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

by Noreen Wald

  “Put that gun away,” the doctor ordered. Then he smiled at Kate. “Please accept my apology. This is no way to treat a lady.”

  “It ain’t my fault,” the guard grumbled. “I’m no mind reader, Dr. Gallagher. How was I to know you and the intruder are friends?”

  Excuses jumbled around in Kate’s mind. None made any sense. What in heaven’s name could she say to Jack Gallagher? Help me, Charlie!

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Kennedy?”

  Serious. Caring. Uncompromising. Kate had no doubt this was the same voice the doctor used when explaining to a patient that his illness was terminal. Probably med students were taught the right timbre, practiced just the right inflection.

  Then, unaccountably, she giggled, thinking his potential Life Preserver “patients” might not sweat a diagnosis of death.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Kennedy?”

  Charlie had to have inspired her. Fear vanished, and she spoke boldly, “I couldn’t feel better, thank you. I’ve heard about your cryonics research. And I’m most intrigued. Who wouldn’t want the chance to come back from the dead? I’m writing an article for the Palmetto Beach Gazette.” Jack Gallagher’s shocked expression tickled her. “My editor, Jeff Stein, sent me.” It wouldn’t hurt for the doctor and the guard to believe someone had known she was coming here. “Dr. Gallagher, could you take me on a tour of Life Preserver?”

  On her way home, Kate credited Charlie and all those blazing candles for her easy escape. Jack Gallagher had refused—most politely, very smoothly, and somewhat vaguely—her request for a tour, saying he had to deal with some workmen today and the lab would remain off-limits for visitors, even the press, until their job had been completed. Then he walked her to her car and told her he’d bring some information about his cryonics research to Magnolia McFee’s that night. Still, she’d come away with the distinct impression the doctor didn’t want any publicity for Life Preserver, not even a favorable newspaper article.

  To think she’d been attracted to that smooth operator, even for a fleeting moment. Charlie must be chuckling.

  With bright sunshine streaming through the car’s open windows as she waited to cross the bridge, Kate felt, despite her sadness over the yogi’s death, a sense of excitement. God, she loved a mystery.

  One of seven people had murdered Swami Schwartz. Kate had eliminated Mary Frances as a suspect. A decision based on gut combined with faith. What Nick Carbone would dismiss as woman’s intuition. As if she cared what he thought.

  She had to prune the field. Tonight she’d have a chance to observe all seven up close and personal at the McFee mansion. How Agatha Christie was that?

  The suspects: Tiffani Cruz, Danny Mancini, Dallas Dalton, Jack Gallagher, Sanjay Patel, Laurence McFee, and his grandmother, Magnolia, all had the opportunity, and most of them seemed to have motives as well. That left the means. Swami’s murder had been premeditated. Which of the seven had carried cyanide to the dinner party to spike his coffee?

  As she exited the bridge, the scent of freshly baked bread coming from Dinah’s Restaurant wafted through the car windows. Kate inhaled. Delicious. Detective work required energy. She’d stop at Dinah’s before heading home.

  Ballou greeted her as if she’d been gone for days instead of hours. “Now be a good boy. If you stop yelping and nipping at my ankles, I’ll share this rye bread with you.” A very tiny piece.

  He followed her into the kitchen and she put the kettle on for tea. While she easily could have devoured the loaf neat—thinking, balanced diet, Kate—she rummaged in the refrigerator for a slice of cheese and a bit of tomato to create a sandwich.

  Taking her lunch and her portable phone to the balcony, she marveled at how crowded the beach was. Colorful blankets staked out claims on patches of sand, chairs lined the shore, the surfers had multiplied threefold, and she wasn’t eating alone. Half the sun bathers, glistening in oil or spotted with white lotion, were munching on hot dogs and fries. A few families had brought homemade sandwiches much like her own. High season—she’d better get used to it. Snowbirds and tourists would be here ’til Easter.

  Between bites, Kate checked her messages.

  “This is Tiffani Mrs. Kennedy. Mr. Mancini’s doing okay, I guess. Dr. Gallagher wouldn’t let me see him. Sanjay’s going back to the hospital this afternoon. But I need to tell you—uh—there’s something odd—oh, never mind. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Something odd? She’d give Tiffani a call.

  “Kate, I’m getting ready for my date to die for—hell that’s more eerie than funny now, right? Should I wear black? Give me a call.”

  Kate glanced at her watch. Not quite one. She’d had such a full morning, it seemed much later than that. Maybe after she called Tiffani, she’d pop over to Marlene’s and check out her outfit.

  “Nana, this is Katharine. All’s well here. Lauren made the Dean’s list. Thank God, my GPA will never get me accepted into Harvard. Who’d want to follow in big sister’s designer-shod footsteps? Dad’s great. Never misses my soccer games. Sends his love. Mom’s making money by the minute. She wants to take me to Paris for spring break…But I’d like to come stay with you, if that’s okay. I need some sun and surf…and I miss you, Nana.” Katharine, her favorite girl. Her namesake. So like Charlie, boasting her grandfather’s red hair, only now as she turned seventeen it was darkening to auburn. Freckles scattered across the bridge of her pug nose and kissed her cheeks. A fuller face and rounder body than her older sister, the tall willowy blonde who favored Jennifer’s family.

  Kate sighed. Kevin’s Lowell in-laws might be smarter, richer, and far more prominent, but the Kennedys were warmer, wittier, and far more fun. Especially Peter and his partner, Edmund. Kate would welcome Katharine with open arms, but convincing Jennifer she and her daughter would always have Paris might be a hard sell.

  Still…the words had worked for Rick Blaine. Ilsa Lund changed her travel plans. It was worth a try.

  Twenty-Nine

  Since Tiffani wasn’t home, Kate left a message. Katharine didn’t answer her phone either, so she left another message. Nana-speak. A language between grandmother and granddaughter. “Yes, I’d love to have you here, but we’ll have to get your mother to buy into it.”

  Was anyone ever there when you called back? Telephone tag. The great American game, replacing real tag, with the tap on the shoulder and the shout, “You’re out!” Kate put the dishes in the sink, then said, “Okay, Ballou, we’re going to visit Auntie Marlene.” The little dog cocked his head as if to say, “Really? You mean it?” Then he yipped and jumped in ecstasy—his vocabulary definitely included the word Marlene.

  Her former sister-in-law’s apartment looked better in dim light. Marlene always had been casual about housekeeping and would never willingly part with any possession, but now her stuff had taken over her space.

  Located on Ocean Vista’s first floor, with a balcony literally hanging over the sand, Marlene’s condo had been beautifully and expensively furnished. With shoes, hats, purses, shopping bags, clothes, and a myriad of unidentifiable clutter strewn over every chair, sofa, and bed, Kate could only attest to those furnishings because she’d helped Marlene move in ten years ago. Ballou loved to visit, nuzzling the stray cashmere sweater or soft old sock on the floor, probably thinking of the apartment as one big playpen. And to complete his picture of heaven, Marlene came through with a Triscuit—her grudging concession to doggie health.

  “It’s about time.” Marlene, wearing a pink silk dressing gown with marabou feathers that could have come straight from a forties movie set, sounded breathless. “Come with me, I need help.”

  Glancing at her watch, Kate, with Ballou on her heels, followed Marlene into her bedroom. “When do you have to leave?”

  “Five minutes ago. Hurry up!” She held up two dresses, one a Pucci print, mostly orange and ye
llow. The other a purple chiffon. Kate shook her head and headed for the closet.

  “Where’s your black Irish linen dress that drapes so well?”

  “I wasn’t serious about wearing black, Kate. I only bought that dress in case I had to go to a funeral. At our age, one never knows. If I were going to Swami’s memorial, I’d wear it.”

  Kate opened the closet door and all sorts of stuff tumbled off the top shelf and onto her head. Sixty years melted away. She was a kid again.

  “Where did you put it, Marlene?” June Cleaver-firm, taking no nonsense from Beaver or Wally. “That dress is very slimming.”

  Marlene smiled. “Really? I think it’s in the pantry.”

  All zippered up and on her way out the door, Marlene, dressed to deal with Harry Archer, looked elegant and confident. Ready for Death Takes a Holiday and the reception at the Boca Raton Resort and Club. And ready as anyone could be for the Lazarus Society.

  Kate could sense Marlene’s nervousness; she felt twitchy herself. More creeped out than frightened. After all, Marlene would be in a public place and the cryonics crowd might be zealots, but they weren’t dangerous. Or were they? That hired thug guarding Life Preserver had gone for his gun. Had he been following Dr. Gallagher’s orders?

  As they walked from Marlene’s apartment to the lobby, Ballou trotting obediently on his leash, Kate said, “We have to stay in touch today,” then gave Marlene a kiss on the cheek.

  “No problem. If you remember to take your cell phone, I can check in with any news bulletins—like if the Lazarus Society’s meeting will be held in the hotel’s freezer.”

  “Very funny, Marlene. Those people are weird at best, so be careful.” Kate pushed a stray hair away from her eye. “I’ll wear my off-white blazer. I can hide my phone in one of its deep pockets.”

  “Good. But since you’re spending the evening with seven murder suspects, you might be the one calling me.” Miss Mitford frowned at Ballou. Marlene and Kate, aiming for the rear door, ignored her. Outside in the perfect weather, Marlene turned left to the parking lot while Kate and an excited Ballou crossed the pool area, headed for a romp on the beach.

  They never made it; Dallas intercepted, waving Kate over to her chaise.

  “Hey, sugar, where’s your friend, Ocean Vista’s Madam President?”

  The Texan sat cross-legged, almost in a yoga position. Her blue Capri pants matched the ocean and complemented the sky. She’d tied the tails of a white linen shirt at her waist and tucked her blonde hair under a blue baseball cap. With almost no makeup, Dallas looked younger, fresher. And she seemed less uptight. Less driven.

  “Cute dog. A Westie, right? What’s his name?”

  “Ballou,” Kate said curtly, then did an about-face. She had a lot of questions. Dallas could have a lot of answers. “My late husband named him after Ballou, the bear in Kipling’s Jungle Book. My sons loved that bear, loved that book.”

  “That’s a lovely little story, sugar. So Chicken Soup for the Soul. You’re an animal lover, then?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Kate smiled, forced but warm, she hoped.

  “My Thistle arrives in town tomorrow, coming all the way from Arizona.”

  Arizona. Wasn’t that the site of another cryonics cold storage lab?

  “And he won’t be moving into Ocean Vista. Please pass that information along to your friend, Marlene—actually, she’s some sort of kin to you, isn’t she?”

  “She’s my sister-in-law. Many years ago she was married to my husband’s twin brother. They divorced, and he later passed away, but Marlene and I are very close. We grew up together.”

  “Kissing kin. I have lots of them. Over the years, I’ve grown closer to some friends than to blood relatives. Hell, sugar, I prefer my new Palmetto Beach acquaintances to my old Odessa aunts. Real rattlesnakes.”

  “It must have been fascinating being married to a cowboy star. Did you meet your husband in Texas?” Kate felt no qualms about prying. Hadn’t she shared some of her history?

  “Oh, lord, no. I grew up on a farm a few miles from Dallas. I hightailed it out of there just as soon as I’d saved up enough money to buy a bus ticket. It’s downright ugly being poor in a city filled with rich folks. I kept waiting tables and taking buses till I arrived in Hollywood. You know, I was an understudy for Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Really?” Kate was dying to hear all about Marilyn, but she wanted to stay on point. “Was that how you met Shane?”

  “Actually, Shane got the studio to give me that Monroe understudy job. We’d met in the Twentieth Century Fox commissary. I put an extra serving of macaroni and cheese on his plate as he went through the cafeteria line. Though he was the highest paid Western star ever, I didn’t recognize him, but I sure thought he looked darling in that Stetson. Anyway, he asked me out for dinner and dancing, then invited me to his house for a nightcap.” Dallas’s voice broke. “I never went home. We’d been married forty-four years when he died.”

  Kate handed her a Kleenex. Ballou looked up from his investigation of an oleander bush to see if the crying was coming from Kate, then sat quietly when he saw it wasn’t. “Thistle is all I have left now. Such a beautiful horse—the grandson of Shane’s first white stallion. I loved all three Thistles, but I raised this colt myself. I’m so glad my baby’s coming home to mama.”

  Could Kate just blurt it out? Dallas was crying again, and Kate, handing her another Kleenex, didn’t want to appear insensitive. Oh, well. She needed to know. “So, if not at Ocean Vista, where will Thistle be—er—staying?”

  The tears stopped. “Why do you ask?” An ice cold delivery.

  While Kate struggled to come up with an answer, Dallas stood. “I have a meeting later this afternoon and I want to hop in the shower. I’ll see you tonight at Magnolia’s.” She turned her back on Kate and started toward the lobby door.

  Frustrated that Dallas had stumped her, and with Ballou pulling her toward his delayed walk, Kate called out, “Are you going to a meeting of the Lazarus Society?”

  Dallas glanced over her shoulder and said, “Nosy neighbors never become kissing kin.”

  Thirty

  “Just how much do you know about the Lazarus Society?”

  It was Kate’s turn to spin around. “You startled me.”

  Ballou, who’d been told the walk was imminent, pulled on the leash and gave a half-bark, half-whine. An almost mournful sound, like a basset hound on a bleak moor.

  With dancer-perfect posture, red hair blowing in the wind, and her hands on her hips, Mary Frances reminded Kate of Maureen O’Hara challenging John Wayne in The Quiet Man.

  “Answer me, Kate.” Mary Frances’s raised voice caused several sunbathers on nearby chaises to sit up and listen.

  Shrugging, Kate stole Dallas’ line. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because the Lazarus Society may be connected to Swami Schwartz’s death.” She sounded frightened.

  Kate softened her attitude and her tone. “Come on, Mary Frances, let’s take Ballou for a walk on the beach.” The Westie started off eagerly, but kept well away from Mary Frances.

  They strolled along the shore, holding their sandals, the lukewarm ocean washing over their bare feet. It felt good. Almost sensuous. Mary Frances’s toenails were painted a pastel pink, matching her terrycloth sweat suit. And the rims on her sunglasses were the exact same shade of pink.

  She’d have a pedicure. Sunburst Coral. Charlie would approve.

  “Are you listening to me, Kate?”

  Well, no. Some detective, daydreaming about nail polish colors.

  “Sorry. My mind wandered. I’m tired, I guess, but please tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “I met a blind date for brunch this morning.”

  What in the world could Mary Frances’s love life have to do with the L
azarus Society? Unless? A flutter of excitement started in Kate’s stomach and rushed up to her throat. “Did you meet him on Last Romance?” The words flew out of her mouth. Not her usual laid-back style of wait and bait.

  “How do you know that?”

  Kate shifted to neutral. “Just a hunch. I think Marlene mentioned you’d tried computer dating. Sorry, go on, Mary Frances.”

  “Ever since I decided Joe Sajak wasn’t for me—widowers think they’re ready to date, but they really aren’t—I’ve been looking. Then yesterday, I received the best email ever. I’ve memorized it: ‘I enjoy fine dining, French wine, and Italian films. You sound like a warm, witty woman, whom I would enjoy getting to know and to share my interests with.’”