting. He felt a little better. Dallas had been right about his charm. He’d invite the mayor to breakfast.

  As he pulled up to Life Preserver, he spotted an old Chevy. An unlikely vehicle for the steel workers. Jack watched the guard coming around from the right side of the building, then picking up his pace and, suddenly, reaching for his revolver. Only then did Jack see the slim, silver-haired woman heading toward the front door. She looked familiar. Of course! Kate Kennedy. She’d been at the dinner party last night when Swami died. Came with Mary Frances, the dancing ex-nun. A widow, he thought. And, at Swami’s recommendation, about to become the Yoga Institute’s newest board member. What the hell was she doing here?

  Twenty-Eight

&nb
sp; Kate felt like Mata Hari. Right before the firing squad executed her. Not only had the uniformed guard reached for his weapon, someone had slammed a car door behind her.

  “Can’t you read, lady?” The guard gestured with his gun to the NO TRESPASSING sign.

  “Sorry.” Kate floundered, frightened, listening to the footsteps behind her, and not knowing what to say.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, isn’t it?” That refined, silky smooth voice could only belong to Jack Gallagher. Great. Caught with her hand in his cryonics cookie jar. She spun around.