Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

Ei
ght

Where the devil was Kate? Ten more minutes of Mary Frances dancing around in cheery collaboration—“Where would you like this, Marlene?…Doesn’t that Pucci scarf just shout, ‘Buy me’?”—and Marlene would have to kill her. Truth be told, she didn’t much like Mary Frances, Broward County’s tango champion. And she had to put up with the ex-nun—prettier and bossier than Maureen O’Hara in
The Quiet Man
—as vice president on the Ocean Vista’s board of directors. Enough already. And what in the world could be taking Kate so bloody long?

“You want I should put this last carton down next to the booth, Miz Friedman?” Jocko juggled the heavy package, a pleasant smile on his round, careworn face. “I don’t want to stop your progress. Hard to believe how much you got unpacked in such a short time. The redhead’s some organizer, ain’t she?”

Mary Frances, overhearing, smiled at Jocko, almost fluting. Then she pointed across the corridor. “That swastika tablecloth must belong to Carl Krieg. Disconcerting isn’t it? Marlene, aren’t you concerned all that Nazi memorabilia will repel your prospective customers?”

“That’s the least of my worries.” Though tempted to tell Jocko to drop the box on Mary Frances’s well-shod foot, Marlene smiled. “Please put the carton next to the table. And thank you, you’ve been wonderful.” She pulled three twenties from her purse. “Here, please split this with the other two guys who helped us out.” Jocko walked away grinning; she wondered if he’d pocket it all. She sighed, then glanced at her watch. Almost ten. The flea market had managed to turn her into a total cynic in less than an hour.

Her conscience bothered her. A chronic condition. A bit better judgment and fewer lies of omission, and she’d fret a lot less. Hadn’t she learned anything from her checkered past? Apparently not. Sometimes, she wished she could pop a Pepcid AC the way Kate did for stomach distress and make her bad memories disappear like a gas bubble.

Ballou jumped up gently, putting his front paws on her knee. Looking wistful, he licked her hand, nibbling it. “You’re such a good boy,” Marlene said, feeling better about herself. He seemed to understand and tried to lick her face.

Mary Frances stamped her foot. “Are you daydreaming? Or going deaf? What about my display? Do you prefer these white leather frames front and center, or shall I move them to the back of the table?”

Marlene shook her head and held her tongue. After all, the woman, annoying as she was, had volunteered her time and—much as Marlene hated to admit it—talent. “No. They look great there. Thanks.”

Silence filled the corridor. It occurred to Marlene that without Kate around, she and Mary Frances had nothing to say to each other. Ballou, who’d never cottoned to Mary
Frances, circled a carton, then settled back down at Marlene’s feet.

She felt undeserving of the Westie’s devotion, even though he’d liked her from the day they’d first met in Kate’s kitchen in Rockville Centre. Charlie Kennedy had brought him home as a puppy, a tiny white ball of fur, cute as a teddy bear. Ballou always had been very much Charlie’s dog, slow to warm up to Kate, yet perversely fond of Marlene.

All that changed when Charlie dropped dead. Kate, in her grief, and Ballou, deprived of his master’s attention, had turned to each other. What had started out as mutual comfort and companionship had blossomed into true love.

But Ballou had love to spare, and he still made a great fuss over his Auntie Marlene.

She sighed, a sharp release of breath, muttered “dammit” under her breath, and caught an odd look from Mary Frances, who was emptying the contents of the last carton.

Marlene went to work, stacking the colorful pottery bowls she’d bought in Arizona almost a half century ago during her brief first marriage. Her hands might be busy, but not as busy as her mind, whirling with images of Charlie.

Why today? She could go for days, even weeks at a time, believing she’d moved on, then unexpectedly, unrelenting panic would grip her like a vise and hold her captive. Betrayal was an ugly act. An ugly word. And Marlene had betrayed Kate.

A four-martini one-night stand with her best friend’s husband, during a party that had gone on far too long, on top of a pile of coats in the hosts’ bedroom. A fleeting act of adultery decades ago that, though neither had ever spoken of it again, had haunted both their lives. She hoped
that wherever Charlie’s soul had gone, he’d been forgiven and had finally forgiven himself.

“Marlene, you never mentioned Linda Rutledge has a booth here!” Mary Frances’s squeal jarred Marlene. The woman sounded starstruck.

Marlene placed a purple bowl into a larger mustard-yellow one, then looked up. “So?”

Mary Frances ignored her, moving on to greet Baby Boomer Barbie as if she were royalty. “It’s such an honor to meet you, Ms. Rutledge. To think your booth is right next to Marlene’s. I’ve tried to speak to you at doll shows, but you’re always surrounded by such a huge crowd.” Mary Frances was gushing like a fan who’d cornered her favorite rock star. “I’m a collector too.”

Ballou went into alert mode, eyeing a nervous Precious in Linda’s arms, signaling with perked ears that he was interested, but wagging his tail just enough to show he wasn’t hostile.

“Is that right?” Linda, in purple spandex, placed the cat on her satin pillow on a high shelf, then opened a cabinet door, pulled out a black velvet cloth, and spread it over the table.

Precious stared down at Ballou suspiciously from her safe perch, fluffing her fur and flattening her ears. Her body language said, just let that upstart try to come close. She’d sharpened her claws for just such an occasion.

Ballou showed no fear, going into his treed-a-squirrel pose, waiting. His tail had stopped wagging. That cat wasn’t going anywhere without being chased by him. Precious settled into her soft bed, keeping both green eyes on the threat below. Marlene decided their impasse wouldn’t soon be broken.

“Oh, yes,” Mary Frances said. “I’m one wife short in my Henry VIII set. I heard at the Miami convention that
you have a rare Peggy Nisbet gem. Anne of Cleaves. I’d be most interested in getting my hands on Henry’s fourth wife.”

“Queen Anne is an elusive lady.” Linda almost smiled. “I do have her, but as a collector you must realize Henry’s wives don’t come cheap.”

“I’ll
pay anything.” History repeated itself. Mary Frances sounded exactly like the flaky teenager who’d been their first customer.

Ballou wandered off, sniffing his way across the corridor. Good. Marlene didn’t want any pet trouble.

She started stacking orange dinner plates, wondering why in the world she’d bought a pottery service for twelve, while listening to Mary Frances negotiate with the doll lady. No question, Linda Rutledge had the upper hand and would get her price…which was an astounding six hundred dollars. What kind of a pension did former nuns get, anyway?

Ballou, who’d been sniffing around the swastika tablecloth, yelped. His barks grew louder and sharper, and he literally ran around in circles.

Marlene dropped a plate as she hustled over to him. “What’s wrong, Ballou? Why all the commotion?”

Agitated, the little dog just yelped louder, alternately sticking his nose under the flag and running back toward Marlene.

She reached down to lift the Westie, but he moved too fast “Stop that! We don’t belong here.”

Ballou ignored her and using his head, shoved the cloth to one side, revealing a black leather heel.

“Oh my God!” Marlene screamed, recognizing Carl Krieg’s boot and realizing the boot was connected to a leg.

N
ine

Donna Viera spun around. Spotting Kate, she sniffed, giving her a long, lingering look that met Kate’s eyes and moved all the way down to her feet.

The trainer turned back to Sean, whispering. “The old biddy behind us had an earful.”

Sean, slower to note Kate’s presence, glanced over his shoulder. “Top of the morning, Mrs. Kennedy.”

Not bothering to hide her anger, Kate said, “The old biddy isn’t deaf. And, yes, I overheard Sean warning you, Donna, or should I say, threatening you?”

“Now, I didn’t mean anything at all, did I?” Sean’s rice-pudding face attempted a smile that wound up a grimace. “It’s just that those PETA do-gooders sometimes have the wrong idea about what it takes to train an elephant and consider every prod a form of cruelty to animals.”

Remembering Donna’s forceful prod with the baton, Kate thought the “do-gooders” had the right idea.

“Is there an official investigation, then?” Kate tried to keep her tone flat and neutral, but knew she came off as judgmental.

“No, no. Just some volunteer gal from the Broward County Humane Society who has absolutely no authority to poke.” Sean stopped short, looking flustered, as he realized what an unfortunate verb he’d chosen to describe the woman’s mission.

Kate decided to pay a visit to the volunteer, but she’d start with the trainer. “Why did the Humane Society believe there might be animal abuse, Donna? Had someone here complained?”

“Those PETA people are fanatics.” Donna scowled, almost spitting out her venom. A definite mean streak, Kate thought. “One of those lunatic troublemakers ranted and raved about the tiger’s nails being clipped too short.” Donna flipped her black ponytail. “I told the old cow she could give Sinbad his next manicure.”

“Now, Mrs. Kennedy, there’s no reason for you to be fretting over this. The Humane Society dropped the investigation for lack of evidence.” Sean spoke with a “been there, done that” attitude. “So, can I buy you a coffee and a muffin?” He’d reached the counter and was gesturing expansively at the array of baked goods.

Lack of evidence, indeed. Mary Frances had mentioned those photographs arriving as promised. Kate would rather
dine
with the devil himself than have breakfast with Sean and Donna.

“No, thank you. I’m bringing doughnuts back to the booth. We’re busy setting up.”

“Well, have a good day, Mrs. Kennedy.” His smile held no warmth. “And tell my gal, Marlene, that I’ll be dropping by later to officially welcome her to the Cunningham corridor.”

Donna pointed to a raspberry doughnut and said to the young clerk, “Please give me two of those and two black coffees with extra sugar. Thanks.”

After all her rudeness, Donna’s good manners when ordering struck Kate as odd.

The flea market was jumping as Kate walked back to the circus corridor, balancing two coffees, a tea, and three doughnuts in a lopsided cardboard carton. She couldn’t believe how the crowd had swelled. If she didn’t
think
she’d drop her goodies, she’d glance at her watch. She’d been gone, what, maybe thirty minutes max, and the grounds were packed with people. You couldn’t see the grass for the sneakers. Retirees, moms pushing strollers, teenagers playing hooky, and eager young couples, hand-in-hand, buying housewares. Good. Every one of them could be a prospective buyer.

Concern curbed her enthusiasm. Whitey Ford’s murder—or, at least, the homicide investigation of his “suspicious death”—and its possible link to animal abuse nagged at her. She didn’t want to put a damper on Marlene’s debut as a vendor, but she so wanted to talk to the Humane Society’s volunteer.

As a toddler on a tricycle bumped into her shins, almost causing the food to fly out of her hands, Kate veered left, and carefully placed her cardboard carton on a wicker chair in front of a booth selling potted palms. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. Maybe she’d luck out and the Humane Society volunteer would be on the job.

Early-bird passersby, apparently sated, held shopping bags and totes filled with purchases as they beaded back toward the flea market’s parking lots. Their replacements, streaming past in the opposite direction, looked eager and determined to find a buy. Kate figured many of them were
regulars. If the shoppers didn’t go broke, the flea market would be a great place to while away a sunny April morning, enjoying the fresh air and searching for bargains. Far better than sitting at home alone watching sappy talk shows or soap operas.

Kate dialed information, and her tiny cell phone’s technology both located the phone number and automatically dialed it for her.

“Broward County Humane Society,” a perky voice answered.

“Hello. My name is Kate Kennedy, and I need to speak with one of your volunteers.”

“Yes, ma’am. Which one?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.” Hell’s bells. Why hadn’t she thought this through first and asked Mary Frances, who might have known. Hearing a sigh, Kate plunged onward. “I’m looking for the volunteer who visited the Palmetto Beach Flea Market to investigate possible animal abuse.”

“‘Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa they have named you,’” the voice sang the first few bars of the famous Nat King Cole song. Smooth and on key.

“I beg your pardon.” Kate sounded as puzzled as she felt

A giggle, then the woman said, “Sorry. I got carried away. I just love that song, and I just love MonaLisa Buccino. Unlike the painting and the song, her first and second names are one name, one word. She’s the volunteer you want.”

“Oh.” Kate laughed. “That’s one of my favorite old songs too. So is MonaLisa Buccino there?

“May I tell her why you want to speak to her?” The poky voice had turned somewhat wary.

“Yes. Please tell Ms. Buccino I may have information that will help her case.”

“Good.” The voice was friendly again. “MonaLisa’s downstairs nursing a sick dog. Give me your phone number, and I’ll have her call you in about an hour, okay?”

Kate left both her numbers and hung up feeling better, yet frustrated. She had so many questions. Impulsively, but from memory, she dialed Nick Carbone’s number. Risking being called a busybody Miss Marple—it wouldn’t be the first time—she’d share her theory that Whitey Ford was murdered to prevent him from mailing his evidence documenting elephant abuse to the Humane Society. Did his killer know the photographs had arrived?

Nick wasn’t there. She left a brief message, then leaned back in the wicker chair, eyes and heart heavy.

“When an elephant squeaks, it means he’s happy to see you.” A boy about four, certainly no more than five, with golden-brown bangs and huge, dark blue eyes plopped himself down in a child-sized rocking chair next to her. Kate started. The little boy looked exactly like her son Kevin at that age, with the same John-John hairstyle.

She stared at the child, her heart suddenly much lighter. “Is that right?”

“Oh, yes.” The boy smiled up at her. “I know all about elephants. Even their secrets.”

Kate longed to scoop him up and ruffle his thick hair, but she settled for a smile.

“Please tell me more.”

“I sat on an elephant once. I did. And my mommy helped me off.” The boy giggled. “I slided down his face. I really did.” His navy eyes sparkled. “Right between his big ears.”

“What an adventure.” This time Kate did reach over to touch his hair. “I once had a little boy who looked just like you.”

“Did he die?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart.” Kate shook her head. “He just grew up.”

“My daddy died.”

“Billy, there you are! I warned you not to wander off.” Donna Viera’s loud voice made both the boy and Kate jump. “And I warned you about talking to strangers.”

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger, Donna.”

“You are to Billy. Why, you could be a child abuser. I’ve taught him not to speak to anyone he doesn’t know. That would include you, wouldn’t it?”

Donna grabbed the boy’s hand and led him away.

Kate bit her lip as the tears fell. How could her preconceived ideas about Donna Viera have been so wrong? Despite those drum-majorette looks, she must be considerably older than twenty. She had a son, whose father was dead. The still-vivid image of the trainer prodding the elephant made Kate feel queasy. How did Donna treat her beautiful child?