Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (10 page)

Twenty-One

The Present

“You look like you just saw a ghost, S. J.” Marlene sounded more amused than concerned. “We’re the ones who should be startled. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for a prospective buyer.” Kate watched with fascination as S. J. took a deep breath and managed to regain her composure. “Are you ladies interested in upping his offer?”

“I thought Uncle Weatherwise sold his mansion before moving up to Ocean Vista.” Kate fenced a smile. “I assume you’re acting as his Miami Realtor too.”

“Never assume anything, Kate. It makes an
ass
out of
u
and
me.”

“That joke’s almost as old as we are, S. J.” Marlene rolled her eyes. “As a cool South Beach player, you really ought to get some new material.”

“You own the place, don’t you?” Kate asked, once again certain the answer to her question would be yes. Had she turned into a mind reader?

“Why, yes, I do.” S.J. showed small, well-bonded teeth in a forced smile. “As I told you, Walt planned to move to the Southwest. With the way real estate’s rocketing, when I heard he was selling all his Florida property, I put in an offer on the house on Tuesday, it was accepted by Walt’s lawyer yesterday, and I have an eager buyer coming today.” She sighed. “If it hadn’t been for the hurricane, I probably would have turned it around already.”

Strange. Kate had assumed—in an excellent example of why one should never assume anything—that Uncle Weatherwise had sold his South Beach mansion before moving to Palmetto Beach. And, according to Marlene, the condo board believed that too. Of course, Bob, as finance chair and possibly Walt’s business associate, might have known the truth.

“Dead sellers make good clients, right?” Marlene said. “No haggling.”

S. J. blanched. “Weatherwise wasn’t dead when I made the offer on this house.”

“That’s right,” Marlene said, “but he was dead by the time his lawyer accepted it. And he was certainly dead, though that information hadn’t gone public, when you made the offer on his Ocean Vista condo. Your real estate wheeling and dealing has left me a tad confused.”

“Which one of you lovely ladies is Miss Corbin?” a voice behind Kate boomed.

“I’m S. J. Corbin.” The Realtor smiled, pushing past Marlene and Kate, and extending her hand to a tall, middle-aged man in a white Stetson. “These ladies were just leaving.”

“Well, good, ’cause I’m in a buying state of mind.”

“The owner’s not in his grave yet, and I hear the ho
use is haunted,” Marlene called over her shoulder as she walked toward the gate.

Kate laughed. “Okay, pull out your addresses. Let’s start with Southern Trust and see what we can dig up on Bob Seeley.”

Eager to get going, they decided not to eat in South Beach—and paid twenty-five bucks for valet parking without a voucher. It broke down to a dollar a minute.

The view from the causeway could convert even the most ardent Florida-phobe. The port of Miami’s berths filled with beautiful cruise ships and ocean liners, Biscayne Bay’s shores lined with gracious homes, the city skyline’s tall buildings a gleaming tribute to the city’s thriving commerce and industry, and the Atlantic Ocean, with white-capped waves and turquoise water as far as the eye could see.

Miami moved to a samba beat. The business district was crowded with cars, buses, cabs, and well-dressed pedestrians navigating the streets with style and purpose, both in short supply in Palmetto Beach.

The Southern Trust building stood taller than all the other downtown skyscrapers.

Kate entered its marble lobby, trying to project some style and compose herself. She’d better. On the way over the bridge, she and Marlene had concocted a script that required those attributes, plus a lot of lying.

A Playboy bunny posing as a receptionist sat at a desk that could have graced the Oval Office.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Seeley retired three years ago. Moved north to the boonies.”

“Yes, we know, but our friend, Walt Weatherwise, suggested we meet with the planner who’s working with Mr. Seeley’s former clients.” Kate thought she’d delivered her line well.

The blonde mulled that over. “How about I get Mr. Moose? He took over most of Mr. Seeley’s accounts.” Five minutes later, they were ushered into an office the size of a small hotel’s lobby. Mahogany desk and tables, Wedgwood lamps, dark oak floors, leather couches, and maroon velvet chairs. A veritable London men’s club in the middle of Miami.

Mr. Moose, about thirty, slim, short, and perfectly turned out in Brooks Brothers, stood and greeted them with warmth. “I heard about Walt’s death. My condolences on your friend’s passing.”

“Wonderful man,” Marlene deadpanned. Kate had refused to utter that line.

“Do you ladies know Bob Seeley too?”

“We hear he moved north to the boonies,” Marlene improvised, not really lying. “We’re Walt’s neighbors here in South Beach. Er, we were, until his tragic passing.” Now she was lying.

“Really?” The amazed look on the young man’s face and the shock in his voice gratified Kate. If he bought into two old ladies living large in South Beach, they’d pull this charade off.

“I’m sorry, ladies, I didn’t catch your names.” Mr. Moose pulled out the two club chairs in front of his desk—as big as a New York studio—for them.

“I’m Bar
bara Stanwyck,” Marlene said, “and this,” she gestured to Kate, “is Marjorie Main.”

Kate bit her lip. If Mr. Moose happened to be a fan of old movies, Marlene’s ad lib would expose them. And leave it to her sister-in-law to grab star billing. She pictured the plain, erstwhile supporting actress, Marjorie Main—who’d played Ma Kettle back in the ’50s—and wanted to wring Marlene’s neck.

Moose remained clueless. “Please tell me how I can help you.”

The delivery of the next line would be crucial. Kate took the lead. “We want to invest our money in the exact same portfolio Walt Weatherwise had. And, since you’ve taken over Bob Seeley’s clients, we’d like you to be our financial planner.”

Mr. Moose grinned. “Let’s discuss that, ladies. For starters, I’m going to have Brittany serve you both a nice cup of tea while I pull up Walt’s records.”

While they sipped and smiled, an intense Mr. Moose reviewed Weatherwise’s portfolio. After what felt like an eternity, he turned away from his computer, his expression blank.

Kate wished she could pop a Pepcid AC.

“I would recommend a much less aggressive approach than Mr. Seeley’s for you ladies.”

“Why?” Kate ventured, not knowing what else to say.

Moose frowned. “Well, without revealing either the amounts or the exact nature of the investments—and there hasn’t been any trading over the last three years—I would advise you ladies to be more cautious, more diversified. Trading in options is risky business.”

Perplexed, Kate said, “But Walt Weatherwise is a millionaire many times over, and we want to invest the same way he did.”

“Ladies, please. When an investor agrees to take great risks, he can lose great amounts of money. Walt Weatherwise’s portfolio didn’t make a profit; in fact, it has sustained substantial losses.”

So that was why Walt had been threatening Bob at the shelter. But Walt had millions; someone, maybe a previous financial planner, had made his money grow.

“Did Walt have another account here?” Marlene asked.

Mr. Moose shook his head. “Regrettably, no. Perhaps with another firm; however, I’m delighted that Walt sent you to us.” He rubbed his palms together, and smiled. “Now, I’m going to custom design the perfect portfolio for you lovely ladies.”

Twenty-Two

“Options trading. I wonder what that is and if it can be manipulated?” Kate didn’t hide her frustration or disappointment.

Marlene had parked the car in a nearby garage and, though dejected, they were both starving, and searched along the boulevard for a reasonable restaurant.

“How about this place?” Marlene pointed to a cute cafe called Siesta.

Kate put on her glasses and read the menu posted next to the bright yellow door. “The price is right. Let’s eat.”

The Cuban-American waiter, better-looking than any of the current crop of hot movie stars, served the “señoras” chicken with yellow rice and beans. Kate couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed a meal as much as this one. And, having taken a prophylactic Pepcid AC, she could order the wonderful Cuban coffee and have the flan for dessert.

“You do have a financial planning expert in the family, you know; why don’t you call her?” Marlene buttered her third piece of bread, not that Kate had eaten any less of the loaf.

“Funny how often you read my mind.” Kate smiled. “I was just wondering if I should bother Jennifer at work.”

Marlene handed Kate her cell phone.

Kate’s firefighter son Kevin had married a Boston Brahmin. Jennifer Lowell. Blonde, beautiful, and brilliant. She’d just left Smith Barney to open her own investment firm on lower Park Avenue in New York City. Kate could live for a year on what Jennifer paid per month for her office space. She loved her daughter-in-law, who’d made her son happy and had given birth to Kate and Charlie’s two wonderful granddaughters, Lauren, and Kate’s namesake, Katharine. It was only that...well...Jennifer intimidated her...just a little.

“Press seven. That’s Jennifer’s new office number,” Marlene said. “I’ll order two coffees. Flan?”

Kate nodded, then followed Marlene’s instructions.

The receptionist sounded like Grace Kelly in
High Society
.
“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, I’ll tell Ms. Lowell you’re calling.” It bothered Kate—but just a little—that Jennifer didn’t use her married name.

“Hi, Kate.” Jennifer came across as warm, but busy. “How are you?”

“Fine. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I have a couple of quick financial questions, if you have the time.”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“If a broker or financial manager put most of a client’s money into buying and selling options, but that client’s portfolio now shows a loss, could there have been any way that the investor actually made a profit? Some way the broker might have manipulated the futures market or something?”

“A dishonest broker could,” Jennifer said.

“How?” Kate’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She should pass on the coffee, but she wouldn’t.

“Let me make this as simple as possible. The broker could report selling an option low, when he’d actually sold high. Option profits can be enormous if the broker and the client are big enough gamblers. The trick would be to falsify the portfolio records to indicate a loss. The broker would have to be both clever and careful, cooking the books to avoid an auditor discovering the scheme.”

How well do we really know our neighbors? Our friends? Our financial managers? Had fussy, refined Bob Seeley been a crook, who’d designed a complex stock fraud before he retired to Ocean Vista? “But where would the broker hide the money?”

Jennifer laughed. “Well, he could wire it to another account, say in a Swiss bank.”

“How?”

“Oh, any number of ways. Use a fake name. Who knows, maybe the broker and the investor were partners in crime? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Good God. Wouldn’t this have been the exact information that Lucy Diamond had needed to indict Walt Weatherwise?

Ten minutes later,
the matinee-idol waiter had served the coffee and dessert and Kate had caught Marlene up.

“So, you’re saying Bob’s smarter than Lucy? She’d have reviewed Weatherwise’s portfolio with the best tax guys on the federal government’s payroll, right?”

“What if she hadn’t brought the Feds in? And, if she hadn’t, why not? Because the auditors would have uncovered Bob’s scam?” Kate sipped her coffee. “Could Lucy, despite all her histrionics to the contrary, have been protecting her former lover?”

“You said she’d been carrying a torch for Weatherwise. Maybe the flame hadn’t gone out.”

“Marlene, you’re absolutely poetic.” Kate smiled. “Now drink up; we need to get some background information on Lucy, and we have to decide where to start.”

Marlene placed her empty demitasse cup on its saucer. “Ready to roll. The courthouse or the condo?”

“Well, we could probably walk to the courthouse, but how forthcoming are a bunch of federal prosecutors and their minions going to be? I vote for the condo. One of Lucy’s former neighbors may be a chatterbox.”

Kate signed the American Express receipt, leaving the hunk a 22 percent tip, and keeping the copy for her income tax deductions. She could list the lunch under amateur sleuth investigation expenses.

“But Lucy lived in Coral Gables. That’s about fifteen minutes south of here. I thought we’d take I-95 home.”

Kate had no intention of driving back to Palmetto Beach on the interstate with her sister-in-law at the wheel. “No, I like A1A a lot better. And what’s another half-hour round-trip to Coral Gables in our unending quest for motive and murderer?”

Marlene laughed. “Now who’s waxing poetic? Okay, Kate, you win. We’ll get the car out of the garage, drive down to the condo, and hope we get to interview a nosy neighbor.”

On the way out of Siesta, Kate found herself sneaking one last look at the smiling waiter. She’d better behave or she might turn into Marlene.