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

Five

“How could I have known Carl Krieg was some kind of fascist? Hell, he didn’t wear his SS black leather trench coat to the interview in the board room.”

Marlene’s mantra, chanted all during the ride home, had begun to wear on Kate’s nerves. “His references were impeccable: a minister, a former governor, and old Mrs. Wagner on the fourth floor. Even Mary Frances liked him, and she’d vet the Pope.”

“I only asked about Krieg’s application process and its status.” Kate sighed. “I’m not accusing you of dereliction of duty.” Aware that condo candidates were usually automatically approved, but unable to resist, she added, “You must have noticed his accent.”

“What’s really going on here, Kate?”

Marlene whipped into her coveted covered parking spot in the owners’ lot to the right of the condominium, then stepped on the brake so heavily Kate was thrown forward. If her seat belt hadn’t been fastened, she’d have hit the dashboard.

“Are you mad at me about Carl Krieg’s Ocean Vista interviewing process or are you mad at yourself for promising to help me out at the flea market?”

Yet again, Marlene had sliced through the surface muck and gotten down to the swamp at the bottom of Kate’s
min
d where the real problem—the flea market—festered. Kate remained surprised by Marlene’s mind-reading skill, though she’d been doing it for decades.

“Well.” Kate allowed a small smile. “Maybe the flea market isn’t my cup of tea.”

“Too Earl Grey or too Apple Spice?”

“Just not Lipton.” Kate laughed, acknowledging she seldom varied her routine.

“You’re in a rut, Kate. You need to get out of your apartment, meet new people, take a break from sand and surf, our fellow condo owners, and your crossword puzzles.” Marlene popped open her seat belt. “I grant you the flea market’s not Lord and Taylor’s, but branch out, woman. Expand your horizons. Try another brand of tea. Work with me and make some money. Listen, with any luck, Whitey Ford’s
accidental
death will turn out to be murder, and you can question the suspects between sales.”

They entered by the side door. Ocean Vista’s sea-foam lobby, furnished with small clusters of rattan tables and chairs, two large dark green chenille couches, and scattered tall baskets holding plastic plants, had faux marble flows and too many mirrors for its aging population. In the center, a life-sized imitation alabaster statue of Aphrodite stood in a fountain, surrounded by six winged cupids—mixing, probably unintentionally, Greek and Roman myths.

Large even by Florida standards, the lobby boasted elaborate glass double doors opening onto a circular driveway, edged with royal palms and sweet-smelling jasmine, which swept down to A1A, known in Palmetto Beach as Ocean Boulevard. The rear door led to the recreation room, the pool area, and the Atlantic Ocean.

Though Kate had begun to think of the over-decorated apartment building as home, she still missed the staid redbrick Tudor in Rockville Centre, her real home, where she and Charlie had lived more than forty years prior to moving down here. Charlie, who’d so wanted to live on the beach, had died without sleeping even one night in his dream house.

“Yoo-hoo!” She didn’t have to turn around; she’d recognize Mary Frances Costello’s bird call anywhere. The dancing ex-nun was vice president of the condo board and, since she’d been principal of a grade school, she sometimes tended to treat her co-owners as naughty children. A glamorous redheaded paradox, Mary Frances, Broward County’s reigning tango champion, had turned her only bedroom into a dance studio, complete with beams, wall-to-wall mirrors, and rack upon rack of exotic tango costumes. Her living room housed a huge doll collection displayed behind glass doors in floor-to-ceiling bookcases—ranging from Barbie and Ken to Henry VIII and his six wives.

Boy, did Kate have a new friend for Mary Frances.

“Hi, Mary Frances,” Kate said, and kept moving.

“Where have you girls been all day?” Mary Frances’s green eyes sparkled like Scarlett’s at Twelve Oaks while tempting the Tarleton twins. “I have such exciting news.”

Her charm was wasted on Kate. “Ballou’s been home alone all day, Mary Frances. I have to take him for a walk. Now.”

“I certainly understand the needs of a neglected animal, Kate.”

“For God’s sake, Ballou isn’t neglected,” Marlene snapped, her face flaming red.

“Of course not,” Mary Frances said. “Don’t I know he’s the luckiest Westie in South Florida? I’ve just returned from my first day of training to become a volunteer at the Broward County Humane Society. I’ll be working in adoption, placing pets. I just can’t get all those poor abandoned puppies and kittens off my mind.”

Strange. Ballou, who loved most everyone, barely tolerated Mary Frances. Yet…the former nun’s volunteer work with the Humane Society impressed her. It was more than Kate had ever done.

“If I don’t get upstairs and walk my dog, you’ll be reporting me for cruelty to animals.” Seeing the crestfallen look on Mary Frances’s face, Kate relented. “Want to join us?”

She heard Marlene groan.

“You’re coming too, right, Marlene?” Kate was enjoying herself. Marlene and Mary Frances were always sniping at each other. “Ballou would love to see his favorite aunt. And Mary Frances can tell us all about her new job, and you can tell her all about us becoming vendors at the Palmetto Beach Flea Market.”

“Talking about cruelty to animals,” Mary Frances said, “did you know the Humane Society sent an investigator out to the Cunningham Circus? Some young elephant trainer supposedly abused an elephant.”

“Just give me a minute to change my shoes,” Marlene said. “I’d love to go for a walk with you and hear all about it.”

Six

“Down, boy,” Kate ordered, but it sounded a lot like “I love you.” Ballou jumped, yelped, licked, and nipped at her ankles all at the same time, expressing boundless joy at seeing his mistress. Then, to her delight, he held up his right paw as if waiting for a high five. Kate obliged. The high five greeting had become a ritual between the Westie and Charlie. Kate felt honored to carry on the tradition.

She kicked off her good beige sandals and slipped into her old canvas boat shoes. No time to change her clothes: This dog had to go for his walk.

Ballou, as usual, squirmed and fussed as she struggled to put on his leash. “Stop that! Auntie Marlene and Mary Frances are waiting for us.” He cocked his head, staring up at her with soulful eyes, then went back to nipping at her hands. She shook her head and resumed her struggle, knowing be wouldn’t calm down till the leash was on.

Obeying house rules, Kate carried Ballou into the elevator and across the lobby, under the watchful eyes of Miss Mitford, keeper of the keys and longtime sentinel at the front desk. A dour woman who’d been at Ocean Vista since the ribbon had been cut on the condominium thirty years prior, Miss Mitford ran the desk like a Marine drill sergeant, never allowing any leeway to those entrusted to her care.

Kate pushed open the back door and a cool ocean breeze ruffled her short hair, making her smile. So it wasn’t April in Paris—April in Palmetto Beach wasn’t bad either. The sun hovered over the horizon, the sky a pastel palette ranging from soft violet to muted coral. A broad expanse of sand almost devoid of humans led down to the deep blue sea topped with whitecaps that shimmered like whipped cream.

“Wait up!” Marlene shouted the exact same words she’d used over sixty years ago to stop Kate in her tracks; they worked just as well this evening.

Kate spun around, still smiling, in a far better frame of mind than during the car ride home from the flea market. The salt air? Or the anticipation of Mary Frances providing her with a raison d’être? A cause she could champion. Kate liked causes. Missed not having one. Why couldn’t she volunteer at the Humane Society too? Maybe track down the elephant abuser.

“Hi, Marlene.” Ballou strained on his leash, pulling Kate back toward Marlene. The Westie liked most people, but he so adored Marlene that, before Kate and Ballou grew so close, she’d felt jealous of her former sister-in-law.

“Where’s Mary Frances?” Marlene had changed into a gauzy aqua caftan and low-heeled sandals, and she’d wrapped an aqua turban around her platinum French twist.

“Right here.” The dancing ex-nun rose gracefully from a chair by the pool, barefoot and beautiful. Her red hair glinted in the waning sunlight, and her green sweat suit matched those sparkling eyes. Only Mary Frances could make sweats look like haute couture.

Ballou, not impressed, growled softly and pulled back when Mary Frances reached out to pet him.

“Your dog doesn’t like me, Kate.” Mary Frances sounded hurt and indignant. She’d remarked on Ballou’s unfriendly responses to her overtures many times before this snub.

“Oh, he only has eyes for his Auntie Marlene,” Kate said, handing Marlene his leash. “He even ignores me when she’s around.” She had a quick word with God, willing Marlene not to comment.

Seeming to get the message, Marlene remained silent, letting Ballou prance like a king several paces ahead of his ladies-in-waiting.

“The staff at the Humane Society has been lobbying the Palmetto Beach Police Department to investigate rumored abuse for some time.” Mary Frances, over her snit and aware that she had an avid audience, spoke with a sense of breathless drama. “So far the police haven’t done a thing, but after a recent phone call, a volunteer from the shelter visited the circus again and nosed around. She reported that Edgar had suspicious injuries.” Mary Frances sounded like a commentator on Court TV.

“Edgar?” Marlene started when Ballou, who’d been chasing a sea gull, stopped short after discovering the bird could fly faster than he could run.

“The elephant. Edgar,” Mary Frances said. “He has a sister, Edna. They’re named after Poe and Ferber.” She shrugged. “Apparently, the trainer has a literary streak as well as a mean streak.”

Mary Frances had spoken Kate’s exact thought. “Who called to report the abuse?” Kate kicked a ragged piece of colored glass out of her sandy path, glad she’d worn her boat shoes. The barefoot ex-nun might wind up with some serious nicks on her soles.

“Well, that remains a mystery,” Mary Frances said. “He wouldn’t give his mane, but promised to phone the next day. The director never heard from him.”

“Did the caller name the elephant trainer as the abuser?” Kate, rather uncharitably, believed Donna Viera might be capable of behaving that cruelly.

Mary Frances shook her head.

“So, there’s no proof. They never heard from him again.” Marlene raced ahead to keep up with Ballou but shouted over her shoulder. “Exactly what type of abuse had this guy reported?” She sounded like Court TV too. The hard-nosed prosecutor.

“Ah, but there is proof.” Mary Frances pulled out a surprise, defending the informer. “Yesterday, a package arrived at the shelter. Color photographs showing welts on Edgar’s
hind
legs. Big, ugly welts. It looked as if someone had whipped the poor animal. Hard.”

“How do you know those photos were of Edgar? Maybe they weren’t even taken at the flea market.” Marlene had slowed her pace to stay in the conversation. Ballou circled ahead, waiting for them.

“The elephant was standing under the Cunningham Circus Big Top.” For Mary Frances, case closed.

With Ballou fed and ready for bed, but in no mood to leave the party, the three women sat on Kate’s balcony watching the truly glorious sunset with the Westie curled up into a white furry ball at Marlene’s feet.

Marlene had mixed a batch of martinis for herself. Kate and Mary Frances sipped white wine. They’d ordered pizza, and Kate had defrosted a homemade apple pie for dessert. Fat city, tonight. She didn’t care; she craved comfort food. She couldn’t stop thinking about Edgar.

Spearing an olive, Marlene said, “We met that Carl Krieg at the flea market this afternoon, Mary Frances. Turns out he’ll be our neighbor in the corridor as well as here in the condo.”

“Really?” Mary Frances pushed a red curl away from her left eye. “I’ve been having some serious second thoughts about that man.”

Kate, not missing Marlene’s grimace, bit her tongue. “Why?” Marlene pointed her plastic stirrer at Mary Frances. A gin-soaked olive, the exact color of Sean Cunningham’s shifty eyes, dangled from its end.

“I think Krieg might be some sort of neo-Nazi. When I went up to change for our walk, I saw him being interviewed on the six o’clock news. He was wearing a t-shirt with a huge swastika.”

“On the news? What were they asking him?” Kate’s entire body tingled with the familiar electric charge that heralded fear, excitement, or intrigue. The spark felt good.

Mary Frances snatched the olive off Marlene’s stirrer and popped it in her mouth. “About some guy in his apartment house—looked like a rundown rental to me, and I wondered how Krieg could have afforded the down payment on a condo here—anyway, earlier this week, some neighbor with a name like a famous baseball player had drowned in his bathtub, under what the police are now calling ‘suspicious circumstances.’”

Seven

Murder had moved Whitey Ford from his burial on the bottom of the fourth page to above the fold on the first. Those “suspicious circumstances” that Mary Frances had heard reported on the TV newscast last evening had morphed into a full-blown homicide investigation in this morning’s
Sun-Sentinel
.

Kate gulped her too-hot tea, almost without noticing, too immersed in the story to worry about a slightly singed tongue. The early-morning sun flooded her balcony, so bright she could read without her glasses. Well, the headlines, anyway.

Ballou rested his head on her bare feet, and she slipped him a very small piece of whole wheat toast topped with strawberry jam. “Don’t tell Auntie Marlene or she’ll have you as fat as a house in no time.” Though Kate had strict rules about not feeding Ballou table food, she violated them often. She just didn’t want anyone else to find out.

She and Ballou had a busy day ahead of them. Late last night Kate had told Marlene that if the doll lady, Linda, could bring her cat to work, they could bring Ballou. Not only was the Westie well behaved, but Kate would feel a lot better about being at the flea market with her pet at her side. And, in addition to her spirits being lifted, she’d have no guilt about leaving him home alone.

Marlene had smiled, saying, “Of course Ballou’s coming with us. He’s family.”

Much to Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances had jumped in. “I have no plans for tomorrow morning. Why don’t I help you move your stuff?”

Kate glanced at her watch: 7:10. She’d better get a wiggle on. They were meeting at Marlene’s apartment in twenty minutes. She stood, still reading the story about Whitey Ford. The police, as usual in these cases, had said little, but Homicide Detective Nick Carbone from the Palmetto Beach Police Department had been quoted: “Whitey Ford had company while he bathed.”

She smiled as she folded the paper and picked up her breakfast tray. “You know, Ballou, after we get Auntie Marlene’s booth set up, I may just have to give my friend Nick Carbone a call.”

Ballou cocked his head, all ears.

Kate laughed. What was she
thinking
? Nick Carbone might be more than an acquaintance, but he was less than a friend. As with so many things about the man, her relationship to him seemed to defy description. Well, hell’s bells, she loved a mystery and, moreover, she had an idea about Whitey Ford—or at least a glimmer of one. She’d give Nick a call regardless of what their relationship was or wasn’t. It wouldn’t be the first murder investigation she’d homed in on.

The flea market suddenly seemed much more appealing. No doubt there’d be several motives for Whitey’s murder right under her nose in the corridor. Not to mention clues. She’d ask a few questions, no harm in that.

She’d tossed and turned most of the night, dreaming about taking her boys to the circus at Madison Square Garden, and about how much they’d loved the movie
Dumbo,
and about those cute dancing elephants yesterday afternoon.

As she closed the patio door with one hand, juggling the tray with the other, Kate thought of several questions for Donna Viera.

Chaos greeted her. Marlene’s condo, cluttered at best, startled, no, scared Kate. “What happened here?” She edged around an open cardboard box with streamers of silver tinsel spilling over its sides.

“Seller’s remorse.” Mary Frances popped up from behind a steamer trunk. “Marlene’s rethinking what she can part with and what she should keep. No contest. Almost nothing goes.”

Marlene headed toward the kitchen, carrying a pile of Tupperware bowls. Glancing over her shoulder, she gave Kate a defiant look.

Ballou’s ears drooped. His eyes looked out sadly from the thick fur almost covering them. This had to be the first time ever his Auntie Marlene hadn’t said hello and made a fuss over him.

Seeing weeks of hard work and harder decisions coming to naught, Kate stifled a scream and said, “Come on, Marlene, you can do this.”

Straight ahead, Kate spotted all the hula hoops that had been packed and ready to roll, back out on the balcony. The neat-freak side of her personality kicked in.

“Stop this nonsense. You’re hurting Ballou’s feelings. And wasting everyone’s time. This is unacceptable behavior. Now put those ugly bowls back in the box. We have a place in the corridor leased and paid for and, by heaven, we’re going to work.”

Ninety minutes later, they made their first sale.

Kate stared at their first customer, wondering could she have ever been that young? She’d certainly never been as thin or as pretty.

“I must have that brooch. Big pins are in again, and I love retro, don’t you?” The blonde girl had her own credit card neatly placed in a Coach billfold that she’d retrieved from a large Coach tote laden with her other purchases. Busy bee, this one. The flea market had only opened an hour ago. Kate figured if the young woman had her own American Express account, either she was eighteen or had very indulgent parents. Probably the latter. South Florida seemed to be infested with spoiled teenagers.

“It’s not a Haskell, you know,” Marlene said.

The blonde looked blank. Ballou sniffed her feet.

“Cute dog, but I prefer poodles.” Kate bit her tongue. No matter how tempted, a saleslady can’t lash out at a customer.

Ballou loved being at the flea market. Ears perked and nose twitching, he’d explored shamelessly all the way from the parking lot to the corridor. So many new sights, so many people, so many smells. Kate had kept an eye out to make sure Ballou wouldn’t decide a certain smell needed to be marked in his own special way, with a jaunty lifted leg.

The poodle-preferring girl held the pin up to her shoulder. “It’ll go great on black satin.”

The glass imitation-ruby brooch was so fifties and so matronly that Kate couldn’t imagine Marlene ever wearing it, though they’d all worn fat flowerlike lapel pins back then. More puzzling was why this trendy teenager, with her bare midriff and white shorts that clung to her fanny, would be interested in this quaint piece of costume jewelry.

They were still unpacking. Mary Frances had tackled the box marked jewelry and arranged all the earrings, pins, and bracelets in the plastic display trays Kate had bought at the dollar store. Nothing had been priced. And Kate couldn’t remember where she’d stuck the tags.

“How much?” The girl fingered the brooch. “I can’t live without it.”

Marlene slowly turned from Kate to Mary Frances.

Kate held her breath.

“Two hundred and fifty.” Marlene sounded firm.

“Great.” The girl grinned. “Do you have earrings to match?”

Except for the three of them, giggling guiltily in the wake of their first customer, the corridor was quiet. The vendors here worked a late shift in order to catch both the matinee and the evening crowd.

When Kate had arrived in the corridor at eight thirty this morning, lugging a big carton, Jocko, who’d been sweeping the floor, dropped his broom and gave her a hand. Thinking Sean must work his relatives round the clock, Kate had nevertheless been grateful for the clown’s offer to help. And he’d ordered two of the circus roustabouts to leave their chores and “help the ladies set up shop.”

Now at nine, with only half the cartons unpacked, they’d made a big sale.

“I think this calls for a celebration,” she said. “I’ll go get some coffee for you two and a cup of tea for me and three of those sinful jelly doughnuts from the bakery in the food tent.”

“Make mine strawberry,” Marlene said, caressing the AMEX receipt. With the matching earrings, their first sale had totaled three hundred and thirty dollars. Kate’s thirty percent came to ninety-nine dollars. She might learn to like this job.

On her way to the food tent, Kate made a detour. Yesterday, she’d passed a booth selling signs and posters, created on the spot in big, bold, black calligraphy. She ordered a large poster, saying “Past Perfect.” Marlene once said she liked that name.

“I’ll be back in an hour to pick it up, okay?”

She stood in line at the bakery counter, trying to decide if she wanted strawberry or raspberry jelly. Mary Frances had opted for a chocolate doughnut.

A snort-like laugh caught her attention. Right in front of her, Sean Cunningham, as scruffy out of clown costume as in, had his arm around Donna Viera’s waist and his head bent close to the animal trainer’s ear. But not so close that Kate couldn’t hear him whisper, “You don’t tell that Humane Society dame a goddamn thing, you understand me, Donnie?”