Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (14 page)

Thirty

The Present

“If we can find out who made that phone call to Detective Parker while he was interviewing you, we’ve found the killer.” Marlene spoke around a bite of bagel. Not Einstein’s—almost as good as New York’s—but frozen Arnold’s bagels, toasted and spread with cream cheese, but light-years away from coming close to the real thing.

Kate had spent a restless night debating, among other things, if she should reveal S. J. Corbin’s true identity to Marlene today or wait until after she’d confronted Sophie alone. Still jarred, she leaned toward the latter, though she wasn’t sure why.

While it was true Parker had abruptly ended his interrogation about Kate’s activities during the summer fifty-six years ago after taking the mysterious call, the even bigger mystery was who’d told Parker to ask her about that summer in the first place. Only one person could have: S. J. Corbin, AKA Sophie Provakov, her old friend. But why would Sophie have done that? Oh, God. Kate had to talk to Sophie before she told Marlene. Before she told anyone.

Ballou, who’d been walked and fed an hour ago, begged shamelessly at Marlene’s knee. She slipped him a piece of bagel.

“I saw that, Marlene.”

“Don’t be such a curmudgeon. Now listen, I have a plan and we don’t have much time. A hurricane’s headed our way and we’re going to be evacuated...again.” Murmuring endearments, Marlene picked Ballou up—with effort, Kate noted—and settled him on her lap. Thanks to his Aunt Marlene, the Westie was putting on weight.

“Okay, what’s the plan?” Kate glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes ’til the board meeting. She poured another cup of tea.

“We’re going to pull off a Watergate-style break-in right here in our own condo. Well, actually, you are. I’m going to aid and abet, but not on the premises.”

Kate almost dropped the teapot. “It’s been coming for years, Marlene, but you’re finally ready to be committed.”

“Look, this may not even be against the law. How can it be breaking and entering if you have a key? As condo president, I have access to the keys to all the units. I’m turning one of them over to you.” Marlene put Ballou back down on the kitchen floor, then stood, and reached into her bra. “Voila.”

Kate shook her head. “No way.” Then, without intending to, asked, “Whose apartment?”

Marlene grinned. “Bob Seeley’s, of course. He’s our main man, isn’t he?” She held the key in the open palm of her right hand. “He cooked the books, not only Weatherwise’s, but Rosie’s mob boyfriend’s too. He’s a former Ranger, experienced in m
artial arts. You overheard Bob having a fight with Walt on the night before he was murdered. And Bob lied about being in bed. He could have stabbed Lee Parker, gotten rid of his bloody clothes, and changed into those crisply pressed pajamas.”

Kate clasped her hands together as if in prayer, afraid she might reach out and grab the key. “Not that we’re going to, but if we were, how would we pull it off? What if we got caught in the act?” She turned her two index fingers into a steeple. “Let me amend that: What if
I
got caught? I’d be breaking in alone, wouldn’t I? You’d be at the meeting, right?”

“You won’t be breaking in, Kate, you’ll be
entering
.
And, yes, alone. But don’t worry, I’ll be covering your back. I’ll keep the meeting going until you finish your search and join us.”

“And what, exactly, would I be looking for in Bob’s apartment?”

“Where the old man keeps his medals.”

“You really are crazy, Marlene.” Kate stood, and Ballou, ever hopeful, headed toward his leash.

“No, I’m on target. Fussy old Bob would store all his important stuff together, not like me. My treasures are strewn about.”

“An understatement.” Her sister-in-law thrived on chaos. After a long search, Kate had once located Marlene’s favorite black cocktail dress in the kitchen broom closet. “We can’t all be June Cleaver. But you think neat and that’s why you’re perfect for this job.” Marlene smiled. “Just like you. I’ll bet he has all his important papers, like family birth and death certificates, passport, canceled checks, old income tax forms, army discharge—and yes, his medals—plus whatever stuff he has on Weatherwise, in one location. A file cabinet. Or in folders in his desk drawers. Or on a shelf in a closet.”

“If he stowed everything in a safe, we’re sunk.” Kate grabbed a paper towel and wiped her damp forehead, realizing she’d just committed to breaking into—no, to
entering
—Bob’s apartment.

“Well, then we move on to Plan B.” Marlene whipped out her compact and lipstick.

“Which is?” Kate, reaching around Ballou, rummaged under the sink for her plastic gloves. Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints, would she?

“I’m working on it.” Marlene appraised herself in the dining room mirror, gave Ballou a pat on the back, kissed Kate on the cheek, then checked her watch, “It’s 9:55. Be in the rec room by ten fifteen. I can’t make a one-item meeting last forever. No matter what happens, don’t stay in Bob’s apartment any longer than fifteen minutes.”

Thirty-One

Not wanting to be spotted on the elevator, Kate dashed to the enclosed stairwell and climbed up to the seventh floor. No one in Ocean Vista, except for Rosie, ever used the stairs. She’d never been in Bob’s apartment—in the same tier, but four floors above hers, his balcony would have an even better view.

Panting hard, she pushed open the door into the corridor that led to Bob’s unit. If anyone spotted her here, she’d have to abort the mission.

Children’s laughter stopped her cold. Kids were seldom seen, never mind heard, in Ocean Vista’s hallways. Oh God, yes. Lydia Rosen’s two grandsons were visiting from Cleveland.

Lydia probably hadn’t gone to the meeting, had stayed home with the boys. Maybe to take them to the pool. Or maybe to get ready to evacuate. If they left the apartment within the next sixty seconds, Kate would be caught in the act.

The act of what? Was she committing a crime or wasn’t she? Still undecided, she pulled Bob’s spare key out of her pocket and, with a shaky hand, inserted it into the lock.

The living room was as sterile and as spare as Marlene had imagined. A ubiquitous South Florida off-white couch, this one structured, severe. Square, modern tables. Firm, narrow club chairs, designed exclusively for people with bottoms as skinny as Bob’s. Not a pillow in sight. Not a stray piece of paper anywhere. Not an opened book on a table. And no bookcases. No magazines. No newspapers. Didn’t he read? White plantation shutters covered the balcony door, keeping out the sunlight and blocking the ocean view.

Okay, where would the old man keep his medals? She’d start in the master bedroom.

The books were in the bedroom. Except for the public library, she’d never seen so many books in one place. Biographies, novels (including a complete set of Dickens), Roman history, nonfiction (heavy on the paranormal), financial planning guides, lots of erotica, and two shelves of bibles, ranging from the King James version to the Latin vulgate to the Book of Mormon, filled nine bookcases, covering three walls.

An art-deco bed was centered in the wall opposite the door. Framed black and white photographs of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing were displayed above the walnut headboard.

A tall armoire, also art deco, with double doors, stood to the right of the bed.

She had no doubt the armoire would be where the old man kept his medals. And with any luck, as Marlene had predicted, everything else that mattered to him.

Adjusting her plastic gloves, she darted across the room and opened the double doors. Three wide, deep wooden drawers held neatly labeled file folders, about twenty to a drawer. Bob Seeley had used black ink to print big, block letters identifying each folder’s contents on its upper right-hand corner. She knelt in front of the bottom drawer, reached straight back to the W’s, and pulled Walt Weatherwise’s file. Her knee cracked as she stood up.

The folder held a standard, business-size white envelope. If she ripped it open, Bob would know that someone had been in the apartment. It wasn’t sealed all the way to the corners. Maybe she could pry open the flap, then reseal it. She used her pinkie to gently prod. Bit by bit the flap lifted. Hooray! The envelope held a single sheet of folded paper. A key fell out, landing on the white tiled floor, clanging louder than a church bell. The paper was blank. The key would open a safe deposit box in a Sun Trust Bank in Oakland Park. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Could there be something else? Where should she look? Which file should she start with?

Kate fought
a
strong urge to dump all the folders on the floor. Make a mess. Make Bob mad as hell. Then, in the front of the second drawer, she spotted a file with five red stars highlighting
a
label that read: Kirk Island
.

Oh God, help me. She sank back down on her knees.

So it had come to this: Her past flying out of the dark, unexamined corner of her mind and blindsiding her. Had she somehow known all along? She’d suspected, then rejected, a Long Island connection, hadn’t she? One of the Kirk Island children now grown old? Or Sophie herself?

She stood, shaking, her fingers sweating in the plastic gloves. She lifted the folder, opened it, and, feeling guilty and ashamed, rifled through it.

A photograph of a smiling boy, about six or seven, wearing a suit with short pants, standing between a tall, handsome man and a pretty, dark-haired young woman. An inscription on the back read, EASTER SUNDAY, KIRK ISLAND. Dated sixty-two years ago. A marriage certificate for Ruth Ann Evans, 22, and Robert Matthew Seeley, 24. A deed to a house on Kirk Island. A birth certificate for Robert Matthew Seeley, Jr., place of birth, Kirk Island, New York. A death certificate for Ruth Ann Seeley, 35, place of death, Kirk Island, New York. A death certificate for Robert Matthew Seeley, 37, place of death, Kirk Island, New York. Both the same year, the year she’d turned thirteen.

Kate did the math. Bob would have been twelve when his parents died. She reached into her shirt pocket for a tissue.

Moments passed. She stood, inert, unable to move, the folder frozen in her hand.

She sensed rather than heard someone else in the apartment. She couldn’t move. Behind her, she heard footsteps on the tile.

“Turn around, Kate.”

She pivoted and faced S. J. Corbin. Her old friend, Sophie.

Kate sighed. Nothing mattered now, did it? “Until last night, I’d never seen you wear that cross, Sophie.”

“I’ve worn it often, Kate, over the last half century. These past couple of days. I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to recognize me. I guess I’ve changed more than I thought. But I hoped the cross might give you a clue to my identity.”

“Playing mind games, Sophie? Like your father. He was always good at them.”

“Oh, Kate.” Sophie shook her head, then put on her glasses, came closer, and pointed to the folder. “Kirk Island. So you’ve found the motive, haven’t you?”

Thirty-Two

Thursday, August 10, Fifty-Six Years Ago

“Your
friend Sophie’s
father is a strange one, Katie.” Her father sliced the roast beef. “Rare?” Blood ran from the meat to the platter.

“He’s okay, Daddy.” Kate sounded defensive. Though she wouldn’t admit it to her parents, she herself believed Mr. Provakov’s behavior went way beyond strange.

“Not mutually exclusive.” Her father shrugged.

Kate wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so she waited. “Pink,” her mother said, pointing to Kate’s plate. “She doesn’t like it too bloody.”

Her father sliced a piece from the roast’s narrow end. “Will this do?”

“Perfect.” Kate smiled. “Thanks.”

“Drinking a glass of blood would do the girl good, Maggie.”

“I’m not a vampire, Daddy.”

“You used to love to down the red juices when you were a little girl, Katie.”

It might be better to discuss Sophie’s father’s strange ways than to get into a blood-drinking debate with her own father, who, a little strange himself, was also into health food, like yogurt and wheat germ. “What were you saying about Mr. Provakov?”

“Well, Provakov pretended he didn’t recognize you in the Park Sheraton’s barbershop last week, then got all flustered when you waved and introduced him to me and Marlene.” Her father placed the meat next to Kate’s mashed potatoes. “This evening I ran into him on Roosevelt Avenue, coming out of Brady’s, and he acted like he’d never met me.”

“Then what happened, Daddy?” Kate felt nervous, and with good cause. She hadn’t told her parents about her encounter with Muriel Goodman in the Russian Tea Room and she hadn’t gone to confession, though she worried about having committed, at the very least, a serious sin of omission.

“Nothing. I said hello, then when he ignored me, I just moved on,” her father said, then turned his attention to his dinner. “Very good, Maggie.”

Her father would have found Mr. Provakov’s behavior even weirder if he’d been aware that the skinny young man who’d been in the barbershop had visited the Provakovs’ apartment, that the two men had only pretended not to know each other. Complicating things further, Mr. Provakov had no clue that Kate and Sophie had been watching when Sophie’s mother had brought her coworker home.

Worse, Kate hadn’t told either her parents or her grandmother that Sophie hadn’t spoken to her since the birthday lunch at the Russian Tea Room.

Last week at the hotel, Mr. Provakov told Kate that Sophie had gone to Cleveland to visit a distant cousin. Why hadn’t Sophie returned Kate’s calls before she left? She’d left three different messages with Mr. Provakov. But Sophie never called to say goodbye. Or to thank Kate for her birthday present. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She’d reread the last chapter of
Little Women
for the fourteenth time before she fell asleep. Kate hadn’t wanted to let go of Jo and Amy; however, the formerly beloved book had become her secret vice since she’d moved on to more grown-up heroines like Scarlett and Natasha.

Secrets, even literary secrets, were dangerous.

She tossed and turned between three fast-paced, terror-filled, book-based nightmares. In the last one, Kate, dressed in a hoop skirt like Jo March’s, and blindfolded, was about to be shot to death by a Union Army firing squad for treason. She’d passed a note, containing Sherman’s battle plan, to one of Lee’s men.

“Ready,” a guttural voice ordered. “Aim.” She could hear the rifles being cocked. “Fire!”

She woke up in a sweat, saying, “I swear I didn’t know what was in the note.”

Her bedside clock read 11:35. She’d been in bed for two hours. And she’d
only clicked off her bedside lamp at eleven.

Her hair and her pillow were soaked. She couldn’t catch her breath. Gulping, she willed herself to calm down, to tame her runaway heartbeat, and to stay awake. She didn’t dare fall back to sleep.