Death Rides the Surf (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 5) (9 page)

Twenty

Splayed, her
arms
and legs akimbo, Marlene lay flat on her back between Annette and Sam on the grass in front of what was left of the Rainbow Beach trailer park’s clubhouse.

The old man had exaggerated. Only the picture window wall facing the ocean was gone. The pool side and the clubhouse’s front and back walls were still intact. Out of the corner of her eye, Marlene watched an elderly lady in the pool floating on her back. “I can’t get down on the ground, so I’m protesting from here,” she’d said.

The woman wore an old-fashioned white bathing cap complete with a chin strap and trimmed in flowers made of pink rubber. Marlene recalled her mother had worn one just like that, only with turquoise flowers that matched her swimsuit.

The mayor and the builder paced at the rear of the clubhouse as the press and television anchors peppered them with questions.

Several of the elderly protesters were singing “God
Bless America.” The grumpy old man, whose name was Mike, along with three other old men, had dressed in their uniforms from World War II: one from the Navy, one from the Air Force, and two from the Army, including Mike, who had been awarded the Purple Heart. The Air Force guy couldn’t zip up his bomber jacket. A good thing—the temperature at midday had to be over ninety. The former Navy officer was quite dashing in his summer dress whites.

Dozens of teenage volunteers, of varied ethnicity, all clean-cut and attractive, had been recruited by Annette from the local high school. Well trained, they were applying cold compresses to the protesters’ faces and giving them sips of water from small plastic glasses. The kids kept shouting, “Shame, shame, save Rainbow Beach,” as they went about their ministering. Jesse Jackson could take lessons from Annette Meyers.

The construction workers, stymied, sat near the bulldozers, except for two or three who were helping the teenagers serve the water.

The police stood around looking sheepish. None of them wanted to be the first to haul some old lady off to jail and have his picture, resembling a storm trooper, plastered on the front page of the
Palm Beach Gazette.

On the other hand, if she lived through this, Marlene could look forward to seeing herself on all three networks, plus cable. Of course, she wasn’t being photographed from her best angle.

“Hang in there, Marlene,” Annette said. “I’m sweating so hard my hand may slip out of yours. We need to maintain a united front.” Annette had raised her voice, beseeching the other owners not to give up. “Please hold tight and hang in there, everyone.”

When the first ambulance, siren blaring, arrived five minutes later, the mayor caved.

The builder had left the premises. Heat exhaustion, someone said.

At an instantly arranged press conference, the mayor promised Annette Meyers and the trailer park board that he would call a special town council meeting and ask the council to vote to reverse the earlier legislation—all the council members were nodding like sycophants—and then he’d introduce a bill to protect the Rainbow Beach trailer park. Hell, he’d turn it into a landmark.

At the impromptu
potluck victory party in the remnants of the clubhouse, miraculously the air-conditioning was still working—though with one wall missing, it wasn’t very effective—Marlene found herself dancing with Sam Meyers.

Mike, the former Army private first class Purple Heart winner, had brought a phonograph, circa 1950, and all his old 78 rpm records.

The old lady who’d been floating in the pool had brought homemade potato salad, and Annette was slicing a honey-baked ham. The owners must have counted on a victory; they just kept arriving bearing all sorts of great food and drink. The attractive former Navy lieutenant was making margaritas.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Sam crooned as he led Marlene in a well-executed fox-trot. Had Annette been giving him lessons?

Her partner seemed a little high and more than a little flirtatious. Marlene decided now would be the time to lob her questions.

She remained undecided about whether to flirt back. Would it get her anywhere? Or did Sam just have a thing for all old broads? Maybe taking a direct approach would be better. After all, this guy had been in Acapulco. Sam Meyers could have been involved in
Amanda Rowling’s disappearance. And “Granny” could have been too.

“So, is it just a coincidence you and Annette have the same last name?” She asked as he led her out of a graceful dip. That sounded innocuous enough, didn’t it?

“You still think we’re related, don’t you?” Sam spun her out, more like a lindy movement than a foxtrot.

So much for innocuous. “God no, of course I don’t.” She didn’t, did she?

“My real name is Samuel Levin. I changed it when I decided to move in with Annette. Lots of people in South Florida change their names to hide their real identities; I changed mine to make Annette and me more convincing as grandmother and grandson. But I’m sure you’ve figured that out.”

Sam Meyers née Levin might be many things, but dumb wasn’t among them.

“I’ll Be Seeing You” ended and the strains of “The White Cliffs of Dover” filled the room. If she weren’t trying so hard to interrogate Sam, Marlene would really be enjoying herself. “Let’s keep dancing,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate.

He gave her a sly smile and pulled her closer.

Maybe she needed to toss some truth into the mix. “My best friend and I live in Ocean Vista. Her granddaughter is Katharine Kennedy. Do you know her?”

“Yeah, she’s the redhead who followed Jon Michael to Palmetto Beach, right?”

“Had you met her in Acapulco?”

“She’d split before I got there. The only woman I met in Mexico was Annette.”

“The other three boardsmen knew Amanda Rowling. Did you?”

“Like I said, I only met one woman in Acapulco.” He loosened his hold on her. Maybe she’d better switch gears.

“Such a tragedy about Jon Michael, wasn’t it? Such an awful way to die.”

“Is there a good way, Marlene?”

She was getting nowhere fast. Yet she had a hunch that, despite his glib answers, Sam was an okay guy. He worked in the computer field, saving his money so he could get married, held a full-time job while protesting against greedy developers, seemed to love Annette, and maybe loved women in general. Marlene loved men in general, so who was she to judge?

Acting on her hunch, she said, “You seem more grounded than the other surfers, Sam. I hate to see our Katharine mixed up with that unsavory lot.”

Sam’s heel landed on her big toe. His first misstep. “Funny you should say that Marlene. Jon Michael was the best of the bunch and that’s not saying much. That sociopath Claude Jensen should be in jail like his father the ax murderer. I’ll bet there’s more than one skeleton in that cracker’s closet. And Roberto Romero’s down there in Miami hustling his body and his soul for chump change. And some crazy old broad who wears her jewels to bed keeps him in threads.”

“Why do you hang out with them?” Marlene’s puzzlement was in her voice. And she’d check out that old broad who slept in her jewels.

“Make that past tense,” Sam said. “I hung out with them, wanted to surf like them, learn how to catch a wave. The boardsmen were wicked, the coolest. Like in Acapulco, Jon Michael and Roberto could have had any girl they wanted. Same here in Florida.”

“But?”

“But I got fed up. It’s time for me to put away my toys and settle down.” Sam glanced across the room. “If you’re done with your questions, I’d like to dance with my girl.”

Marlene ate a hearty lunch—playing detective works up an appetite—drank two Diet Cokes, wanting to be awake
for the drive home, and enjoyed a quick spin around the floor with the former Navy officer. He said he’d call.

All in all, not a bad day.

The last thing she saw as she drove out of the trailer park was the bumper sticker on Sam’s truck: IF IT SWELLS, RIDE IT.

Twenty-One

Nick’s office
smelled
of salami, just as it had the first time Kate’s presence had been requested. She could only hope the aroma wasn’t wafting from the same salami hero she’d spotted on his desk almost a year ago.

Everything else seemed the same: institutional green walls, cluttered desk, and no personal touches.

The detective looked the same too, though he’d lost a little weight: olive skin, Roman nose, and bushy brows, not the least bit handsome, yet perversely appealing.

Now as then, his type A personality filled the room, leaving none of the three women in doubt about who was running the show. Katharine almost, but not quite, cowered.

Kate, annoyed by so much attitude and the effect it had on her granddaughter, thought the detective could at least smile. Even the cops on
Law & Order
were courteous during a first interview. And she knew Charlie would never have behaved this way. She never should have dined with the enemy. Of course, she hadn’t known Nick was the enemy then.

Katharine had visited Florita Flannigan Monday afternoon, but where else had she been? And why hadn’t Jennifer contacted her daughter as soon as she’d arrived on Sunday? And where had Jennifer spent Monday afternoon? Had Jennifer and Katharine gotten together? If so, what had they talked about? Nick would ask them that. Kate felt sure that whatever Katharine and Jennifer, either together or alone, had done and wherever they’d gone wouldn’t be incriminating, but she didn’t like surprises.

“I’d like each of you ladies to tell me where you were on Sunday night when Jon Michael went surfing,” Nick said, after a brief nod acknowledging their presence and a terse hello.

Humph, did the detective consider Kate a suspect too? Still, if he really suspected any of them, would he question all of them at the same time?

With mother and daughter providing alibis for each other and Kate having witnessed both Katharine on the beach and Jon Michael riding off on his surfboard—she’d felt no need to elaborate on their quarrel—Nick moved on. Kate knew it wasn’t a pass, just a pause while he checked out the rest of their activities over the last couple of days.

“Alright, Mrs. Kennedy.” Nick addressed Jennifer. “Please tell me when you arrived in South Florida and what you’ve been doing here.”

“Wait a minute,” Kate snapped. “Do we need a lawyer here? Why are you asking all these questions? How can Jon Michael’s death be a homicide? How can my daughter-in-law and granddaughter be suspects in a shark attack?”

“A shark can be enticed to attack, Kate.” Nick sounded less harsh. “And I’m just gathering information.” The steely calm in his voice made Kate more anxious.

“How?” Katharine asked. Her voice quivered, but she met Nick’s eyes.

“We found traces of pig’s blood and a bit of wire on the sliver of surfboard the fishermen hauled in with the body and another trace of wire on the piece that washed up on the beach.” Nick cupped his hands, moving them up and down like scales. “A shark warning had been posted. Pig’s blood would attract a shark. As for the wire, both pieces were found on the underside of the board. Maybe part of a wire basket or cage, used to transport some sort of contraband protected in strong plastic.” He shrugged. “Like marijuana. Might explain the midnight surfing.”

“That’s crazy,” Katharine said. “Transported from where, Detective Carbone? They couldn’t have surfed all the way to Bimini for a drug deal, could they?”

“That’s exactly what Roberto Romero said before I pointed out that he and Jon Michael might have made the drug transfers from a boat.” Nick smiled, a snide sort of smile. “Of course, Romero denied everything in two languages. The feds are talking to him now.”

Kate—stunned and, worse, scared—reeled, glad she was seated. If Jon Michael had been murdered, then Jennifer and Katharine being at the beach together at midnight watching him go surfing didn’t prove their innocence. One of them could have planted pig’s blood in the cage much earlier. Indeed, one of them might have been there to make sure Jon Michael took off on the rigged board. Fear mixed with guilt made for a heavy heart and a sour stomach. Kate’s fingers shook as she rummaged through her handbag for a Pepcid AC.

Nick turned from Katharine to Jennifer. “Now, Mrs. Kennedy, that brings us back to your activities since you arrived in South Florida on Sunday. For example, did you and Roberto Romero have a chat about Jon Michael being a threat to Katharine when you dined with him at the crepe place on Las Olas Boulevard yesterday afternoon?”

Twenty-Two

It hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks as she turned left on A1A heading south toward home.

When Annette had pulled the marijuana stash out from under the air conditioner cover, Marlene had seen something sparkle. There must have been a hell of a lot of sparkly stuff to shine so brightly and catch her attention. What with all those moral decisions she’d been making about whether or not to have a second beer and whether or not to smoke pot, she’d forgotten all about the glitter…and what it might be.

She swerved and made an illegal U-turn, just missing a yellow Rolls Royce heading north. The driver, in full chauffer livery, stopped short, rolled down his window, and made an obscene gesture. Marlene made an even more obscene gesture and almost knocked the scrolled RR hood ornament off the car as she sailed past the Rolls into the trailer park.

She thought she spotted the mayor peering out of the rear window. He didn’t look happy.

The party was still in progress, though a few of the owners were heading back to their trailers. None of them paid any attention to her. She was just another old broad in a classic convertible, a common sight in Palm Beach County.

Marlene figured Annette would be holding court as Rainbow Beach trailer park’s patron saint and savior for at least another half hour. And she knew the Meyers’ door wasn’t locked. Sam had left it open so they could replenish the beer in the clubhouse as needed. Even if she did get caught, she’d just say she’d forgotten her cigarettes. The Meyers would understand a craving that led to breaking and entering. Well, entering. Marlene believed it was less of a crime if the door was open. And hadn’t she been a guest earlier in the day?

She parked several trailers away and strolled over to Annette’s. Once in the living/dining area, she wasted no time. She ran around the counter and lifted the lid on the air conditioner. Sure enough, a dazzling array of jewels, neatly stacked in quart-size baggies, lay next to the plastic bags of marijuana. Clearly, Annette Meyers was another candidate for Diamond Lil. And, though the two women looked nothing alike, Annette’s thick gray-streaked hair and Florita’s thick white hair were not unlike the bank robber’s. Annette’s hair was longer and she was a larger woman than Florita, but both resembled the general, if somewhat garbled, descriptions of Diamond Lil.

Marlene heard a moan from behind the bedroom door. Jeez, she’d better get out of there. She dropped the air conditioner cover and then jumped as it banged shut. Pirouetting around the counter, she had her hand on the doorknob when Annette’s voice stopped her cold.

She spun around, rehearsing what to say, but was rendered speechless when she saw a half-naked Annette standing in front of the former Naval officer who wore purple silk boxer shorts and a sheepish grin.

“What are you doing here?” Annette shrieked.

“I forgot my cigarettes,” Marlene managed to croak out.

Annette smiled. “That’s all right, then. I was afraid Sam asked you to follow us. That boy is so provincial. I just hope his jealousy doesn’t break us up. You have a safe trip home, Marlene.” Annette turned and pushed her guest back into the bedroom.

Driving through Hillsboro Mile, with some of the priciest real estate per capita in the United States, Marlene firmed up her plans for the afternoon. First she’d pay a condolence call to Florita Flannigan, ask a few questions, and then she’d drop by Claude Jensen’s house. Both Sam and Florita had painted him as a very bad egg. She wanted to see if the cracker lived up to his reputation. She’d felt sorry for Grace Rowling and, convinced that Claude and Roberto had been involved in Amanda’s disappearance, Marlene had lots of questions for Claude.

She stopped at Dinah’s for coffee. Funny how two beers in the morning had left her sleepy, even though she’d later washed them down with several Diet Cokes. Maybe she should have a slice of that fudge cake sitting under the glass on the counter. After all, they fed soldiers chocolate bars for energy, didn’t they?

Why hadn’t Kate called? Marlene pulled out her cell phone and shook her head. She’d forgotten to turn it on this morning and she had two messages from Kate. She glanced at her watch. Based on Kate’s second message, Jennifer—and when the hell had she blown into town?—Katharine, and Kate might still be meeting with Nick Carbone.

As she drank her coffee, she asked Myrtle for a slice of cake, and then decided she’d drive by the Palmetto Beach Police headquarters to see if Kate’s car was in the lot. She didn’t want to call and interrupt the meeting. Kate had sounded frazzled. Jeez, did Nick Carbone think Katharine had been involved in Jon Michael’s death?

Fortified with caffeine and sugar, two of nature’s finest food groups, Marlene got in line to cross the Neptune Boulevard Bridge to the mainland.

The Palmetto Beach Police Department parking lot was jumping, with lots of squad cars coming and going. After New Year’s Eve, Halloween was the busiest day of the year for the police. Kate’s car was parked near a gleaming black Cadillac, bigger than Marlene’s ’57 convertible. Probably some pimp’s car, she thought, and then started when Roberto Romero stepped out from behind an SUV the size of Chicago, opened the door to the Cadillac, and got in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t until Roberto was pulling out of the parking spot that she noticed the redhead in the front passenger seat: Mary Frances Costello. Marlene’s second odd couple sighting in less than an hour and a half. Happy Halloween.

She drove on to her self-appointed rounds.

Florita Flannigan’s house looked sad. A large black wreath covered a third of the Florida bungalow’s front door, but that wasn’t why. An aura of gloom had seemed to settle over the place, shrouding the house in sorrow. Marlene knew that, in theory, it wasn’t possible for an inanimate object to have emotions, but she’d swear this house was in mourning.

The door opened and Florita greeted Marlene in tears. “My beautiful boy is dead.”

“I’m so sorry.” Marlene felt choked up and teary herself. Jon Michael’s grandmother was suffering. Maybe Marlene shouldn’t have come.

“Mandrake said you’d be stopping by.” Florita grabbed Marlene’s elbow. “Come in, I have a pot of coffee on. We need to talk about the pig’s blood.”