Death Rides the Surf (13 page)

“This is girl
talk.” Mary Frances waved Joe Sajak away. “I may let you into my aerobics class, but I won’t let you into my mind.”

Marlene was impressed. Maybe the dancing nun had turned into an ally. If Joe didn’t move, Marlene would shove him into the pool, ruining all those neatly pressed clothes. He moved, disappointing her.

Katharine turned back to Mary Frances, “You were saying?”

“That I think Claude Jensen killed Jon Michael.” Mary Frances paused, obviously enjoying Marlene’s and Katharine’s rapt attention. “Here’s my theory. Jon Michael knew—and could prove—that Claude had killed Amanda Rowling. Claude killed Jon Michael to shut him up.”

“And that theory would be based on?” Marlene couldn’t keep quiet for another second.

“Stuff I’ve heard.” Mary Frances sounded serious. “I’m wondering if I should talk to Nick Carbone.”

“Try it out on us,” Marlene said, trying to keep her voice neutral. She put her champagne flute down. She needed to concentrate.

“Okay, I’ll try.” Mary Frances sat up straight and glanced from Katharine to Marlene. “On Sunday, Roberto and I stopped by the Neptune Inn for a late lunch after rehearsing for the tango competition at the community center. Claude was at the bar, drinking shots; he was supposed to be working as the replacement lifeguard, but said he’d taken a break.”

Marlene wondered if that happened before or after the shark alert had been posted.

“Claude was cursing out Grace Rowling, who’d followed the surfers to Palmetto Beach. He said, ‘Yeah, I was in Acapulco, so what? The other boardsmen were there, too. Jon Michael even offered to rub Amanda’s surfboard with Sex Wax. We bought that blonde bimbo a couple of drinks, but she went to the head and never resurfaced.’ Claude stared at Roberto and shouted, ‘You was there, too. You know goddamn well Jon Michael left with that girl. If she’s dead, he’s the one done it.’ Then Claude turned to me.” Mary Frances shook her head. “Among his other charming qualities, he’s a bigot. He said, ‘Those greasy Mexican cops questioned us for hours. Amanda’s mother even hired a private eye and he followed me, followed all three of us. Nobody found nothing on me. That’s ’cause there’s nothing to find.’”

“But it sounds as if Claude was proclaiming his innocence,” Marlene said. “What am I missing here?”

“What I didn’t miss,” Mary Frances said, sounding like her old, smug self. “You weren’t a teacher, Marlene, or a high school principal, or a nun. I know when people are lying, trying to fob the blame off on a classmate, or playing ‘poor me.’” She smiled, not unkindly, but more than a little patronizingly. “Believe me, Marlene; Claude Jensen was lying through those dreadful teeth.”

Marlene smiled back. “What about Roberto? Your Latin lover was there the night Amanda vanished. That very same scenario, featuring Claude as the killer, could work for Roberto as well.”

“It certainly could. Roberto is not above suspicion. Unlike Caesar, I don’t require that in my relationships.” Mary Frances sounded pragmatic, surprising the hell out of Marlene. Even Katharine started, and seemed about to say something, but instead sipped her champagne.

“Is that why you picked him up at the police station yesterday?” The dancing nun—doll collector, tango champion, and the world’s oldest virgin—had surprised Marlene again. Mary Frances, a very annoying smart aleck, was also very intriguing.

“No, I drove Roberto there in his car; that Cadillac is harder to maneuver than some tango moves. Nick Carbone questioned Roberto for over an hour. Apparently,” she smiled at Marlene, “the detective shares your perspective.”

“What about you, Mary Frances? What’s your perspective? Are you really convinced Claude’s the killer? Or do you choose to believe that, so Roberto can be your dance partner and help you retain your Broward County Tango Champion title?” Marlene presented the former nun with what she hoped was a moral dilemma.

Mary Frances flushed again, redness creeping up from her neck to her cheeks. “Okay, Marlene, I don’t think he murdered anyone, but let’s discuss Roberto Romero.”

All three women refilled their flutes. Marlene knew she could handle midday drinking, but she worried about Mary Frances, who never drank much of anything, and Katharine, who wasn’t even of legal age. This, however, was not the time for a temperance lecture. Marlene needed to focus on the murder case.

“I understand Roberto lives with a woman in Miami who sleeps in her jewels.” Marlene relished the wide-eyed look on Mary Frances’s face. “He told Sam Meyers the lady is his aunt and he also told Kate and me that he had an aunt in Miami. Have you ever met her?”

“No. He does talk about an aunt in Miami and he certainly never mentioned to me that she sleeps in her jewels, though I got the impression she has some money.” Mary Frances frowned. “But Marlene, Roberto doesn’t live in Miami. He lives right here in Palmetto Beach. I’ve driven him home after tango practice.”

“Where?” Katharine asked.

“The Crest Motel,” Mary Frances gestured south. “It’s not far, one of those small places on the beach, heading toward Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.”

As the breeze picked up and the powder blue sky darkened ever so slightly, Marlene made a mental note to drop by the Crest later that afternoon.

Mary Frances brushed stray hairs, blown by the wind, away from her cheek. “Why would Roberto tell Sam Meyers about his aunt—or whoever that woman is—sleeping in her jewels? Sam never seemed to be accepted by the other three boardsmen. I thought they only kept him around because he had a job and could pick up some bar tabs.”

“Maybe they kept him around because he knew what had gone down in Acapulco,” Katharine said. “That’s what Grace Rowling thought.”

Marlene wondered why Katharine hadn’t mentioned that before. So many crosscurrents in this case and so little ground gained.

Mary Frances stood and then staggered. “Dear Lord, I’ve had too much champagne. I feel a little queasy and I have to shower and dress for tango practice. What else do you want to know, Marlene?”

“Have you ever met Sam’s girlfriend, Annette Meyers, the one he passes off as his granny?” Marlene stood, too, pleased that she didn’t stagger. “Annette has an impressive pile of jewels stashed under the cover of her air conditioner.”

Katharine didn’t stand. “Funny, Jon Michael’s grandmother has a bunch of jewelry, too.”

Mary Frances nodded. “And Roberto is fascinated by that old lady, Diamond Lil, who’s running around town robbing banks. He can’t stop talking about her.”

Kate had gone
head-to-head with the skull and survived.

If she hadn’t heard Marlene’s saga about her brief encounter with Mandrake and how her former sister-in-law had discovered Florita Flannigan’s recording equipment in the armoire, Kate
almost
might have believed the skull had something to say. Illusion can be heady stuff, but Kate had known it was all smoke and mirrors, or more accurately, great recording equipment and on-cue spooky lighting.

The skull, Florita’s puppet, had only echoed his owner’s sentiments.

Now driving over the Neptune Boulevard Bridge, the tantalizing smell escaping from Dinah’s oven and filling the air tempted Kate to stop and buy a couple loaves of bread.

She gave in to temptation and further indulged herself with a black-and-white ice-cream soda at the counter while Myrtle bagged the bread.

Kate noticed that her bottom had seemed to spread across the vinyl stool. Only another illusion, she hoped as she sipped her soda. She’d never had a weight problem, never even weighed herself, though her doctor did once a year. The number, up ten pounds from her wedding day, hadn’t varied in years. Luck of the genes, she supposed; both her parents had been slim. And Maggie and Bill Naughton had loved ice-cream sodas, too. Still, feeling the spread, she considered buying a scale.

Myrtle pointed to the small television set behind the counter. “Hey, there was another bank robbery this morning.”

Kate noticed the wide gold bracelet and two large-carat diamond rings as the waitress gestured with her right hand. Was every old lady in South Florida, except for Kate, a walking jewelry display case?

“Palmetto Beach is just a hotbed of crime, isn’t it?” Myrtle asked, leaning in so close that Kate could smell her perfume. Shalimar. The scent overpowered the aroma of baking bread. Kate, who wore no perfume, really couldn’t stomach Shalimar. Marlene had gone through a phase in the fifties where each week she’d tried a different brand. Nina Ricci’s L’air du Temps had been the only one Kate could tolerate.

Kate nodded, backing away from the waitress.

“Murder by pig’s blood, and is it five banks that Diamond Lil has hit?” Myrtle turned and peered at the television screen again.

A hidden camera tape of the bank robber filled the screen, revealing a rather blurry photo of an old lady in a white wig, topped by a tiara. Drop earrings reached her
Dynasty
-era shoulder pads, so wide they ended off camera. The royal blue, high-neck, long-sleeve dress appeared to be heavy brocade. Diamond Lil looked a bit like Queen Elizabeth. Yet those eyes, hooded by deep wrinkles, reminded Kate of someone else. Who?

As Kate left Ocean Vista’s parking lot, clutching her still-warm bread, she decided to check and see if Marlene or Katharine might be poolside before going up to her condo.

She found them sitting under an umbrella, the remains of their lunch, along with two empty bottles of Moët, still on the table. Mary Frances, wobbling a bit, was just leaving.

“Hi, Nana,” Katharine said and then hiccupped. Had the girl been drinking? Kate, tired, cranky, and confused, glared at Marlene.

“I’ve been working on murder,” Marlene said, as if that gave her license to kill.

“I’m out of here,” Mary Frances said, “but there’s one more thing I want to tell you about Roberto.” Kate knew Mary Frances seldom drank, but she was tipsy today.

“Shoot,” Marlene giggled.

Kate wanted to throw her sister-in-law in the pool—no,
drown
her in the pool.

“He and Claude have both been hired to teach down around Davie at that new surfing camp for women. I think it’s called Women on Board. Under the circumstances, maybe they shouldn’t be working there.”

“You sure do save the best for last, Mary Frances,” Marlene said, sounding considerably more sober. “Kate and I will check it out.”

Kate shook her head.

“Don’t act like Carry Nation, Kate; all that’s missing is your ax,” Marlene said. “I’ll let you drive.”

Kate heard snoring. She glanced over at her granddaughter. Katharine was sound asleep.

Forty minutes later, after three cups of coffee and a stern lecture for Marlene, Kate had walked Ballou and they were on their way down to Davie.

Katharine had made it upstairs and into her grandmother’s guest bedroom where, with any luck, she’d sleep until they returned. Kate had explained that, though she’d already made a condolence call, she’d be happy to drive Katharine out to see Florita Flannigan tonight. Katharine, feeling awful, hadn’t seemed to care much one way or the other. Kate figured Katharine had learned a lesson: lobster and too much champagne could be a lethal combination.

Driving south, Marlene apologized again, and then they caught up, each marveling at the other’s exploits.

Davie had a flavor all its own. None of Fort Lauderdale’s thriving-new-metropolis attitude, none of Hollywood’s funky charm, none of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea’s pretty, quiet quaintness. Davie was more like small town USA, only on the beach. On Federal Highway, pawnshops vied with gas stations and seedy bars. But the wood plank pavilion on the beach harkened back to days gone by, to an era when South Florida had offered escape and even solitude.

Kate found a parking spot a few blocks from the beach. The fresh air would do Marlene good.

A large
WOMEN ON BOARD
banner was being pulled behind a small commercial plane through the clouds. Another
WOMEN ON BOARD
sign stood in the sand about three hundred feet south of the pavilion.

About a dozen teenage girls lay on surfboards in the sand near the sign.

Mary Frances had said that classes began today and the course would run for three weeks. Of course, Roberto wouldn’t be here this afternoon; he’d be tangoing with Mary Frances, but Claude might have started working.

Kate slipped out of her sandals and rolled up her khakis. Marlene, dressed in a flowing red top worn over white Capris, struggled with the laces on her espadrilles.

They trudged through the hot sand toward the girls.

“Try those pop-ups, again.” Their instructor, a tall, sturdy brunette in her early thirties, spoke in a pleasant tone but with great authority. “Find your inner Gidget.”

The girls, as instructed, tried to stand and balance on their boards. Not easy to do, even out of the water. Most of them tumbled into the sand amid great laughter. It wouldn’t seem as funny when they tumbled into a huge wave.

“Hey,” Marlene said, staring at the ocean. Kate, too, spotted Claude Jensen, standing waist deep in the water, talking to a pretty, young blonde who was lying on a surfboard, paddling as he spoke.

Sweating and puffing, Kate approached the tall brunette. She’d make sure that Claude had taught his last lesson at the surfing camp and that Roberto would never teach his first.