Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (8 page)

Fifteen

The man lay facedown in a pool of blood, a knife stuck in his neck. Kate, kneeling on the front passenger seat, didn’t want to touch or move the body. She had no need to see his face. She’d know him anywhere. Why hadn’t Rosie recognized Detective Parker?

“Call the police,” Kate yelled to no one, to everyone. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the dead man.

“And an ambulance,” Lucy said, suddenly sober.

“Right,” Kate agreed, though she felt certain it was too late to help Lee Parker.

“Whaddaya think?” Rosie said. “I watch
Law & Order.
I knocked on Marlene’s door first and asked her to call the cops; then I took the elevator up to get you, Kate.”

“So much blood. You wouldn’t think there’d be so much blood.” Lucy, trying to peer over Kate’s shoulder, sounded like Lady Macbeth. She must have performed well in the courtroom.

Of course there would be a lot of blood. The killer had sliced the jugular. Parker’s head listed to the left, as if his neck had been broken. Could that, too, be result of a knife wound? Somehow Kate didn’t think so.

And why in the world had Parker gotten into the backseat of Rosie’s car? The body hadn’t been there when she and Marlene returned from the Sea Watch and parked next to the Lincoln, had it? She didn’t remember looking into the car, so she couldn’t be sure. And the blood looked fresh. He couldn’t have been dead long.

Not wanting to leave fingerprints, Kate inched out of the front seat and through the passenger door the same way she’d crawled in, without using her hands. “It’s Detective Parker.”

Lucy gasped, then teetered. Had she not recognized the body either?

“Why did that cop have to get himself killed in my car?” Rosie hurled her question at Kate as if she expected Kate had the answer. “I just had the seats reupholstered, ya know. Cost me more than my entire July Social Security payment. There ain’t no justice.”

“Life’s a bitch, Rosie,” Lucy snapped, then wiped her eyes.

Strange. Parker’s demise might let Lucy off the hook for Weatherwise’s murder, but she was carrying on as if she’d lost the love of her life. Or was she mourning unrequited love?

Kate turned to Rosie and realized for the first time that the former Rockette was dressed to kill. In blood red. A full-skirted chiffon cocktail dress, not unlike a bridesmaid circa 1957. Matching strappy sandals, flattering those great legs, last noticed wrapped around Uncle Weatherwise’s neck. And enough rhinestones, glittering like tinsel, to trim a tabletop-size Christmas tree.

“Where were you going?” Kate assumed that Rosie hadn’t been driving home with a dead detective in her backseat, but still, ten p.m.
was pretty late for an eighty-four-year-old to be starting out.

“Dancing.” Defiant in body language and tone. “At Ireland’s Inn.”

Kate waited.

“I was watching my Lawrence Welk video and got nostalgic, ya know, wanted a little companionship. A little smooth dancing. In someone’s arms.” Rosie stared down at the ground. “Maybe an Old Fashioned. My favorite cocktail.” It had been Kate’s father’s favorite too. “I figured I’d run into Joe Sajak at Ireland’s.” She jerked her thumb toward an empty spot a
cross the parking lot. “His car wasn’t there, so I was right, he’d gone dancing.”

Kate had dropped the phone before hearing Mary Frances’s decision. She hoped the former nun wouldn’t be losing her virginity to snaky Sajak.

A Paul Newman lookalike, once a suspect in his wife’s murder, Joe had most of Ocean Vista’s widows and divorcées dropping off casseroles and inviting him to dinner on Las Olas and plays—that they “just happened to have an extra ticket for”—at the Broward County Performing Arts Center. The man made Kate squirm. How well had Joe known Uncle Weatherwise? And what time had he left for Ireland’s Inn?

“Kate!” Marlene, her platinum hair in huge pink plastic rollers, wearing a marabou-trimmed, white satin dressing gown, had arrived, dragging an ashen Bob, in tailored—probably Brooks Brothers—pressed pajamas, behind her.

An ambulance’s siren heralded its arrival and a Palmetto Beach Police car, lights flashing, pulled into the parking lot behind it.

“The 911 operator wouldn’t let me off the phone. Reporting a dead body isn’t easy. Questions. Questions. Details. Details. I finally told her I’d been stabbed too, and hung up.” Marlene groaned. “So here I am, and not a second too soon.”

“Let me go, Marlene.” Bob looked even thinner than usual. And frightened. “You roused me out of bed, mumbling something about a murder in the parking lot…” He came across as vague, his breathing labored.

Marlene gestured to the police car, literally shoved Bob at Lucy, and whispered in Kate’s ear. “Around eight thirty or so, I was sitting on my balcony having a nightcap.”

A nightcap. After three Cosmos at dinner. Kate sighed, then asked, “And?”

The August night air surrounded them like wet woolen drapes, smothering, relentless in its stillness.

“And I watched as someone left the beach, came through the pool gate, and headed into the parking lot.” Marlene had stepped back, but kept her voice low.

“Who?”

Marlene’s dramatic delivery, an obvious attempt to build up suspense, was annoying Kate.

“Your new best friend, S. J. Corbin. At the time I didn’t think much of it, figured she’d been checking out the beach and was on her way to get her car.”

“Kate Kennedy.” She spun around. Nick Carbone, sweating in a wrinkled blue shirt, walked toward her. “So you’ve discovered two bodies in two days. Is that your personal best?”

“Hey, I found this stiff.” Rosie oozed indignation. “If ya got any questions, Detective Carbone, fire away. I’m kinda in a hurry, ya know. And when can you get Detective Parker’s body out of my car? I’d like to catch the last set at Ireland’s Inn.”

Carbone flushed. His olive skin turned redder than Rosie’s dress. “You’re not going anywhere, Ms. O’Grady.” Kate leaned against the hood of Marlene’s car, feeling faint from the heat, but trying to focus. Pajamas popped into her mind. Why were Bob Seeley’s pajamas so crisply pressed if, as he said, Marlene had just roused him from bed?

Sixteen

In
what Kate
considered very unorthodox police procedure, Nick Carbone had led them all, including Miss Mitford, who’d been hovering at the front desk, into Ocean Vista’s recreation room, ordered them to sit there and wait, instructed a uniformed officer to stay behind, then returned to the scene of the crime. The sudden move from oppressive heat to aggressive air conditioning left Kate wishing she had a sweater.

The young policeman, in his slightly wilted but otherwise spiffy Palmetto Beach uniform, inhibited conversation. Too bad. Some of Kate’s many questions might have been inadvertently answered; people said the damnedest things under stress.

Oh well, there was always body language.

Miss Mitford’s crossed arms and furrowed brow shouted indignation. She sat, her back ramrod straight, far removed from the condo owners, in a chair near the door to the lobby, seemingly ready to return to sentinel duty as soon as the inquisition ended.

Lucy paced in front of a dais still covered in red, white, and blue crepe-paper streamers from the Fourth of July party. In the harsh, fluorescent lighting, the former prosecutor appeared haggard. Kate felt grateful she couldn’t see herself, sure she looked like death warmed over, one of her grandmother’s many right on-target descriptions.

Bob Seeley’s expensive navy blue pajamas remained as stiff as his personality. Nary a wrinkle. How could that be? No sweat? Strong starch? A great, no-iron-needed miracle fabric? Still ashen, he held his hands in his lap, and stared down at his matching leather slippers. Bob didn’t strike Kate as a man who’d appear in public in his nightclothes. Even if awakened by Marlene and confused about what had happened or who’d been murdered. Could his vagueness and the pajamas be props? Part of an act? Not unlike Lucy acting so sorry about Lee Parker’s death.

Marlene fidgeted with the marabou, tugging her dressing gown closer, adjusting the slippery satin sash, pulling it tighter.

Rosie O’Grady broke the silence, whistling, rather well, “Shall We Dance?” The young cop, standing a few feet in front of Rosie, smiled and tapped his right foot.

Kate, remembering what Charlie had told her about how the New York City DA’s office advised their witnesses to behave in court, sat as straight as Miss Mitford, with uncrossed legs, feet planted on the floor, hands folded in her lap. She hoped her demeanor would impress Nick Carbone.

Within five minutes, everyone in the room was either pacing or squirming in their seats, including Kate. So much for her courtroom decorum.

She’d just started to review the timeline—who’d been where—during what appeared to be a relatively narrow window of opportunity, when Nick Carbone returned with a distraught S. J. Corbin in tow.

“I told you I was getting a tape measure from my car, for heaven’s sake. You have no right to hold me, Detective Carbone.” S. J.’s voice quaked.

“Please take a seat, Ms. Corbin. I’m investigating the death of a homicide detective who was working a murder case in my town.”

A cop had been killed. Kate remembered how Charlie would close down, racked with sorrow, full of fury, and itching for revenge when a NYPD cop fell in the line of duty.

Carbone, sweating while Kate shivered, wiped his brow. “Not only do I have the right, I have the duty to question everyone in this room.” His clipped words were several degrees colder than the air conditioning.

What would Nick say if she asked to be excused to get a sweater? She almost laughed aloud at the thought. Better to suffer in silence.

“The initial CSI report indicates that Detective Lee Parker died from unnatural causes no earlier than seven thirty p.m.
The 911 call from Ms. Friedman was received at 9:34. If Ms. O’Grady ran straight to Ms. Friedman’s condo immediately after spotting the body, we know Parker was killed before nine thirty.”

“Whadda mean by
if?”
Rosie roared, jumping up from her front-row seat. “You think I stopped off at my apartment to pee or ditch the knife?”

“I don’t know, Ms. O’Grady.” He sounded steely. “Why don’t you tell us about the events leading up to and directly following your discovery of Detective Parker’s body? And please, do feel free to reveal where you hid the murder weapon.”

Ouch. Had someone told Nick about the weather vane in Rosie’s tote bag?

Questioning the suspects in front of each other struck Kate as surreal. If she, as so often accused by the detective, liked playing Miss Marple, Carbone had morphed into Hercule Poirot. Surprisingly, the Ocean Vista residents played along. All that was missing was the London drawing room.

“Who wants to stay alone in her room?” Rosie, the trouper, warmed to her tale. “Watching them dancers waltzing on the nine o’clock Welk rerun—you can check
TV Guide
—sent me out into the night. Luckily, I always wear full makeup, so I got myself dressed and was in the parking lot before nine thirty.”

Kate marveled. Rosie made a compelling, totally believable witness.

“I’d just switched on the ignition when I spotted him. Don’t know what made me turn around; maybe I caught a peek of something in the rearview mirror.” She shrugged, then clasped her arms in front of her chest. Another marvel. Her bare eighty-four-year-old arms were almost firm. “Don’t know. So much blood. I never touched him. Didn’t even get close. Just jumped out of the car. I don’t have a cell phone, so I ran like hell to Marlene’s. While she called 911, I went up to Kate’s. I didn’t want to go back to the parking lot alone.”

“You had no idea the man was Detective Parker?” Carbone raised a bushy right eyebrow.

“Right,” Rosie said. “No idea.”

“Weren’t you the least bit curious about the identity of the corpse in your backseat? And don’t you lock your car, Ms. O’Grady?”

“Not curious enough to touch him. I figured he wasn’t going nowhere. I could wait,” Rosie rasped; it sounded like a smothered laugh. “And, Detective, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m an old lady; maybe I forgot to lock my car. Sue me.” She hiked up her bloodied dress’s bodice to coyer an exposed bit of black lace on her bra.

Score one for the former Radio City Rockette. She’d kicked Nick Carbone’s questions off center stage and into the rear balcony.

In some perverse way, Kate was enjoying herself. She felt a pang of shame, but no remorse. Who’d be next?

Seventeen

“Mrs. Kennedy, where
were you between seven and nine?” Her stomach lurched. Served her right, thriving on other people’s discomfort, rooting for a suspect instead of law and order. Nick usually called her Kate. But she had no reason to be nervous. She could account for every moment, couldn’t she?

“Well.” Her voice seemed scratchy, prissy. “Marlene and I had dinner at the Sea Watch. We got home at seven thirty. I remember checking my watch as we crossed the pool area. Then, in the lobby, Miss Mitford introduced us to S. J. Corbin, who’s buying Walt Weatherwise’s condo.”

“Ms. Freidman’s assigned parking spot is right next to Ms. O’Grady’s, isn’t it?*’ Carbone asked, though he knew the answer. “And her Lincoln Continental was there when you parked, right?”

“Yes,” Kate said. Less nasal. Maybe a little more confident.

“Did either of you ladies notice anything different about Ms. O’Grady’s car?”

Kate shook her head. “We had no reason to check it out.”

“What happened after you left the lobby?”

“I went to my apartment; Marlene went to hers.” Kate hesitated. “I’d expected Detective Parker, but he never called. Never showed up.”

“You had another visitor, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Lucy Diamond.”

“And what did Ms. Diamond want?” Nick pulled out a notebook. Her answers were going on record.

What could Kate say? That Lucy dropped by to confess Detective Parker thought she’d stabbed Uncle Weatherwise. Kate stalled, trying to crane up with some semblance of the truth.

Though she willed herself not to, Kate’s eyes sought out Lucy’s. Panic filled those dark brown eyes. Lucy’s jaw sagged and her shoulders had slumped. Kate forced herself to face Nick Carbone, to smile. “Girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” Carbone chuckled. A condescending chuckle.

“Right.” Kate was firm. “Before we really got started, Rosie O’Grady banged on my door.”

Lucy sighed. In the silent room, her deep breath heaved, then lingered in the dead air. Jeez, did she think Carbone was deaf? What sort of prosecutor had this woman been? The detective raised a brow, but gave the sigh a pass.

“Why was Detective Parker craning to see you, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“His interview with me at the Coral Reef Police Headquarters was interrupted by a phone call. He excused himself to take the call, saying he’d see me tonight. Here, in Ocean Vista.”

“That call was most suspicious,” Marlene broke in. “Either the killer or a tipster must have been on the phone. Someone—or something—very important and urgent enough to make Parker stop interrogating his prime suspect.”

Good God. With friends like Marlene, Kate could wind up in jail.

Carbone almost grinned, then ignored Marlene and moved on to Lucy. “According to Miss Mitford, Ocean Vista’s officers have the four spots closest to the condo’s rear entrance. Ms. Friedman’s and Ms. O’Grady’s to the south. Bob Seeley’s and yours to the north, nearest the back door. Is that right, Ms. Diamond?”

“Correct.” Lucy, standing tall and lean, met Nick’s gaze. Her reply crisp, her posture straight. Her attitude a total metamorphosis.

“Where were you between seven thirty and nine, Ms. Diamond?”

“I object to both your question and your tone, Detective.” The lawyer in Lucy had surfaced. “However, in the interest of moving this investigation along, I will answer it.” Lucy gestured toward a pale Bob. “Mr. Seeley and I dined at the Olympia Diner on Commercial Boulevard. We left here a little before seven and returned about eight fifteen or so. If I’d known there had been a murder, I’d have checked my watch.”

“Did you drive to the diner in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Ms. Friedman’s car when you left?”

“No. Marlene’s parking space was empty.”

“What about Ms. O’Grady’s Lincoln?”

Lucy nodded. “Rosie’s car was there.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about it?”

With a shake of her head, Lucy said, “No. I didn’t peek in the window, Detective.”

“How about you, Mr. Seeley?” Nick Carbone spun in Bob’s direction, obviously catching the older man by surprise. “Notice anything odd? Out of place?”

“Nothing
at all, Detective.”

“What did you do when you returned home after dinner?”

“I changed into my pajamas and got into bed. I’m reading the new Michael Connelly, but after a few pages, I fell asleep.”

A very sedate sleeper or a very smooth liar.

“Early to bed, hey?” Carbone smiled. “Then what?”

“Marlene banging on the door and screaming bloody murder woke me up.” Bob crossed his arms. “Still half asleep, I followed her out to the parking lot.”

Carbone jotted something in his notebook. Kate, curious, wondered if the detective believed Bob. She found his alibi the weakest.

S. J. Corbin fiddled with a piece of torn fabric on her chair, watching and waiting. She had to know she’d be next. Would Carbone discover that S. J. had gone through the pool and into the parking lot during that brief window of opportunity he’d described? Or could he already be aware of that?

Kate glanced over at the prim sentinel who sat posture perfect, serene, and confident. Maybe Miss Mitford had informed him.

“When did you arrive, Ms. Corbin?” Nick’s tone softened. Why?

“About seven fifteen. A few minutes later, Miss Mitford introduced me to my new neighbors, Kate and Marlene.”

Humph. New neighbors. First names. A bit premature. Corbin’s contract wasn’t even signed yet. Or was it? “Then what?” Carbone scribbled in his notebook.

“I went up to Walt Weatherwise’s—er, I guess it’s now my apartment.”

“You had a key?”

“I’m the Realtor as well as the buyer, Detective. Mr. Weatherwise left the key at the front desk for me. I wanted to do a walk-through. Take some measurements. Check out the view at night.”

“But you explored more than the apartment, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes, I did.” S. J. showed no surprise at his question. “I’d forgotten my tape measure, left it in the car. When I went out the back door, the moon looked so inviting that I decided to take a walk on the beach before heading to the parking lot to get my tape.”

“What time did you hit the beach, Ms. Corbin?”

“Around eight thirty, I guess.”

“A long walk-through.”

S. J. Corbin nodded. “Yes, I jotted down lots of information, Detective Carbone.” She pointed to his notebook. “Just like you are now.”

“Have you tak
en karate lessons, Ms. Corbin?”

Out of left field. Where in the world was Carbone going?

“No.” S. J. sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“It seems a blow to the neck rendered Detective Parker unconscious before he was stabbed.”

As if choreographed, Lucy, Bob, Marlene, and Kate swung their heads around to confront Rosie, who held a black belt in karate.