Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (7 page)

Thirteen

Tuesday, July 4, Fifty-Six Years Ago

“I think we’re going to be great friends,” Sophie had said as they parted the previous afternoon.

Her words lingered in this morning’s memory.

“I don’t want to go to Rockaway, Mom.” Kate grabbed the jar of peanut butter and slammed the refrigerator door. “Can’t I stay home with Etta?”

“Your grandmother is coming with us, Kate. It’s the Fourth of July. Families celebrate together.” Maggie Norton sighed. “And don’t you dare bang that door again. Do you have any idea how much money your father spent on my present? It’s a Westinghouse, Kate.”

As if Kate could forget the brand name. She’d only heard it two thousand times since Christmas.

The iceman used to deliver once a week. Messy business, but kind of fun. Her mother and grandmother often slipped, referring to the fancy new refrigerator as an icebox.

“Kate, pay attention.” Her mother sounded annoyed. “You need to treat everything in this house with respect. Even appliances.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” Kate meant it. She’d always been a compulsively neat but careless girl, breaking glasses, dropping dishes. “But, listen, Mom, I can stay here alone. I’m thirteen. You let me babysit the Martins’ kids; why won’t you let me spend a holiday by myself?”

Kate put two slices of toasted Wonder bread on a blue china plate and covered them both with peanut butter and strawberry jam.

“And why can’t you use the everyday dishes?” Her mother was filling a gallon-size Thermos with grape juice.

“Because I like nice things, because food tastes better served on a china plate, and because the way you hoard the Wedgwood, we’ll all wear out before it does.”

“Watch your mouth, Katharine Norton.” The full name treatment.

Kate had gone too far. She might as well change into her suit right after breakfast. Squeezing her Lipton tea bag hard against the china cup, she knew she’d be spending the day on the beach.

Etta entered the kitchen, her silver bob covered with a wide-brim, navy blue beach hat that matched her old-fashioned skirted bathing suit. She was buttoning up an ankle-length terry cloth robe. “I’m ready. Should I start on the sandwiches? Egg salad?”

“Yes, please.” Kate’s mother smiled. If she resented her mother-in-law living with them, Maggie Norton had never shown it.

Kate felt good about them getting along. Marlene’s mother was always fighting with her mother-in-law, who lived in Rego Park and only visited on Sundays. Such scenes. Poor Mr. Friedman, caught in the middle.

“Are you sure you don’t want to invite Marlene?” Her grandmother ventured where Kate and her mother hadn’t gone. For seven summers, every Saturday and most Sundays, Marlene had driven down to Rockaway with the Norton family. Why would Etta even suggest such a thing? Where was her sense of loyalty? Kate had cried in her grandmother’s arms after Marlene’s betrayal.

“I will never speak to Marlene again.” Kate dropped her tea cup into the saucer. She wished she could invite Sophie. Would her father find her new friend too weird? What would Sophie think about Kate’s boring family?

“You’re lucky that cup didn’t break.” Her mother sounded sad rather than angry.

“Sorry, Mom.” Kate wiped up the spilled tea with her napkin.

“Look, Kate,” her mother said, “you can’t stay here alone. Your father would have a fit. Would you like to ask someone else? Another friend? Maybe the girl you met yesterday at Miss Ida’s.”

Kate couldn’t believe it. Had her mother read her mind? Sometimes Maggie Norton amazed her. Of course, Kate had talked a lot about Sophie over dinner last night.

“Can I call her now?”

An hour later, Sophie climbed into the black Buick’s backseat with Kate and Etta.

As they drove along Woodhaven Boulevard, Kate felt grateful that her father wasn’t asking Sophie a lot of dopey questions. Instead, Mom and Sophie were discussing
Kon-Tiki.
Both were reading it; Sophie was further along. Etta chimed in about how much she liked Miss Ida, but didn’t get too far. Mom and Sophie’s book-review club lasted all the way to Belle Harbor. Kate, getting a little jealous, was about to change the subject when her father beat her to it.

“What does your father do, Sophie?”

“Do? I don’t understand, Mr. Norton.”

“For a living.” Kate’s father spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “You know, what’s his line of work?”

Kate cringed.

“My mother goes to work. She’s a secretary.” Sophie also enunciated, as if crafting her response. “My father stays home.”

Please God, make my father shut up. I’ll go to Mass every day for a month. I’ll never drink tea in a Wedgwood cup again. Just make him shut up.

Miraculously, he did. Kate would be getting up for nine o’clock Mass for the next thirty days, but her father’s silence would be worth every hour of lost sleep.

Still...Kate wondered why Sophie hadn’t mentioned her father’s graphs and charts. Boris Provakov had been
working
on something yesterday. They’d interrupted him.

Twenty minutes later they were on Rockaway Beach, where Queens met the Atlantic Ocean.

Her grandmother didn’t like the sun, but her parents and Kate loved it, basking in its rays from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

Hopping in the hot sand, they spread out their blankets and set up their beach chairs at just the right angle. Kate and her parents would be rotating their positions every fifteen minutes to follow the sun.

No matter how hard she tried, Kate never tanned. Too fair-skinned like her father. While her Mom took on a golden brown, Coppertone glow, Kate and her dad just got redder and redder. But she loved how the sun turned the hairs on her arms to gold and streaked her chestnut brown curls with blonde highlights.

Etta sank into a folding chair, facing the boardwalk; she’d spend the day shifting away from direct sunlight.

Kate’s father had brought his homemade brew of Lipton tea, Lanolin, and baby oil. He’d been using the smelly mix for years and, though the tea stained his skin to a red-bronze, he never tanned either.

Sophie, wearing an old-fashioned, navy wool bathing suit, had dynamite color. “Tar Beach,” she answered when Kate’s mother asked where she’d gotten her beautiful tan.

Kate’s parents and Etta laughed at Sophie’s response. Kate didn’t get the joke. “Where’s Tar Beach?”

Her father laughed again. “On the roof, Katie. When we lived on the West Side, we went to Tar Beach all the time. Swam in the Hudson River too.”

Never having lived in an apartment house or a tenement, Kate felt deprived. The only one never to have experienced Tar Beach.

While her mother set up housekeeping—Maggie Norton liked order, even in the sand—Kate and Sophie walked to the water’s edge.

A good-looking young lifeguard waved at them. Well, at Sophie. In her two-piece yellow gingham bathing suit, Kate looked flat-chested. Looked like a child.

The jetty to their left was covered with seaweed, the waves breaking at their feet, the smell of salt tingling her nose. All her favorite memories from summers past. Kate should be happy, but something felt wrong.

Kate ran into the ocean, not even reacting to the cold jolt that swept over her body.

Sophie dove into a huge wave, popped back up, and, using a strong Esther Williams-style breaststroke, swam into the deep water.

“Hey,” Kate yelled, “my mother doesn’t want us in over our heads.”

Not to mention that Kate felt terror when she couldn’t touch bottom.

“Okay, let’s swim sideways, away from the jetty.”

“Great backstroke,” Sophie said. And Kate couldn’t believe how much her mood improved.

Sitting in the damp sand, watching the boys watching the girls, Kate said, “My father works for Sinclair Oil in a skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, near Tiffany’s.” She hadn’t planned to say any of that; the words just tumbled out. “Some job in management. His address is 666. Dad says it’s the sign of the devil.”

“Yes, it’s in the Bible.” Sophie laughed. “My father would consider the address appropriate for an oil company.”

Figuring in for a dime, in for a dollar, Kate asked, “What does your father do with all those charts and graphs?”

Sophie frowned. “I’ve never asked Poppa what he does.”

“And he doesn’t talk about it?” Kate found that hard to believe. “My father bores us to death at dinner, rambling on and on about Sinclair.”

“Not really.” A stream of wet sand ran through Sophie’s fingers. “Whatever the project is, it’s been going on forever. Something to do with tides and winds. Something to do with the weather.”

Fourteen

The Present

An exhausted Kate, dying to get out of her clothes and into her version of pajamas—one of Charlie’s oversized t-shirts and sweatpants—paced. Where the devil was Detective Parker?

The clock in the front hall—her late husband’s favorite Kennedy family heirloom and one of the few treasures from Kate’s beloved Tudor in Rockville Centre—chimed nine.

Damn Parker. She added
discourteous
to the detective’s growing list of negatives.

If Miss Mitford had gone home—doubtful; the sentinel probably slept in some cubbyhole behind die front desk—Kate would have to buzz Parker into Ocean Vista. Unless, of course, he was interviewing another suspect first.

When had she accepted that she was a suspect?

She’d give him ’til ten, then pull her phone, turn off her cell, and disconnect her intercom. He could just reschedule tomorrow. Parker deserved no less.

Tomorrow. The mess in the living room nagged her. She’d finish the hurricane cleanup in the morning. Kate thrived on order. Charlie used to tease that June Cleaver and Frank Gilbreth, the efficiency expert in
Cheaper by the Dozen
,
were her role models. She laughed as she headed for the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Oh, Charlie, did you ever know how right you were?”

Trying to decide between high-test or decaf Lipton, Kate jumped when someone rapped hard on the front door. Ballou, who’d retired for the night, barked. Kate shut off the whistling kettle and hurried back to the hall, the Westie at her heels. How could the detective have gotten into the building without being announced or buzzed up?

Maybe her caller wasn’t Parker. She used the peephole for the first time in the fifteen months that she’d lived here. Drat. She couldn’t see a bloody thing.

“Who is it?” She sounded strident.

“Lucy Diamond. Open the damn door.” Lucy’s voice, pitched several decibels higher than Kate’s, bordered on hysteria.

Kate opened the door. Her uninvited guest in a bright green sweatsuit strode into the living room, Ballou sniffing at her sneakers.

Without being asked, Lucy sat—almost collapsed—on Kate’s off-white couch. She looked haggard. Frightened.

“Would you like a cup of tea? Or maybe a drink?”

“Scotch. Straight up.” Lucy barked, then chortled. “Thanks. Sorry, guess I’m too upset to mind my manners.”

Kate located a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black on a shelf behind the wet bar in the dining room. Nary a highball or a lowball glass in sight. A testament to the changing tastes in booze over the last few decades. Only wineglasses. Hmm? Red or white?

“What’s wrong, Lucy?” Kate handed her a red wineglass half filled with scotch.

“Detective Parker.” Lucy coated her words with venom. “Thinks I killed Walt.” She downed most of the scotch in one gulp. “Do you think so, too, Kate?”

Nothing if not direct, Kate almost replied, “You’re certainly on my list,” but instead shook her head and said nothing.

“That’s why I was out there at Coral Reef Police Station this afternoon, but you knew that, didn’t you?” For a woman drinking Charlie’s best scotch, Lucy Diamond behaved as if she were prosecuting Kate. And, for sure, this hadn’t been Lucy’s first drink of the night.

Kate, too tired to take her guest’s guff, lashed out. “When we were being evacuated, did you cross the bridge next to Walt Weatherwise?”

“What the hell difference could that possibly make, Kate?” Lucy drained her scotch. “But, for your information, Walt crossed between Rosie and Bob.”

Damn. Why, of all the questions she’d wanted to ask Lucy, had she started with that one? Dumb move, Kate.

“You overheard me fighting with Walt in the gym, didn’t you?” Lucy held out her glass. “God knows, I wanted to kill the bastard, but I didn’t. Pour me another drink and I’ll tell you a story. A sad story.”

Suspecting this would be another long night, Kate poured herself a white wine.

Turning, she raised her glass. “To sad stories. I’m listening.”

Kate hadn’t overheard much of anything between Lucy and Walt in the gym, but if Lucy believed she had, why should Kate correct her?

Lucy nodded, quiet now. Preparing her opening statement?

Kate sank into a chenille armchair. Edmund had described the chair’s color as butter pecan. If she had to compare the chair’s color to ice cream, Kate thought it looked more like toasted almond.

For a fleeting moment, she could hear the ring of the bell on the Good Humor man’s bicycle, feel the cold blast from the freezer box in front of his handlebars cooling her sweaty face, taste her favorite toasted almond bar, savor the last lick of ice cream off the wooden stick. Then she started, scolding herself: Focus, Kate, focus. Get the hell out of the past.

“Weatherwise and I go back a long way.” Lucy’s agitation had vanished. She appeared stronger, calmer. Had some of her earlier histrionics been an act? Or had her professional demeanor taken over—going on automatic pilot—as she prepared to present her case?

It was Kate’s turn to nod.

“Fifteen years ago,” Lucy said, “long before my hair turned white and I began dying it black, long before I retired and started collecting Social Security, long before I lost most of my muscle tone and any semblance of a positive attitude, I met Walt Weatherwise in Miami Beach at the Blue Parrot, a swinging singles bar for middle-age loners. Make that losers.”

Kate sipped her wine, hoping she could nurse it through Lucy’s maudlin saga.

“He not only stole my heart, he compromised my integrity. A deadly combination for a federal prosecutor’s suitor.”

“What happened?” Kate tried to steer Lucy away from emotion and into a few facts.

“Well, as you know, W
alt wasn’t much to look at, but back then the man’s conquests were legion. The PR people at the TV station planted tabloid stories bragging that Weatherwise had bedded 20 percent of his female viewers. Our affair began at his oceanfront mansion in South Beach; it would have put Hugh Hefner’s to shame.”

Had Lucy visited the
Playboy
mansion too? Kate decided she didn’t need to know.

“Early on and totally smitten, I figured Walt lived way above his income. Yes, he had a high salary, but his lifestyle and his toys, including a yacht with gold faucets in the head, seemed far too grand, even for a television icon.” Lucy paused and drained her drink. She held up her glass, seeming surprised to discover it was empty.

“Another?” Kate felt like a pusher.

“Make it one for the road,” Lucy sang, then laughed as if she had Jay Leno’s wit.

On her way to the bar, Kate cut to the chase. “Where did Weatherwise get all that money?”

“If I could have answered that question, I’d have prosecuted the bastard. He broke my heart, Kate.”

A woman scorned. Worse, a federal prosecutor scorned.

Kate thought of Rosie O’Grady dating Albert Anastasia. Of Marlene’s penchant for bad boys. Was she the only woman in Ocean Vista who’d slept on the right side of the law?

“I gave it my best,” Lucy said. “Tried to get Walt for income tax evasion, for hiding assets—probably from illegal trading, maybe using another name—then transferring the cash into a foreign account, but I could never locate the source of the money or gather enough proof to indict the son of a bitch.”

“Strange that both you and Walt wound up at Ocean Vista.” And what about Bob Seeley? Kate felt sure Walt’s threat to Bob last night and his demand for money had been connected to all this. Could Bob have been a partner in Weatherwise’s crooked deals? Had fussy old Bob been a money launderer?

“Not strange at all. Walt had a new lady in his life. He convinced the network that he could report the weather from its Fort Lauderdale studio, and he moved from Miami to be near his lover.”

“How do you know all this?”

The phone rang. Damn. Lee Parker, she presumed. Kate
had
to take the call.

“Hi,” she said, motioning to Lucy to stay seated.

“Kate, it’s Mary Frances. This is the first chance I’ve had since the hurricane to sneak a phone call. How are my dolls? Were they in harm’s way? Any water damage? Are Jackie and Marilyn okay?”

“Yes, they’re all fine. Marlene and I are doing okay too.”

“Well, thank God. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve been so worried about my girls. And, er, about you and Marlene, and, of course, Joe.”

“All is well here at Ocean Vista. Look, I can’t talk, Mary Frances. I have company.”

“I’m coming home, Kate. I’ve made a decision regarding my virginity.”

A loud banging at the front door made Lucy drop her drink. She jumped up and started toward the hall. The clock chimed.

“Pro or con, Mary Frances?” Kate asked.

Lucy opened the door.

Rosie O’Grady ran in, screaming, “Kate, come quick. There’s a dead body bleeding all over the backseat of my Lincoln C
ontinental.