Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

Two

Compared to what Kate had seen of the rest of the flea market, the spot Sean led them to seemed like heaven.

They’d exited into a clean corridor under an air-conditioned, canopied tent only steps away from the circus. The air felt crisp and comfortable, motivating the, though junk-food fed, well-entertained circus patrons to stop and buy from the vendors.

The setting may have improved; however, the clown’s deteriorating appearance had gone from distasteful to disgusting. Makeup had caked in the deep creases on his cheeks and when he wiped his still sweaty—despite the burst of cold air—forehead, he removed most of his left eyebrow and stained the back of his right hand.

Kate tried not to recoil, reminding herself that first impressions can be misleading, that Sean was probably a fine man, and that she was too damn fussy and fastidious for her own good.

Her upset stomach, its level of acidity a strange but often accurate harbinger of trouble, suggested a different scenario.

Could the cause of her distress be the empty table?

Six tables/booths were positioned, three on each side of the busy corridor. Five were drawing long lines of customers, so dense that Kate couldn’t see the vendors. One table was barren, its metal top exposed and ugly in its nakedness. No merchandise. No seller. No buyers.

“Prime space.” Sean pointed to eager shoppers, still queuing up. “Hundreds of folks pass through here every day on their way to and from our circus.” He sounded proud of the family business.

“The location manager never mentioned this area.” Marlene beamed, seeing the same dollar signs as Kate.

“He’s not a
C
unningham,
is he?” Sean yanked a large, none-too-clean handkerchief from a deep pocket in his roomy plaid pants and took another swipe at the greasepaint. His face now resembled a Dalí painting. “We decide which vendors work the corridors off the circus.”

Beware of clowns bearing gifts. Kate’s stomach lurched anew.

“The Dewar’s guy died Sunday night.” Sean jerked a thumb at the bare table. “We removed his shelves and packed up his wares yesterday. A great loss. We’re all going to the service on Thursday. Both the corridor and the circus will be closed in honor of our very own Whitey Ford. His real name was Bob, but his nickname was a no-brainer, he looked just like the Yankee pitcher. Same blond hair. Same slim frame. And, funny enough, Whitey had the largest collection of Dewar’s pitchers in the country.”

“How did Whitey die?” Kate remembered seeing the real Whitey Ford pitch at Yankee Stadium, Charlie cheering so loudly he’d lost his voice.

“According to the cop who called me, he’d been lounging in the bathtub watching a
Seinfeld
rerun. The TV fell in the tub.” Sean shrugged. “Curtains.”

“An accident?” Marlene ran her hand across the scarred metal table.

“Yeah.” Sean nodded. “An accident.”

Kate found his nod oddly eager, like a naughty puppy looking for approval.

“Whitey had been drinking. The cops found a pitcher half-filled with scotch and an empty glass on the top of the hamper next to the TV.”

Kate had read the story—buried on the bottom of page four in this morning’s
Sun-Sentinel
—just a few lines about a man with no family dying at home alone. Nothing about Bob Ford’s Yankee nickname. Nothing about his passion for Dewar’s pitchers. Nothing about his booth in the flea market.

“Let’s go over to the office and sign the lease.” Sean grabbed Marlene’s elbow. “By the time we get you all set up, the matinee crowd will be gone, and I’ll introduce you to the ladies and gentlemen of the corridor.”

“Sean, wait up!” A high-pitched voice stopped their slow procession toward the tent’s flap.

The young animal trainer—she appeared to be about twenty, the same age as Kate’s oldest granddaughter—had changed from her blue satin majorette outfit into jeans and a tight black t-shirt with requisite midriff exposure, and was weaving her way to Sean’s side.

“Donnie, what do you want?” Under the grotesquely smeared makeup, Kate watched Sean’s face light up. No fool like an old clown.

The girl thrust a damp towel and a jar of cold cream at Sean.

“Clean your face, Mr. C, or these ladies will be embarrassed to be seen with you.” She smiled, showing small, even white teeth, and held out a hand to Kate. “I’m Donna Viera, ma’am, pleased to meet you.”

And Sean calls you Donnie, Kate thought. Before she could respond either with a handshake or a greeting, the girl had moved on to Marlene.

“Mrs. Kate Kennedy and Ms. Marlene Friedman,” Sean paused, as if seeking approval from Marlene for remembering to call her Ms. Score one for the clown. Marlene so disliked being addressed as Mrs. or, God forbid, Miss. “Say hello to South Florida’s finest animal trainer.”

Kate started as Marlene shook hands with “South Florida’s finest animal trainer.”

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Kennedy?” Though Donna’s tone conveyed concern, her navy blue eyes were cold.

Should Kate wave a red flag? Why not? She’d discovered one of the true joys of growing older was the ability to speak her mind and damn the consequences. “I was
thinking
about a cry I heard just before we left the circus. It sounded like an elephant moaning.”

“You have good ears, Mrs. Kennedy.” Donna’s eyes flashed. “Edna, our youngest dancer, had a thorn stuck under her big toe. I removed it right after the show. She did moan a bit, I’m afraid.”

“No anesthesia, I gather.” Even to herself, Kate sounded like a prosecutor.

Donna laughed. It sounded cold. “Would you use anesthesia to remove a splinter, Mrs. Kennedy?”

Knowing when to fold, Kate said, “Only a local on my son, Kevin. Though he grew up to be a firefighter, he hated to have a splinter removed. I guess nursing a frightened child has left me overly sympathetic.”

“Well, if you like, I can arrange for you to visit the patient.”

Snide, Kate thought.
“Yes, thank you. I’d love to.” Kate kept smiling. “Maybe when we return from signing our lease.”

“Maybe tomorrow, Mrs. Kennedy.” Again Donna’s dark eyes belied the lightness of her words. “I still have to groom the animals. And we have another show tonight at seven thirty.”

“Then we’re off, ladies.” Sean had cleaned up, his naked face a pudgy mass of freckles, wrinkles, and jowls. “They close the office at five.”

“Whoa,” Donna said. “Are these ladies taking over Whitey Ford’s spot?”

“Well, yes.” Kate thought she heard a quiver in Sean’s voice. Why would an employer be afraid of an employee?

“You can’t even wait until the body’s cold to turn a profit, can you?” Donna grabbed the dirty towel and the cold cream jar. “Shame on you, Sean Cunningham. You’re no better than a ghoul!”

Three

While Sean had appeared intimidated by Donna Viera, the Palmetto Beach Flea Market’s location manager, a Hobbit-like middle-aged man, fawned over Sean. His many variations of “Yes, sir, Mr. Cunningham” took pandering to a new low. As Marlene signed the “special conditions”—short-term, low-rent—lease, Kate wondered if the Cunningham family owned a controlling share of the flea market as well as the circus.

The small, ordinary business procedure, with handshakes all around, capped with Marlene’s flowery Palmer Method-style signature, stirred up memories of Charlie, who’d died clutching the pen he’d used to close on their Ocean Vista condo.

A heart attack. Alive one moment, gone the next. And a big chunk of Kate’s heart had gone missing too. Oh, she could feel emotion. She fiercely loved her two sons, adored her two beautiful granddaughters and her dearest friend, Marlene. She even, if in a more limited fashion, loved her daughter-in-law, Jennifer. But romance—any semblance of real passion—had died with Charlie. After almost a year, that void still hurt.

Walking back from the shoddy trailer that served as the flea market’s office to Marlene’s and her new place of business, Kate felt a sense of excitement. A poor substitute for passion, yet the spark tingled. She hadn’t held a job for over forty years, not since she’d flown as a stewardess. She and Marlene had agreed that 30 percent of the profit would be hers. She couldn’t wait to get to work. Or to get out of the oppressive heat and humidity.

The South Florida sun, even at five thirty, remained strong. Kate, so fair-skinned she always wore 40-plus sunscreen, pulled the brim of her soft straw hat down over her ears and stared at the scorched-to-brown grass.

But what a day. They’d driven into the flea market under a bright yellow arch reminiscent of a supersized McDonald’s. The entrance, located off Neptune Boulevard several miles west of I-95, led into a field of crisp green grass, thick and trimmed. At nine forty-five a.m., their receipt, marked “642,” indicated that 641 cars, with God only knows how many passengers, had beaten them to market.

The outdoor tables closest to the arch and the parking lots sold pretty things: flowering plants, their blooms a riot of hot pink and purple. Hand-painted, ceramic Chinese garden seats. Antique—or created to look antique—Chinese fish pots. White enamel rocking chairs and small end tables, designed to remind the buyers of furniture once found on grandma’s front porch. Everything reflected the shabby chic so popular in the late nineties and remaining in demand at this flea market.

A wide-striped canvas deck chair had caught Kate’s attention, flooding her with memories of long-ago lazy summers and the blue and white horizontal stripes on the chaise-like beach chair her father had set up every Saturday morning on the sand at Rockaway Beach more than half a century ago.

Marlene, seemingly enchanted by the array of merchandise, had said, “Shouldn’t we get a table here?”

Kate had asked and learned that these vendors parked their vans in the lot nearest the entrance. They had a mighty long haul every morning at seven, moving their wares from the vans to the market, then setting up those attention-getting displays. Marlene concluded she and Kate absolutely had to have an indoor location.

Trekking through the air-conditioned tents, Kate had worried about profit versus operating costs, while Marlene shopped. How would Marlene’s “junk” or even her “treasures” generate enough income to defray the rent on an inside table/booth? These out-of-the-sunshine vendors sold upscale items: fine jewelry, cashmere sweaters—oddly enough, very popular in South Florida—and designer shoes and handbags. Or damn fine imitations.

Now, feeling hot and sticky in the middle of the field of dried grass beyond the circus tent as they returned to their nice, cool corridor, Kate wondered what marketing genius—some Cunningham?—had made the decision to hide the leasing/management office in the dreariest section of the flea market.

Most of the vendors here wore weathered, sunburned faces and an air of desperation bordering on defeat. Maybe with good reason. Not a customer in sight.

Vans were lined up behind tables that held cheap trinkets, haphazardly displayed. The merchandise made both Marlene’s “junk” and “treasures” seem like jewels from Tiffany.

Did these vendors sleep in the vans or did they pack up their goods every evening, drive off, and return the next morning? Spotting a clothesline strung between two rear windows, Kate realized for most of the vendors, their vans also served as their homes.

Sean had removed his oversized shoes and was carrying them in his left hand. His right hand clutched Marlene’s elbow. Though walking in socks that must be as smelly as they were soiled, Sean still smiled and joked, keeping up a line of clown patter, as if he were center ring.

“Pick up some speed, girls,” Sean said. “We’re running late for cocktails, and I have another show to do tonight.” Squeezing Marlene’s arm, he winked at Kate. “Like the lovely Donnie’s coddled elephants, don’t I deserve to be fed and watered?”

Kate couldn’t remember when she’d ever taken such a strong disliking to any human being. His only redeemable trait had been securing them a place in the busy, well-located corridor. But even that beau geste shouldn’t be enough to subject her to the clown’s ongoing prattle and those disgusting feet.

She’d bet Sean
never
showered and changed between shows. He probably just had a couple of drinks, grabbed a hot dog, reapplied that garish makeup, and then crawled right back into his VW Bug.

Four

The doll lady looked like one: Chronologically Correct Barbie. Mid to late forties. Barbie’s real-time shelf life. Her strapless, cotton candy pink satin top and Lycra miniskirt were the exact shade of her thigh-high leather boots.

She whipped her long golden curls around, the ends of her hair sweeping over Marlene’s cheek like a blush brush, gave Kate a dirty look, and snarled. “What’s wrong with you, Sean? These women are temporary vendors. Two bloody weeks, for God’s sake.” She spoke with an English accent and a smoker’s rasp, and made it sound as if Kate and Marlene were interlopers carrying the plague. “You’re breaking your own Cunningham Circus corridor long-term lease rule.”

“Bending, my lovely Linda, merely bending the rule for an old friend.” Sean gestured to Marlene with one hand while patting Linda’s bare shoulder with the other. “Now say hello to Marlene and Kate. I’m confident that you girls are all going to be great friends.”

A beautiful big cat appeared at Kate’s feet, wrapping a bushy, gorgeous, but shortened, tail around Kate’s ankle.

Kate reached down to pet her new friend, but Linda was quicker, snatching the cat up into her arms. “We don’t let strangers touch us, do we, Precious?”

Their less-than-welcoming neighbor let Precious go from her shoulder, paw by delicate paw, onto a pink satin pillow on a shelf behind her. The cat curled up next to a Ken doll with a missing head.

Linda adjusted her skirt and returned to the task Sean had interrupted, arranging teeny furniture in a doll-size hacienda. As Linda leaned forward to place a miniature Mexican rug in the hacienda’s hallway, her bosom spilled over her strapless top.

Precious woke up enough to play with Ken’s torso. Kate and Marlene moved on.

“Don’t take it personally, gals. Linda Rutledge’s been here for years and has trouble coping with changes in the corridor. High and mighty, that one. Claims she’s a distant cousin of Princess Diana. And, of course, she and Whitey Ford were very close. Well, until recently.” Sean smacked his ruby red lips and laughed. Such an annoying laugh…more like a snort. “Linda never reveals her age, only admits to being somewhere between twenty-one and death. Claims that one day her tombstone will read, ‘She Reached Death.’ And Linda really lost it when Whitey got drunk and blabbed to all the vendors that they were the same age: forty-six.”

Sean pointed to a table directly across the corridor from Linda’s. “Come on, girls, let’s say hello to Freddie.”

“First editions,” a jolly fat man wearing a Stan Lee t-shirt, said. “Mostly Marvel. Welcome to the corridor, ladies.” He gestured to the tall metal racks—all holding comic books—that lined the tent wall behind
him.
“I’m Frederick Ducksworth. Freddie to my friends.”

Kate extended her hand. “I’m Kate Kennedy, and this is Marlene Friedman.”

She didn’t miss the considerably younger comic book vendor’s head-to-toe approving appraisal of Marlene. True, with her expensive makeup and two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume, her platinum blonde sister-in-law, a very large woman, exuded an ageless sex appeal. Also true, Marlene looked most attractive today in her red linen shift with a slit exposing one tanned-to-toast leg.

Kate, neat in pressed khakis and a white cotton man-tailored shirt, suddenly felt old, bland, and sexless. Marlene was always after Kate to “stop dressing like a guy.” But Charlie had admired what he’d called her Katharine Hepburn style, and she’d never shown much leg, not even when her silver hair had been chestnut and her freckled, pale-turned-red-never-tan skin had been taut.

“So what do you think of my collection?” Freddie nodded, clearly anticipating praise.

“Impressive.” Kate spoke the truth and felt some guilt. Her sons, Kevin and Peter, still angry that she’d tossed their comic books during a June Cleaver-like cleaning spree, would want to buy the lot.

“What will you be selling?” Freddie exposed big teeth framed in a wide smile, topped with sharp blue eyes and bushy white hair.

“Fifties and sixties memorabilia. Hula hoops and poodle skirts. Genuine mink false eyelashes and microminis.” Marlene winked. “And let me warn you, Freddie, I may have a Marvel or two in my collection.” Not only had Kate’s former sister-in-law defined her junk, she’d flirted with the competition.

Kate glanced across the corridor to the barren table next to the doll lady’s. Gesturing, she said, “We’ll be setting up shop over there tomorrow.” Good lord. It felt as if she and
Marlene were jumping into Whitey Ford’s turf before the body was buried.

“Two nice-looking, refined ladies like you will do just fine,” Freddie said, meeting and holding Marlene’s eyes. “See you in the morning.”

“Freddie and Whitey haven’t spoken to each other in five years.” Sean’s whisper came through a snort-like laugh as they walked away.

At the table next to Freddie’s, a mother/daughter team was selling costume jewelry from the forties and fifties. “The finest retro-design originals in South Florida,” the sixty-something mother, Suzanna Jordan, gushed. A slim, classic beauty with great cheekbones, she wore what had to be a Brooks Brothers white cotton shirt and man-tailored tan gabardine trousers. Kate smiled, loving the woman’s style and suddenly feeling much better about her own outfit. “And this is Olivia, my daughter,” Suzanna said with less enthusiasm.

Her plump, dowdy daughter stared down at the ground. Marlene picked up an amethyst brooch and held it up close to her eyes. “Miriam Haskell?”

“Exactly,” Suzanna said. “Do you own a Haskell piece?”

“Oh, yes, indeed I do. At least twenty, I’d say, not counting the earrings.” Marlene smiled. “I may be selling a few of them myself.”

Suzanna did not seem amused.

The trio crisscrossed again, headed to the booth located on the far side of the doll lady’s.

“Olivia had the hots—er—a crush on Whitey, but her mother put the kibosh on that,” Sean said.

Was the clown a harmless gossip or a born troublemaker? Kate leaned toward the latter.

Kate gasped, her breath seeping out slowly like a muted shocked whistle. German helmets, Iron Crosses, and an SS black leather trench coat were among the WWII Nazi memorabilia spread across a swastika tablecloth. Hanging on the tent’s canvas fabric behind the table were two large U.S.A. wartime posters. “Loose Lips Sink Ships” and “Uncle Sam Needs You.” Part of a recruitment campaign.

The juxtaposition of Nazi Germany’s mementos and WWII America’s patriotic slogans disturbed her, rattled her.

The soldier-straight senior citizen, dressed in head-to-toe black, offered his hand. “I’m Carl Krieg.” He bowed, merely a brief bob of chin toward chest, but with his graying blond hair slicked straight back, comb lines showing, the tall, thin man’s demeanor somehow reminded Kate that Hitler’s Youth had grown old. “Welcome to the corridor.”

As she’d expected, he pronounced it
velcome.

“Frau Friedman, isn’t it?” The vendor smiled at Marlene.

Good Lord, not another of Marlene’s former dance partners from Ireland’s Inn. Kate shuddered. Not possible. Marlene wouldn’t…

“Kate, Mr. Krieg has made an offer on one of those newly renovated condos on the top floor.”

“Have I passed?” The vendor sounded eager.

“We’re still reviewing your application.” Marlene sounded icy cold.

Her former sister-in-law served as president of the Ocean Vista board of directors. Eleven years ago, Marlene had purchased a first-floor unit with a balcony only a couple of feet above the sand. Kate had a third-floor unit, also with an ocean view.

She and Charlie had moved to Palmetto Beach last April because he’d fallen in love with Ocean Vista during their many respites from cold New York City Februarys when they visited Marlene.

One of the duties of the condo’s president and board of directors was to interview prospective owners. Kate had never heard of a prospect being turned down; but no board member that she knew of would want a neo-Nazi as a neighbor.

They crossed the aisle yet again and approached the last booth on the other side of the corridor, decorated like a gaudy mini-circus and manned by a
C
unningham
clown—if Kate recalled correctly, the first one out of the Volkswagen.

Sean draped an arm around Marlene. “Watch out for Carl Krieg. That old guy doesn’t play well with others. Why, didn’t he lose his temper just last week and threaten to punch poor Whitey Ford? They lived in the same rental complex, you know.”

Old guy? Kate figured Carl and Sean were contemporaries.

The clown, Jocko, the youngest Cunningham brother in costume, looked up and smiled at Kate. One front tooth was blacked out. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He turned to his brother. “A great post-matinee crowd. I think we even outsold the doll lady today. I’m closing up shop. It’s almost show time.”

Though the air-conditioning wasn’t too cool, Kate shivered. Something sleazy about that clown Jocko. Something sleazy about the entire Cunningham operation.

Finally free of Sean, they started back to the parking lot. Kate, exhausted and wanting to get home and walk Ballou, wondered if she could work in the corridor.

“Marlene, do you realize that the only vendor Sean didn’t badmouth was his brother, Jocko? He made it sound as if all the others had grudges against Whitey.”

“Right.” Marlene nodded. “So do you
think
Whitey Ford’s drowning wasn’t an accident?”

Kate shrugged. “I’m guessing Sean believes Ford was murdered, so he kept trying, none too subtly, to convince us that everyone in the corridor—except the Cunninghams—had a motive.”