Death Rides the Surf (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 5) (5 page)

Ten

Kate, her mind in a jumble, crossed the pool area, holding Ballou’s leash and his pooper-scooper with her right hand and the cake box in her left. Her appearance at the picnic would be delayed; the Westie needed a walk. So did his mistress.

She placed the box on the picnic table, said hi to Marlene, and then headed for the damp sand at the water’s edge. She loved the sea, always had, even as a child more than half a century ago at Rockaway Beach where Queens meets the Atlantic Ocean. The sound of waves rolling in soothed her.

Early evening in October might be the best time of the year to walk along the shore in South Florida. The sky seemed to spring from the sea and stretch to the heavens, the sun a sinking semicircle, a pale moon waiting in the wings.

While the sharp salt air had cleared her head, her heart still hurt. What could she do to help Katharine? The answer was as sharp as the air: nothing. A young woman in the throes of her first real crush didn’t desire advice to the lovelorn from her grandmother.

“Hey, Kate, wait up.” Joe Sajak’s voice broke into her reverie.

She hadn’t heard his footsteps in the sand. Turning as Ballou tugged her forward, she said, “Oh hi, Joe,” hoping he’d note her lack of enthusiasm. Ballou had expressed his feelings with a low growl.

Joe hadn’t yet donned his Batman costume; maybe he was saving that for dessert.

“I need to talk to you.” He grinned, showing teeth, bleached to bright white. The widower of Stella Sajak, who was murdered on the beach last Halloween, Joe had moved from grief to lust less than a week after his wife’s funeral. Lean, with thick white hair, and the recipient of Stella’s cash and condo, he fancied himself quite the catch. Several Ocean Vista widows, divorcees, and one ex-nun had fueled that fancy.

Kate gauged how rude her response should be. Would “sorry, I’m thinking” pass muster?

“It’s about my love life.”

Damn. In this game, she who hesitated lost. Kate stared at him, saying nothing, but wishing that Ballou who was toying with a dead fish would poop on Joe’s toes.

“I’ve been playing the merry widower way too long.” He sighed, then brushed a strand of expensively styled hair out of his Paul Newman blue eyes.

Kate, cursing silently, nodded. Where was he going with this?

“It’s time for me to settle down, to stop flitting around, to get serious, and make one of my many lady friends very happy.”

Ballou yelped, straining on his leash. Kate wanted to yelp too. Instead, she choked out, “Really?”

“Yes,” Joe shouted. “I want to go steady, possibly get engaged, maybe even get married again. I’ve narrowed the field down to two and, though I’ve dated women from Miami to Palm Beach, the lucky ladies are both Ocean Vista residents.” He leered at Kate.

Good God, she’d never dated him, never even brought him a casserole, so she couldn’t be a candidate, could she?

“They’re two very different women. One might say at either end of the morality yardstick.” Joe paused, watching the waves, seeming to be deep in thought.

Since shallow Sajak had never expressed any depth before this moment, Kate figured his silent stare was for her benefit; no doubt he believed it added gravitas.

“Who?” Kate stammered, hating herself for asking, but hell, she had to end this conversation and get back to the picnic. Katharine must be there by now.

“Mary Frances, beautiful inside and out, but she’s a virgin and a man has his needs. Dare I ask a nun to break her vow of chastity?”

Kate laughed so loud, Joe jumped.

“I don’t see what’s so damn funny, Kate.”

She bit her lip. It was her turn to stare at the sea.

“My runner-up would be Marlene.” Joe sounded solemn. “But I suspect she’s been around the block, that she’s slept with far too many
men…
three husbands for starters.”

Knowing Marlene once had a crush on Joe—she’d had a crush on almost every man she’d ever met—but now couldn’t stand him, Kate said, “Right. Her husbands were only the hors d’oeuvres.”

With perfect timing, Ballou did his business. Kate used the pooper-scooper, regretting that he’d missed Joe’s left foot by less than an inch. She pulled on the little dog’s leash. “Come on, Ballou. We’re finished here.”

Claude Jensen, perched high in his lifeguard seat, waved as she walked by. “Keep your dog outta the water, ma’am. Them sharks they saw up in Boca might be down here by now. One bite and that little hair ball’s gone.”

Marlene, emboldened by
two gin and tonics, spotted Katharine, dressed as Britney Spears, all bare midriff and shoulders, and decided to ask the girl just exactly what she knew about her Auntie Marlene’s checkered past before Kate and Ballou returned from their walk.

It took Marlene a few minutes to navigate around the three-deep crowd at the picnic table. By the time she reached Katharine, the girl had company: Jon Michael and an attractive older woman whom Marlene presumed was his grandmother.

The shoeless surfer wore white cutoff shorts and a purple hibiscus lei around his neck. His bare chest glistened as if he’d smothered it in grease. He smelled like lanolin, baby oil, and tea—one of Marlene’s own favorite homemade tanning lotions—flowers, and pot. After fifty years, Marlene still recognized the aroma of marijuana.

“Auntie Marlene, you’ve already met Jon Michael.” Katharine, her voice brimming with pride, turned toward the older woman. “And this is his grandmother, the famous Florita Flannigan.”

Florita’s flowers were on her head, a crown of lilies almost as white as her thick, well-styled, chin-length hair. A slim woman, her lightly tanned, heart-shaped face was sweet, albeit lined. She’d dressed in a white peasant blouse with a rose-colored drawstring and a ruffled rose ankle-length skirt. She was barefoot; her toenail polish matched her skirt. Marlene felt certain this wasn’t a costume, that Florita had worn her work clothes.

Marlene extended her hand. “Welcome to Ocean Vista, Florita. Happy Halloween. Did you bring the skull?” Florita laughed, a tinkling laugh, like a schoolgirl’s. “No, he doesn’t make house calls.”

Marlene liked her, but curbed her enthusiasm; the woman was, after all, Jon Michael’s grandmother.

“We like Katharine very much.” Florita’s blue eyes sparkled.

Marlene figured that hadn’t been a royal
we,
that Florita had been referring to herself and her grandson…and maybe to the talking skull. Had Katharine made his acquaintance?

“Can I make an appointment?” Marlene asked, hearing a hint of desperation in her voice. Meeting Jon Michael’s grandmother’s skull could lead to all kinds of inside information about the surfer. Kate would be so jealous.

Florita whipped a small spiral notebook out of her pocket and flipped it open. “You’re in luck, Marlene. Our ten o’clock tomorrow morning canceled.” Florita smiled. “Joe Sajak’s next in line. He’s been waiting for an appointment for weeks; I thought I’d surprise him tonight with this cancellation. They’re so rare, you know. The lady who canceled has been arrested. I know Mandrake’s advice could have prevented that unpleasantness. Anyway, Marlene, since you’re Katharine’s kin, you can have the appointment.” Florita smiled again. “It’s two hundred dollars for the hour.”

Humph. Up from fifty-five dollars just a few days ago, Marlene thought but said, “Great!”

“Got beer?” Jon Michael headed toward the bar.

Katharine yelled over her bare shoulder as she followed Jon Michael. “Auntie Marlene, I’ll be back in a flash. I can’t wait to hear what you plan to discuss with the skull.”

Marlene felt a flash of panic. Could the skull—or Florita Flannigan—have revealed her secrets to Katharine?

E
leven

Kate sipped a wine cooler that tasted like sour grapes. Or maybe Katharine’s costume had turned her stomach. She dumped the wine in the sand and reached into her pocket for a Pepcid AC.

When would she hear from Nick? She’d left a detailed message asking the detective to check out Jon Michael Tyler and Roberto Romero, then for good measure, had thrown in Claude Jensen and Sam Meyers, even though she hadn’t met Sam yet and knew almost nothing about him, other than that he, too, had a grandmother.

Jon Michael’s grandmother, Florita Flannigan, was holding court under a palm tree in the pool area. Several Ocean Vista residents were her clients and devoted fans of the talking skull.

Down at the shoreline, Katharine and Jon Michael strolled arm in arm.

Kate stood, gulped, and headed toward the pool area. Gassy or not, she needed to have a word with Mrs.
Flannigan, who, Kate figured, must be Jon Michael’s maternal grandmother. Where were his parents?

Florita sat in a blue and white plastic armchair at a round, glass table near the deep end of the pool. With all the chairs taken, some of the more agile Ocean Vista residents were sitting, legs dangling, on the diving board. Others stood, almost reverentially, waiting to catch Florita’s eye. God, only in South Florida, Kate thought, but then she remembered how much a grilled cheese sandwich depicting the “face of the Virgin Mary” had sold for on eBay.

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 recent world politics.

“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.