Death Rides the Surf (4 page)

The city of
Palmetto Beach has a downtown that the natives referred to as the village center. One of the smallest downtowns in the USA, it stretches for one short and two long blocks from the Atlantic Ocean to the Neptune Boulevard Bridge which led to the mainland. West of the short block abutting the beach, and bisecting the village, A1A ran north and south.

Kate and Marlene, holding Ballou’s leash, had showered and changed, and were on their way to the island’s tiny supermarket. The store was located in a minimall on the north side of Neptune Boulevard in the shadow of the bridge. Before grocery shopping, the two old friends planned to have ice-cream sodas at Dinah’s Restaurant next door to the supermarket, where Ballou and other small pets were welcome.

They’d crossed A1A and were waiting for the bridge traffic to abate before crossing the boulevard. A riot of red and pink hibiscus filled a small garden in front of the beauty salon. Unlike many of her Ocean Vista neighbors, Kate didn’t think of Palmetto Beach as paradise, but it would suffice until she arrived there.

“I’ve been wondering about Acapulco.” Kate adjusted her sunglasses. They seemed to spend more time on top of her silver hair than covering her eyes, but the sun was wickedly bright today.

“And my guess would be that you aren’t considering a vacation there.”

“What do you remember reading about that girl who disappeared there last summer? Amanda. I forget her last name.”

“Rowling. A beautiful girl. Drama major at UCLA, you know. Her mother was on the
Today
show again just the other day.” Marlene nudged Kate. “Come on, let’s cross while we have the light.”

The smell of the sea mixed with the fragrance of the flowers and the aroma of freshly baked bread that wafted from Dinah’s. Heaven’s scent couldn’t be any better than this.

Suddenly starving, Kate opened the restaurant’s front door and grabbed a window booth. She might have a blueberry muffin with her ice-cream soda.

Strange how the mind and body could focus on mundane pleasures while the heart and soul fretted over major problems. Katharine’s infatuation with Jon Michael might become a major problem. The loss of Charlie made Kate’s heart ache every day, though the pain no longer throbbed. Nevertheless, she craved that muffin.

Most of the waitresses at Dinah’s were Kate’s and Marlene’s age. A few needed the money, but several of them worked there because they loved their customers.

“Hi, girls. What’ll you have?” Myrtle, blonde, brassy, seventy-six, and kicking—she was in a tap dance group who preformed in assisted-living residences with Mary Frances—was all smiles. The crinkles around her eyes deepened. Their favorite waitress had the leathery skin of a woman who’d grown up in a beach town with year-round sunshine decades before there were any warnings about skin damage.

“A black-and-white ice-cream soda and a blueberry muffin, please,” Kate said, thinking she came across as defiant.

Marlene laughed. “Same for me.”

Kate remembered them as eight-year-olds sitting at the counter in Irv’s candy store in Jackson Heights, sipping sodas, her mind and her heart grateful for their friendship. “When did Amanda Rowling disappear? I know it was after Katharine had returned from Mexico.”

“Late August.” Marlene petted Ballou who sat at her feet, behaving like the gentleman he was. “Between our two back-to-back hurricanes. That’s why we missed most of the original TV coverage; we were a tad busy picking up the pieces.”

“I wonder when the three boardsmen returned from Acapulco.”

“Well, they didn’t show up on our beach until after Labor Day, so chances are they were still there when Amanda disappeared.” Marlene waved across the restaurant at Joe Sajak, Ocean Vista’s much sought after widower, who, at four o’clock in the afternoon, had to be the earliest bird eating dinner in all of South Florida.

“What about the other boardsman, Sam Meyers? Do you think Jon Michael, Claude, and Roberto met him here after they’d returned from Acapulco?” Kate ripped the paper off her straw as Myrtle placed the ice-cream soda in front of her.

“I know Sam Meyers,” Myrtle said. “He brings his granny here every Friday night for the fish fry. Ms. Meyers is an activist, you know, and a founding member of NOW. She’s fighting city hall. The town fathers want to let some New York outfit buy the Rainbow Beach trailer park and tear it down to build yet another multimillion-dollar condo.”

“I read about that,” Kate said. “And I’ve driven past there many times on my way to Palm Beach. The only trailer park in the county directly on the ocean. It’s been there for ages, right?”

Myrtle nodded. “Since 1948, and some of them folks are the original owners. Damn shame what’s done in the name of progress. Anyway, Sam works with computers. Nice young man, not like that white trash, Claude Jensen, he hangs out with. That boy’s been in and out of one correctional institution or another since he was thirteen. The state of Florida should build Claude his own wing. He’s waiting trial for a DWI right now.”

Good God. Kate wondered if Katharine’s surfing lesson was over. “Myrtle, do you know Jon Michael Tyler, too?”

“In a manner of speaking, I do. Hold the thought. The counterman’s waving me over. I’ll be back with those muffins in a sec, hon.” Her pink and gray uniform stretched tight across her fanny as she hustled toward the counter.

Marlene arched her perfectly penciled-in left brow. “Myrtle’s probably one of Jon Michael’s grandmother’s talking skull’s clients.” Her tone combined amusement and disdain.

Kate figured that Marlene, a woman who’d consulted fortune tellers, astrologists, and tarot card readers, shouldn’t scoff at talking skulls. As she’d done so many times for more than sixty years, Kate kept her opinion to herself. “I’m really worried about Katharine, Marlene. Will you keep an eye on her tomorrow? I have to go to Jane’s funeral up in Palm Beach.”

“Oh, yeah, that stewardess who married a multimillionaire, just like the heroine of an old movie. I always wanted to be Doris Day, but who knew about Rock Hudson?” Marlene sighed. “Of course, I’ll watch our girl, Kate. The more I hear about these surfers the more I think Katharine’s in over her head.” Her sister-in-law’s water metaphor made Kate even more nervous.

“Here we go.” Myrtle placed two blueberry muffins the size of melons on the table. Kate shuddered at the calorie count, but figured she wouldn’t eat at the picnic. Skipping dinner was one of the few perks of life without Charlie.

“So, what about Jon Michael?” Marlene asked Myrtle the question before Kate could. That happened a lot.

“Well, I’m a client of Florita Flannigan, his grandmother.”

Marlene managed to kick Kate under the table while taking a bite of her muffin.

“The skull and I were old souls together. Romped through the Renaissance.” Myrtle tapped her index finger against her double chin. “You two girls should make an appointment. There’s always a real long wait to meet Mandrake, but me being so close to the family, I’m sure I could get you in. Maybe next week.”

“Why don’t you do that, Myrtle?” Kate said. “And as soon as possible. I really want to meet Florita Flannigan.”

“I understand Jon Michael’s a friend of Claude’s,” Marlene said.

“Right,” Myrtle said. “All four of them surf together. Like I say, Sam’s a good guy. And that Roberto’s a charmer. I think Jon Michael’s a sweet kid, but the skull has revealed to me and Florita that her grandson is courting disaster. I figure it must be connected to some scheme of Claude’s.”

Courting disaster. And courting Katharine? Kate shoved the muffin away.

Marlene hadn’t had
any time alone with Katharine. She worried about what the girl knew and how she’d gotten her information. Of Marlene’s many past peccadilloes, the one she
absolutely
never wanted Kate to ever hear about was that four-martini fling with Charlie. As she stirred green peppers into her macaroni salad, she plotted how she could get Katharine alone and question her. Delicately, of course. Hah. When had she ever been delicate either in appearance or approach?

Because of the unpleasantness—Mary Frances’s euphemism for the murder on the beach—during last year’s Halloween costume party in the recreation room, this year the Ocean Vista board of directors had voted unanimously for a pre-Halloween picnic supper.

New Yorkers never referred to a meal served at the dinner hour as supper: supper was a light meal served in a club like the Copacabana or the Latin Quarter after the theater, around eleven
P
.
M
.

No question, Marlene had compromised her principles living among all these Midwesterners and Southerners.

Sighing, she added chopped celery and deviled eggs as she glanced at the clock: 6:10. She had twenty minutes to fix her face and change her clothes. She wondered if the newly widowed Bernie Gordon from the eighth floor would be at the picnic. Maybe she’d wear her new scarlet harem pants. Go as a concubine. But where the hell had she put her off-the-shoulder black satin blouse? Though she’d gotten rid of most her treasures—well, okay,
junk
—at the Palmetto Beach mile-square flea market, followed by all of her furniture after last summer’s back-to-back hurricanes, over the past month, Marlene had restored chaos to her apartment.

The condo’s decorating
committee had done a great job. The wooden picnic tables in the sand, courtesy of the city of Palmetto Beach, were covered with orange tablecloths featuring black cats and witches on broomsticks. Paper plates, strong enough to hold hot food, were decorated with ghosts and goblins. Orange and black balloons and jack-o’-lanterns were hanging on the fence around the pool area. All of the condo owners had brought their beach chairs and their favorite dishes.

Charcoal in the barbeque pit—also courtesy of the city—glowed, as Mary Frances, dressed as a very sexy, not at all scary witch, stirred a cauldron, actually an expensive copper pot from Williams-Sonoma, filled with meatballs in red sauce.

Joe Sajak served as the dancing ex-nun’s sous chef, handing Mary Frances a huge spoon, saying, “The better to stir with, my dear.” God, he was enough to make Marlene barf.

A breeze from the teal blue ocean ruffled the palm trees. The sun hovered on the horizon. The clean, crisp scent from the sea proved as intoxicating as Marlene’s double gin with a splash of tonic. Paradise found, Marlene thought, then rejected her cynical attitude. It was indeed a perfect evening. And she could
almost
understand why some Ocean Vista residents believed they lived in paradise.

No sign of Kate, who would be bringing the chocolate fudge cake she’d purchased at Dinah’s. Her sister-in-law wasn’t much of a baker or a cook. Somehow that deficiency—Kate had so damn few—pleased Marlene.

No sign of Katharine either. Or the surfers. Why? Those waves were as good as they get in South Florida.

Kate, in no
mood for a picnic, watched the action on the beach through her picture window. The picnickers must be roasting in those costumes. Why did so many bright, seemingly sane, retirees revert to their second childhoods every Halloween?

She didn’t dare step out onto the balcony where Marlene might spot her and wave her down. Katharine hadn’t come home. Could a surfing lesson last for more than three hours? Kate didn’t think so.

Restless, she picked up the
Sun-Sentinel
and read, for the third time, a follow-up story on Amanda Rowling’s disappearance in Acapulco.

The girl’s mother, Grace Rowling, was on her way to Fort Lauderdale. The Mexican police had advised Mrs. Rowling that the two surfers who’d been seen with her daughter on the night she’d vanished had returned to South Florida. Mrs. Rowling had an appointment with one of the surfers, but declined to give his name. The accompanying photographs of mother and daughter seemed eerily alike. Both appeared to be blonde, pretty, and far too wholesome to be part of such a sad story. Only the terror in Grace Rowling’s eyes revealed the tragic truth.

Kate heard a key turn in the front door and stepped away from the window. A barking Ballou ran through the foyer.

“I thought I heard my favorite Westie.” A smiling Katharine had returned.

The little dog yelped with abandon, delighted to see Katharine, his tail wagging, his tongue licking her hand.

“Hi, Nana. Aren’t you going to the picnic?” Kate’s granddaughter was flushed. Katharine’s freckles seemed to have merged into one big rash. Sunburn or passion? Maybe a bit of both. Her red hair was wet and strewn with seaweed. The towel wrapped around her bikini was streaked and stained. Whatever Katharine had been doing had taken its toil.

“Do you want to go?” Kate asked, wondering if the girl had been drinking.

Katharine grinned. “Sure.” For a brief moment, she looked and sounded almost like the girl Kate had known, before this angry young woman had emerged.

She turned and headed down the corridor toward the guest bathroom. “I want to grab a fast shower.”

“Great,” Kate said. “I’ll bring the chocolate cake down and wait for you on the beach.”

“Listen, Nana,” Katharine called over her shoulder. “I’ve invited Jon Michael and his grandmother to the picnic. I hope that’s okay.”

Kate wondered if Florita Flannigan would bring the talking skull.