Death Rides the Surf

by Nora charles

  As Kate vied with Joe Sajak for Florita’s attention, Katharine and Jon Michael returned from the ocean and sat on their heels near his grandmother’s table. Ah, youth. Kate knew too well the spasms her back would have to weather if she even tried to get into a position like that.

  A few minutes later, Mary Frances arrived and, to Kate’s annoyance, managed to fold herself down on her heels, establishing squatter’s rights between Jon Michael and his grandmother.

  Ex-nuns don’t sweat, but Mary Frances certainly glowed. Tossing her long red hair, she broke into the conversation, interrupting Florita, who was quoting the skull’s position on the situation in Damascus.

  “Guess what?” Mary Frances asked, addressing no one, yet everyone. “I spent two hours this afternoon at the elimination round for this year’s Broward County dance contest. Much to my surprise, Roberto Romero and I will be partners in the couples’ competition for tango champions. We danced like Ginger and Fred in Flying Down to Rio.” She sighed. “It’s as if we were fated to dance together.”

  “Just how did you and that surfer get together?” Joe Sajak sounded like a man in pain.

  “Fate, blessed fate. We both drew the same number.”

  “Hey, Mary Frances, I thought you already were Broward County’s reigning tango queen,” a short, chubby lady, who lived in the north wing, said.

  “I am, indeed.” Mary Frances smiled. “But this year they’ll be choosing a king and a queen. A royal couple. Roberto’s considered the best Latin dancer in Broward. Maybe Dade, too.” Balancing on one hand, she used the other to push stray curls out of her eyes. The wind had picked up. “His posture alone will make him a winner. Will make us both winners.” Mary Frances sounded coy.

  Kate’s stomach jumped. Damn. Did she have another Pepcid AC in one of her pockets? What a hypocrite Mary Frances was, tangoing with the enemy. She deserved Joe Sajak…if he didn’t die first of apoplexy.

  “Look,” the lady from the north wing shouted, pointing toward the beach. “The lifeguard just raised the shark-warning flag.”

  The antique mahogany grandmother clock in the foyer—one of Charlie’s prized possessions that he’d insisted on moving down from Rockville Centre, though it didn’t go with anything in the off-white and beige condo that Edmund, their son Peter’s partner, had decorated—chimed eleven times. Kate sat wide-awake on the balcony, sipping decaf tea and wondering where her granddaughter was.

  A spurt of anger, red and hot, shot through Kate. She’d be damned if she reined her granddaughter in, and damned if she didn’t.

  How would Charlie have handled Katharine’s metamorphosis? Even that world-weary, yet surprisingly optimistic, New York City homicide detective might have been stumped.

  Debating whether or not to have another cup of tea, Kate stood, disturbing the Westie who’d been dozing by her side. “Sorry, Ballou. We should both be in bed.” The difference between should and could never seemed clearer. Exhausted, knowing she had to drive up to Palm Beach for Jane’s funeral in the morning, she couldn’t force herself to go to bed.

  The moon hung like a huge ball of burnished gold, lighting up the sky. Kate crossed to the railing and looked north toward Fort Lauderdale. Sure enough, Katharine and Jon Michael were on the beach. Had she heard them before she saw them? No matter, their voices were raised now, not loud enough for Kate to make out the words, but the tone sounded angry. It appeared as if they were quarreling, Katharine gesturing like the New Yorker she was.

  Kate, in her nightgown, wondered if she should get dressed and go down and drag her grandchild off the beach. Instead, she waited and watched, praying Katharine wouldn’t venture into an ocean on shark alert. If her granddaughter stuck as much as a toe in the water, Kate would scream.

  Jon Michael staggered. His goddamn reached the balcony loud and clear. Had Katharine shoved him? Recovering his balance, he grabbed his surfboard and ran into the ocean. Kate watched him ride a wave until he became a tiny speck on the horizon and then disappeared.

  Once again, Kate wondered why Jon Michael surfed in the dark. And where was Roberto tonight?

  When she glanced back at the beach, there was no sign of Katharine.

  Kate decided to go to bed; she couldn’t deal with her granddaughter now. And as Scarlett O’Hara said, tomorrow was another day.

  A few minutes later, Kate heard Katharine come in. She thought the girl might be crying.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Kate closed her eyes as the clock chimed midnight.

  Twelve

  Monday morning, October 30

  The skull resided with his owner in a pink bungalow with a white picket fence. A calligraphy-scripted shingle, hanging on a lamppost in the well-tended yard, read, TANNING SALON & SPIRITUAL COUNSELING.

  Marlene had spent the morning on the Internet researching the skull’s history and success story or, maybe more accurately, Florita Flannigan’s success story.

  In 1969, Florita, a native of Rhode Island, had fled to Florida as a young divorcée to escape New England’s “wicked winters and rigid morality,” and settled in Palmetto Beach, then a small fishing village, to raise her toddler as a “sea nymph.” When the nymph turned nineteen she’d fled Palmetto Beach, leaving behind her two-year-old son, Jon Michael, to be raised by his grandmother.

  While divorcing her third husband—a gal Marlene could relate to—Florita enrolled in beauty school, graduated with honors, then opened a beauty shop in her front parlor.

  When Florita had discovered that Floridians, surrounded by sunshine, would pay big money for artificial rays’ instant gratification, she turned her beauty shop into Palmetto Beach’s first tanning salon. The operation was an overnight success. Raising Jon Michael had proved more difficult. Still, from Florita’s profile in Parade magazine, Marlene gathered that the grandmother and grandson had a close, if often contentious, relationship.

  For the crystal skull and Florita, it had been love at first sight. They’d met in Mexico. An East Indian mystic, who owned a souvenir store in Acapulco—Marlene found it odd how Acapulco kept popping up and even odder how an East Indian had been living there—swore that the skull he’d found in an Incan temple’s ruins had magical powers to heal both body and soul. Florita, entranced with the four-thousand-year-old skull’s mesmerizing features, had paid the East Indian mystic one dollar for every year the skull had been around. She named him Mandrake, after the magician in her favorite comic strip.

  Parade had quoted Florita: “I figured buying a healing relic with a proven history of curing folks for four-thousnd dollars was a real bargain.” The article pointed out that the skull, one of several traveling the New Age circuit, didn’t actually talk; he communicated via telepathy. Some believers heard more during their private sessions than others. And Florita often acted as interpreter. The photo, credited to Jon Michael Tyler, showed a twenty-pound piece of crystal, crafted to look like a human skull, complete with sunken eye sockets and missing teeth.

  True believers, including Donald Trump’s butler and a former First Lady, who’d met with several of the world’s best-known talking skulls, testified that Mandrake was the most impressive, citing conversations ranging from clairvoyant to miraculous.

  One self-proclaimed psychic from Cincinnati had reported that Florita’s skull had acted as a medium, translating a message in Romanian from an ancestor on her mother’s side who’d been a warlock during the Middle Ages.

  Marlene had absorbed all this information with no prejudice and concluded that Florita was a con artist, her clients were crazy, and her grandson was a snake.

  She pushed open the white, wooden gate, walked up the primrose-lined path, and rang the doorbell. It chimed to the tune of “What Kind of Fool Am I?”

  Florita’s smile seemed forced and, though she wore a pretty caftan with long, flowing sleeves, her hair lacked last evening’s perfection and her face was drawn and wan. “Do come in, Marlene. I’m so glad to see you.” She sounded anything but.

  The
South Florida bungalow, furnished like a New England cottage, oozed cozy charm. Cabbage roses and chintz abounded. A carafe of tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies were on a small mahogany table in front of a pink and lime green plaid loveseat.

  Florita gestured toward the loveseat. “Please sit down, Marlene. Mandrake and I have had a difficult morning.”

  Marlene sat. The cookies looked homemade.

  “It pains me when he gets upset over my problems.” Florita, a perfect hostess, held out the plate. Marlene took two cookies and said nothing, just waited, a trick she’d learned from Kate.

  “We both sense disaster.” Florita’s hand shook as she poured the tea. She fussed a bit, passing sugar and milk, and then sat on a cabbage rose–covered club chair catty-corner to the loveseat.

  Marlene sipped in silence, still waiting.

  “Jon Michael didn’t come home last night.” A tear rolled down his grandmother’s cheek.

  “Well, that’s not so unusual for a boy his age, is it?” Marlene worked to put warmth and empathy into her voice.

  “Well, as Mandrake pointed out, Jon Michael always calls when he’s not coming home.” She gave Marlene a sly smirk. “I withhold his allowance when he doesn’t.”

  “Allowance? Just how old is he, anyway?” Damn. She’d blown her fake concern with a blast of sharp criticism.

  “He’ll be twenty-one on Halloween.” Florita fiddled with a huge diamond ring on her right hand. It sparkled in the sunlight and Marlene figured it had be at least ten carats. “I assure you my grandson earns his allowance, Marlene. Jon Michael does a great deal of promotional work for Mandrake and me.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful.” Her words were warmer than the tea. Marlene felt relieved. She knew Katharine had come home; she’d spotted her this morning.

  “It’s just that…” Florita began, and then paused.

  Marlene considered patting her hostess’s hand, but settled for an encouraging nod.

  “I don’t like my grandson hanging out with those lowlife surfers. I keep telling him they’re not our sort of people.” Anger distorted Florita’s features. “Especially Claude Jensen. The boy comes from a long line of white trash. The father’s a sociopath, serving a life sentence; he killed a girl in Dade. Claude’s a regular chip off the old block. He’s served time in jail, too, and he’s awaiting trial now. Mandrake and I believe Claude’s leading Jon Michael astray. Sam Meyers seems okay, but why he’s hanging out with the surfers is a mystery to me. What’s in it for him?”

  Marlene found herself believing Florita. But then she remembered that telling great stories was how cons sucked their marks in.

  The owner of the best tanning salon and skull-reading operation in South Florida frowned. “There’s another serious concern, Marlene.”

  What now? Marlene placed her now tepid tea on the table and met Florita’s eyes. They’d turned cold.

  “Mandrake says you’re not a true believer. He doesn’t wish to meet you.” Florita stood. “There’ll be no charge for today’s visit. No hard feelings. I’ll pack up the rest of these cookies for you.”

  Marlene was about to tell her what she could do with her cookies when Florita shoved aside her flowing sleeve to glance at her watch. A diamond bracelet Rolex.

  Hot damn! Could Florita be Diamond Lil?

  Thirteen

  Monday evening, October 30

  The body floating facedown in the water was a blond. Kate felt faint, but there was nothing to grab except Marlene. Before she could reach out, Kate felt Marlene’s strong arm, the arm of a former champion swimmer, encircle her, enabling her to keep her balance, to stay on her feet.

  The bearded young man in the rowboat covered the bloody stump with a tarp as the slim fisherman jumped into the water and swam toward the body.

  The heavyset fisherman on the pier had reached 911. Help was on its way, but Kate knew no one could help. Dear God, which blond surfer lay dead in the water? Claude or Jon Michael? Or someone else?

  Like a television promo, a picture of Katharine quarreling with Jon Michael on the beach late last night flashed through Kate’s head, followed by a dull ache. What had happened to the surfer—and the dead man might well be a total stranger—was an accident. A shark attack. Too often Kate’s imagination could be macabre, painful, and off-kilter. Still, she felt unnerved and, yes, frightened.

  The slim fisherman had the body in tow. “Give me a hand,” he yelled to the young man in the rowboat.

  As the men struggled to get the body over the side of the boat, the ambulance’s siren heralded its approach, and Kate caught a glimpse of Jon Michael’s profile.

  She slipped out of Marlene’s grip, and slumped down on the dock, scraping her palm. The last thing she saw before she started to scream was the one-legged corpse landing in the boat.

  “A little drink never hurt anyone.” Marlene handed a gin and tonic in a tall, frosted glass, garnished with lime, to her sister-in-law. “Consider it medicinal.”

  They were sitting in Kate’s living room, so beige and so bland, with nothing out of place, wondering where Katharine had gone and how they would tell her that Jon Michael was dead.

  Was this what shell-shock felt like? Kate reached for the drink. Her hand shook, but she drained a quarter of the glass in one gulp. It didn’t wash away the scene on the pier.

  A paramedic had pronounced Jon Michael dead. No one covered his body. A police officer briefly interviewed Kate, Marlene, and the three fishermen, and then told them to leave, that someone would be in touch with them later. Nick Carbone? Why hadn’t he called her back? She’d stared out at the ocean, never once glancing down at Jon Michael’s body or that bloody stump. Another policeman held the piece of surfboard as if it were made of platinum. Maybe to cops, all clues were platinum.

  Kate finished the gin and tonic and considering having another.

  She’d never thought she could feel resentful about her granddaughter’s actions. But Nana’s condo had made Katharine’s desperate pursuit of Jon Michael both convenient and affordable. Her darling Katharine had been using Kate. No question she’d wanted the surfer at any cost.

  What had happened to her granddaughter in Acapulco? Had she been wooed, then dumped? Had passion trumped pride? Why else would Katharine have followed Jon Michael to Palmetto Beach? And what had they been arguing about on the beach just before the surfer rode his last wave?

  “You ready for a refill?” Marlene tapped Kate’s empty glass.

  “Sure. Why not?” Kate used her napkin to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Sweating in air-conditioning. Not good. She fought an urge to scream. “Marlene, did Katharine say anything to you when you saw her walking Ballou this morning?”

  Kate watched Marlene, standing behind the small rattan bar near the dining room, pour a dollop of tonic into the gin, then stir. She considering telling her sister-in-law to add more tonic, then figured, what the hell, getting a bit tipsy might not be a bad idea right now.

  “Katharine waved, said hi, but nothing else. Why?” Marlene put the drink on the table in front of Kate. “I was on my way to visit Florita. My mind was on Mandrake.”

  “I’m wondering—well, worrying—about where the devil Katharine could be. It’s almost eight and no one has seen her since early this morning.”

  “Yeah,” Marlene agreed, not offering any ideas.

  Kate shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on something else. “So, you’re convinced Florita cons her clients and doesn’t really believe the skull can communicate.”

  “Hell yes. The Golden Glow tanning salon’s legit, but the talking skull’s a con game. Florita wouldn’t let me see him perform because she damn well knew that I was on to her.” Marlene waved a bottle of vermouth over her second dry martini.

  The intercom rang. Kate, hoping it might be Katharine, ran into the foyer to answer.

  “You have a visitor, Mrs. Kennedy.” Miss Mitford sounded even more somber than usual. “A Mrs. Rowling is here in the lobby. She’d lik
e to see you.”

  “Mrs. Rowling?” Kate said. “I don’t think I know…”

  “Amanda Rowling, that girl who disappeared in Acapulco,” Marlene shouted from the bar. “Grace Rowling’s her mother!”

  A shaking Kate said in a strained voice, “Please send Mrs. Rowling up, Miss Mitford.”

  Marlene downed half her martini in one gulp. “She must know about Katharine and Jon Michael. Why else would she come?” Marlene sounded as nervous as Kate felt.

  “Maybe she thinks I know something.” Icy fear ran through Kate’s body, drying the sweat, leaving her weak. What did the woman want? Had she heard about the surfer’s death? Or, God forbid, could Grace Rowling be bringing bad news about Katharine?

  Fourteen

  The sharp rap on the door made Kate jump and Ballou bark. She willed herself to smile as she opened it.

  Grace Rowling wore khakis and a white polo shirt; she had short blonde hair, big brown eyes in an oval face, and, though she had to be in her forties, was as small and slim as a teenager. She would be pretty if her features weren’t etched in pain.

  “Come in, Mrs. Rowling.” Empathy replaced distrust as Kate shook the woman’s hand. “We’re very sorry about your daughter.”

  “Please call me Grace, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “I will if you’ll call me Kate.” She pointed to the bar. “And this is my sister-in-law, Marlene Friedman.”

  “Would you like a drink?” Marlene asked.