Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (13 page)

Twenty-Eight

“A double scotch Old Fashioned, no sugar, light on the bitters, a dash of club soda, muddle well, especially the orange, and no cherry.”

“You should carry a card with those instructions, Rosie,” Herb said, laughing. “Good thing I’m tending bar tonight. You’d drive a lesser man to drink.”

“I’ve driven many men to worse things than drink,” Rosie said.

Kate had no doubt.

The Neptune Inn had been her favorite restaurant since before Charlie died. When they’d visited Marlene, Kate and Charlie had always eaten at Herb’s. The six-six, three-hundred-pound owner’s big heart and warm, welcoming personality had made the Neptune Inn a standout in a beach town filled with good restaurants. Its location on the pier with a great view of the Atlantic didn’t hurt business either. And Kate believed Herb served the best fried shrimp platter in South Florida.

They were sitting on backless stools that would have damaged an agile teenager’s spine. What had Herb done with the old leather stools that were more like director chairs?

Kate had hoped to entice Rosie to a table where she could question her in privacy, but the former Rockette insisted on having a “cocktail or two” at the bar. Should she start now? Rosie didn’t appear to be having trouble with the uncomfortable seats. And, except for a few surfers, they wasn’t anyone else at the bar.

“Igor could be our Katrina.” The young weatherman, on the oversized television screen positioned above the bar, smiled as he predicted disaster. “Enormous waves, followed by flooding in the coastal communities.” One of the surfers applauded the possibility.

Kate, repelled by both the weatherman and the bleached-blond beach boy chugging a Long Island iced tea, turned her attention to Rosie and what she might know about Bob Seeley’s past. “Rosie, I suspect Bob might have been hiding Weatherwise’s money in an overseas bank account. If you have any knowledge—or proof—of that, you really should tell Nick Carbone.”

“Me? Talk to the cops? Whadda ya, crazy?”

“You wouldn’t want Bob to get away with murder, would you?”

“Jeez, no.” Rosie drained her Old Fashioned. “But I can’t go the cops. I can’t reveal my source.”

How Woodward and Bernstein. “Your source?” What information did Rosie have? And, more intriguingly, how had she gotten it?

“Herb, hit me again. You want another white wine, Kate? This round’s on me.”

Kate didn’t want any more wine, as she was so tired she might fall off the barstool, but she said, “Thanks.” Ballou had his head on her left foot. Kate, seated under an air-conditioning vent, appreciated his furry warmth.

Rosie said nothing until her cocktail arrived, then she took a long sip and faced Kate. “Okay, I’m gonna trust you. Here’s why I can’t talk. A wiseguy I used to date in New York—high up in the mob, a capo—now lives in Boca. Quite the gentleman, has a big, fancy house on a golf course. I still see him once in a while. You know, a little roll in the hay for old time’s sake. Anyway, Bob was my friend’s financial planner. Seeley made some smart investments, adjusted a few statements, and, guess what? The wiseguy’s profits are in an offshore account. Way off shore. Like Switzerland.”

“Bob Seeley has mob connections?”

“Are ya deaf or just dumb?” Rosie shook her head.

Kate almost lost her balance, knocking Ballou off her foot. The Westie yelped with indignation. “He seems so meek. Such a mild manner.”

“Mild manner, my foot. He may look like a scrawny, old guy, but Bob Seeley was a U.S. Army Ranger, trained in the martial arts. He’s still pretty strong. I saw him at Gold’s Gym. Works out there three times a week. I sure as hell didn’t give Parker a karate chop, but Bob could have.” Kate remembered the pressed pajamas. Bob hadn’t been sleeping as he’d claimed, but he hadn’t been covered in blood either. Of course, he could have changed. Or maybe the killer had worn a plastic cape—or some sort of cover-up—and took it with him or her.

“Where’s my double martini?” Marlene asked, startling Kate. “Herb, my friends have forgotten to order me a drink, and I really need one.”

“One double martini coming up,” Herb said, smiling at Mary Frances. “Nice to see you back home.”

Mary Frances looked as harried as Marlene sounded. “We’re holding an emergency board meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to plan Ocean Vista’s evacuation. Bob and Lucy are putting notices under everyone’s doors as we speak. I told them Mary Frances and I had an important engagement, so we couldn’t help.” Marlene sighed. “Damn, I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.”

“Since when?” Kate asked, remembering Marlene had smoked at lunch and after they’d met Mr. Moose and again after visiting Daphne Dubois.

“Since I ran out of cigarettes before the meeting.” Marlene shrugged. “I figured if I could sit through that without going crazy, I don’t need tobacco anymore. Of course, I may go back.”

Rosie pulled out a package of Virginia Slims and lit up. Should be a fun dinner.

“Kate, did you and Rosie see Joe Sajak around?” Mary Frances asked. “On the beach or the pier?”

“I thought you went back into the convent, Mary Frances,” Rosie said. “Why are so interested in Joe’s whereabouts? In fact, if you’re a nun again, whadda ya doing here? Did ya come for your dolls?”

A really fun dinner. “Shall we go to our table?” Kate asked with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

“For your information, Rosie, I have not reentered the convent. I’ve been on retreat. Reflection, prayer, and mediation,” Mary Frances said. “Good for your soul.”

Rosie winked. “But not for your body.”

The television weatherman screeched, “Igor has picked up more wind. This hurricane could be our biggest ever.”

Rosie pointed her cigarette at Mary Frances. “Just so ya know, sister, Joe’s going dancing with me tonight at Ireland’s Inn.”

“I thought Joe was interested in Lucy.” Mary Frances’s voice shook. She flushed the feverishly bright pink that only redheads can, from the nape of her neck to her hairline.

“Nah,” Rosie said, “I’d have heard if he was seeing Lucy. He ain’t interested in me, either.” Rosie seemed rueful, but kinder, willing to swap girl talk. Eighty-four-year-old girl talk. “Sajak plays the field. Fancies himself quite the catch. If you’re out of the convent and on the make, you could do a lot better than him, Mary Frances.” To Kate’s surprise, Mary Frances nodded, seeming to consider Rosie’s advice.

When they finally ordered, Rosie, finishing her third Old Fashioned, reminisced about her Radio City dancing days. “Cocktails at Twenty-One. Dinner at Tavern on the Green. Supper at the Copa. Those were the days, my friends. I loved the Mermaid Lounge at the Park Sheraton. Any of you gals been there? Well, you New York gals, not Miss Minnesota, here.” Rosie gestured at Mary Frances.

“Wisconsin,” Mary Frances said.

“It’s all the same.” Rosie waved Herb over. “Another round, please.”

“Not for me, thanks, Herb,” Kate said. “You know, I do remember the Mermaid Lounge. My father took me there to hear Cy Coleman. The summer I turned thirteen.” The sudden flashback jarred her. She’d forgotten her visit to the Park Sheraton, having tucked it away in a seldom-visited, never-examined comer of her mind, along with other, more disturbing memories from that long ago summer.

“Hello, Kate,” a cheerful voice said. Dazed, she looked up into the smiling face of S. J. Corbin. “How are all you ladies doing?”

“Why don’t ya join us for a drink, S. J.?” Rosie asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m meeting Joe Sajak for dinner, but I’ll take a rain check.” The Realtor extended her hand to Mary Frances. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m S. J. Corbin.” Mary Frances stared at S. J., saying nothing, looking like a startled doe.

Kate shook off her past, and turned toward S. J., smartly dressed in a black linen jumpsuit. “Another time, then.”

“I’ll count on that, Kate.” She fingered a chain around her neck, adjusting the hammered silver Russian cross hanging from it.

Twenty-Nine

Friday, July 28, Fifty-Six Years Ago

What was in the envelope? Kate couldn’t even imagine, but at night when she tried to sleep, the possibilities kept her awake. She’d read enough Rex Stout and Agatha Christie novels to suspect—no, to be
positive
—that it hadn’t contained an apology note to Mrs. Provakov’s sister. Unless Muriel Goodman was Sophie’s aunt.

Kate, reading every word and studying every photograph in the newspapers, now all predicting Mrs. Goodman’s arrest probably knew the Goodmans’ relatives better than they did. Sophie’s mother wasn’t among them. Not Muriel’s sister, not even a kissing cousin. And the woman in the Russian Tea Room’s bathroom mirror had been Muriel Goodman.

Why would Mr. Provakov have lied to her? Could she have passed a secret to a spy? Or had she just seen too many spy movies?

She’d thrown up in the middle of the night. This morning her mother wanted her to go see Dr. Einhom, who lived right across the street. Kate thought she should be going to see Father Cunningham in the confessional, but didn’t know what—if any—sin she’d committed. Still, she felt guilty. Maybe she could just talk to the priest. Or maybe not

Could passing information, even without knowing that she had, get her in trouble with the FBI? Priests can never reveal what they hear in confession, but if she confessed nothing, just discussed her suspicions, would Father Cunningham feel obligated to turn her in?

Sophie seemed to have vanished. Or, at least she hadn’t returned Kate’s phone calls. Three days had passed without even a thank-you for the cross.

“I hope you’re not coming down with a stomach flu,” her mother said, coming through Kate’s bedroom door carrying a tray that held a tall glass of pink stuff. A really ugly shade of pink.

“What is that?” Kate had already made up her mind she wasn’t going to drink it.

“Pepto-Bismol. Your father swears by it.” Her mother lifted the glass. “Here, down it fast. You’ll feel much better.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Don’t be so silly, sweetheart. Be a good girl. If you swallow quickly, you won’t even taste it”

“Just leave the glass on the nightstand, Mom. I want to go to the bathroom first.” And dump that god-awful mess down the toilet. Just like she’d gotten rid of the peas.

“This is not a vegetable, Kate. It’s medicine. And I’m not leaving until you drink every drop.”

A standoff. Kate, surprised that her mother had known about the flushed peas, caved first. The ugly pink stuff tasted worse than she’d expected, but fifteen minutes later, when Marlene arrived, her stomach had calmed down.

“Jeepers, Kate, you can’t be sick; not when your father’s taking us to dinner at the Park Sheraton.” Marlene laid her garment bag at the foot of Kate’s bed. “I brought over two outfits to model. You can tell me which one I should wear.”

Wallowing in guilt, she’d forgotten all about tonight. Her father had invited Marlene and her parents to dinner at the hotel, then a visit to the famous Mermaid Lounge to hear Cy Coleman. Daddy, who played piano himself, was a big fan of Cy’s.

“Get out of bed, Kate,” Marlene ordered. “I’ll polish your nails.”

Feeling better than she had in days, Kate obeyed. “Toes too? I just bought a brand-new bottle of Cherries in the Snow.”

Kate’s mother poked her head in. “Come on, girls. Scrambled eggs and English muffins are on the table. And we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

Smiling as Marlene doused her eggs in ketchup, Kate was almost enjoying herself.

“So, Mrs. Norton, what are you wearing tonight?” Marlene’s gold-flecked eyes sparkled.

“Well, I have two choices.” Maggie Norton sighed.

“We’ll have a fashion show and vote for our favorites,” Marlene said. “My mother’s out buying a dress right now. Said she didn’t have a thing to wear.”

They all laughed, knowing that Barbara Friedman had two closets and half of her husband’s filled with pretty clothes.

“Did Mr. Norton meet Cy Coleman at the Mermaid Lounge?” Marlene asked Kate’s mother. “It’s neat to know a celebrity.”

“I really shouldn’t have another half,” Kate’s mother said, reaching for one. “The waist on my blue silk dress is a little snug already.” She spread a tiny dab of strawberry jam across the muffin. “Let’s see. I think Bill first met Mr. Coleman in the Park Sheraton’s barbershop. It’s in the basement, you know. Albert Anastasia was a client too.”

“The gangster?” Marlene looked impressed. “Gee, Mr. Norton’s getting his hair cut with some interesting people.”

“Well, Bill’s office is only a couple of blocks away on Fifth Avenue,” Maggie said, sounding proud. “And he does enjoy having a cocktail and listening to the music in the Mermaid Lounge, especially now that he’s friendly with Cy.”

Kate figured her father, who always enjoyed a drink, would have been stopping at the bar, celebrating his
haircut, even without the piano player.

“Okay, girls, let’s clear the table. And try on our dresses. Etta’s off having a perm. She should be back in an hour or so. Then at four thirty we’re taking a taxi into the city with your parents, Marlene. Bill will meet us in the lobby.”

“Is it a special occasion, Mrs. Norton?” Marlene drained her tea. “My mother wondered.”

“Yes, Kate’s father has just been promoted to division manager.”

Kate wondered if she could get a new bike. A division manager, who had his hair cut with celebrities, ought to be able to afford a red Schwinn for his daughter.

Her father met them in front of the Mermaid Lounge. “I thought we’d have cocktails here.” He kissed his mother, his wife, then Kate, then Mrs. Friedman, and, finally, Marlene.

Mr. Friedman put out his hand, “Congratulations, Bill.”

The long mahogany bar, lined with leather stools, faced a couple of huge glass containers holding exotic fish and one beautiful mermaid. Most of the patrons were men. Kate stared at the mermaid, fascinated. How could she hold her breath for so long? Then Kate spotted a narrow tube spiraling upward from the girl’s mouth.

Soft piano music filled the smoky room. Cy Coleman waved at Kate’s father. She felt very special and didn’t even groan when her father ordered Shirley Temples for her and Marlene.

“Could I see the barbershop, Mr. Norton?” Marlene asked. “I hear that Albert Anastasia got his hair cut there.”

Her father put down his scotch Old Fashioned. “Sure, I’ll take you and Kate on a little tour.” He turned toward the four grown-ups. “We’ll be back soon.”

They walked across the lobby—not as grand as the Waldorf Astoria’s or the Plaza’s, but far nicer than the Biltmore’s or the Roosevelt’s. Kate and her mother had visited and rated the ladies’ rooms in at least fifteen different hotels. With the exception of Saks Fifth Avenue, hotels had much more elegant bathrooms than department stores.

“Someday, Kate, we’ll have your wedding reception here, in the rooftop ballroom.”

Her father was always talking about the future: high school graduation, college, now a wedding. Kate hated to plan ahead. All she wanted was a red bike.

The Park Sheraton’s barbershop was tucked away in a narrow corridor of the basement. Nothing fancy. Jackson Heights had more attractive barbershops.

Marlene had her nose pressed up against the window, no doubt hoping to spot either a celebrity or a crook. But there were only two customers. And one had his face covered with a towel
.

Kate stared at the tall, skinny man, standing with his back to the door. He turned and she gasped. It was the guy who worked with Mrs. Provakov. Her friend.

“What’s the matter, Kate?” Her father asked.

“Nothing. I…er, nothing. I guess I thought the shop would be bigger.”

The barber removed the towel from the seated man’s face. This time, perhaps better prepared, Kate hid her shock. The man in the chair was Sophie’s father.