Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

Thirty-Five

The usually well-behaved
Ballou peed on a leg of the couch. Kate sighed. She’d never get her other eye done.

“You’re a bad boy, Ballou.”

The little Westie lowered his head, his ears drooping.

Should she give him a time-out? Put him in his cage-bed? Show him who was calling the shots around here?

No, maybe he had another bladder infection like the one he’d suffered from after Charlie had died. She’d planned to take Ballou for a walk just before leaving for Palm Beach, why not do that now?

She ran into the kitchen, filled an old Tupperware bowl with warm water and ammonia, then wiped off the couch and the carpet. The dejected dog watched as she raced around.

Finished with her mop up, she washed her hands, grabbed her sunglasses—she’d do the other eye when she returned—her keys, a plastic bag, the pooper-scooper, and Ballou’s leash. He yelped and jumped, trying to lick her hand. “Stop that, I’m still mad at you. Now, come on, this is going to be the shortest walk of your life.”

Lifting him up,
no easy trick, Kate carried the Westie through the lobby, even though Miss Mitford had gone off duty. “See, we obey the rules, Ballou. Good people carry their pets through the lobby. And good dogs don’t pee on the furniture.”

Ballou licked her cheek.

She headed for the front door. No walk on the beach. Since she didn’t want to return windblown and sandy, this brief outing would take place on A1A.

The brightness of the late-afternoon sun startled her. She moved her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. Better. She turned south toward Fort Lauderdale. Cars buzzed by, their noise an intrusion on the pedestrian-free boulevard. Kate and Ballou seemed to be the only ones out there to enjoy the light breeze, the scent of jasmine, and the rustling palms.

They walked at a fair clip for the equivalent of two city blocks, Ballou evidencing no interest in a bush or a tree or stepping off the curb to do his business. Contrary, wasn’t he?

Like Danny Mancini. Where had that stubborn old man gone? And why hadn’t she gone to visit him in the hospital? What could have happened to him? Had someone gotten into his room? Had a phone call lured him away? Was his disappearance linked to Swami’s death? It must be. But how? Could Dallas have been right? Had Danny poisoned his own godson? She doubted that. Had he run away? Or had he found out something that scared him off? Any chance he’d show up at Magnolia McFee’s tonight?

She blinked back a tear. Could Danny be dead too?

If her theory about Life Preserver and the Lazarus Society being connected to Swami’s death was correct, how did Danny Mancini fit into that scenario?

And if Jack Gallagher had killed Swami, it couldn’t have been to keep his master plan a secret. Dallas, Magnolia, Laurence, Danny, probably Tiffani and Sanjay, not to mention Jeff Stein and herself, all knew that Gallagher wanted to freeze, store, and revive the dead on premises. Even the town council had questioned if Life Preserver might eventually be providing more than just research. Good heavens, the egomaniacal doctor was taking reservations, selling storage space.

Greed worked as a motive, but Gallagher had tons of money. Did he really
need
total control of another company? What about his past? Past secrets often lead to present problems. Where had he grown up? And where had he acquired that Mid-Atlantic accent? The who, what, where, when, and why scoop. How she loved those details. Maybe she should consider Jeff Stein’s job offer. According to Dallas, Swami’s father, David Schwartz, and Danny Mancini had been best buddies in Brooklyn, tough guys, hanging out with gangsters, and they’d served together. Could the secrets—or the sins of Swami’s father and godfather—have been festering for over sixty years? Should she call Danny’s other godson, Nick Carbone? His parents might have talked to him about the old days.

“Are you carrying a baggie, Kate?” A Brooklyn baritone, slightly mocking. “I’d hate to have to arrest you and Ballou for littering.”

Kate started. Could she have conjured up Nick Carbone?

Spinning to confront him, her sunglasses fell to the sidewalk.

Carbone, agile for a man with a belly the size of a beach ball, kneeled, retrieved them, paused to pet a happy-to-see-him Ballou, then handed Kate her glasses. “What the hell is wrong with your right eye?”

Charlie used to tease her, saying she looked like a white rabbit without her mascara and liner.

She felt herself flush, waving her sunglasses about before putting them back on. “Nothing, I mean, I didn’t finish—” Why was she explaining makeup interruptus to Nick Carbone? “Nothing’s wrong. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Mrs. Dalton, but she’s not home. I called the Ritz-Carlton, but she’s not in her suite there either. As I was leaving Ocean Vista, I spotted you and Ballou. Any idea where I can find the Yellow Rose of Texas?”

Did he find Dallas attractive? As Kate flushed again, her neck went hot. Why the devil did she care what—or who—he liked? She didn’t. She wouldn’t even care if he wanted to date that flashy Texan. She wouldn’t. Yet, somehow, she did.

Breathing deeply, she said, “Dallas will be at Magnolia McFee’s memorial rehearsal tonight.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” With a deep laugh, he added, “The very rich are different from you and me.”

So he could quote Fitzgerald.

“I thought I’d catch her.” He glanced at his watch. Should she test him? See how much he knew. What he’d figured out. Sure, why not?

“Dallas might have stopped at the Boca Raton Resort on her way up to Magnolia’s. To attend a meeting of the Lazarus Society.”

“If you’re still playing detective, Miss Marple, I’ll play straight man. How did you hear about the Lazarus Society?”

Oddly annoyed that he’d called her Miss Marple—she wasn’t that old and he wasn’t all that much younger than she—Kate said, “Palmetto Beach isn’t so different from St. Mary Mead. People talk.”

“People?”

“Do you know a man named Harry Archer? He’s hawking memberships in the Lazarus Society.” She hesitated, catching a look of what—surprise? respect?—in Nick Carbone’s brown eyes, then added, “I think the society’s a support group for Life Preserver’s cryonics business.”

He nodded. “I’m warning you Kate, stop snooping. Harry Archer is more than a sleazy, former timeshare telemarketer with a new scam selling eternal life. One old gal he’d courted up in Palm Beach County died under suspicious circumstances, but the Lantana police didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him. He was tried last year in Margate for milking another old lady out of her life savings.”

“Why isn’t he in jail?” Good God, Marlene planned on interrogating this guy. Kate, as usual, had left her phone home. She had to cut this conversation short.

“The jury, mostly women,” Nick almost, but not quite, sneered, “found him not guilty.”

“I have to get ready for Magnolia’s rehearsal, but I have a quick question for you.”

“You don’t know when to quit, do you, Kate?”

Hearing an iota of grudging respect in his voice, she plunged. “I gather you haven’t found your godfather yet.”

It was his turn to flush, going scarlet from his neck to his forehead, tiny beads of sweat dancing down his cheeks. “Go color in your other eye, Kate.”

“Do you know where Danny Mancini is?”

She knew she’d crossed the line.

Carbone glared at her. If he’d meant to unnerve her, he succeeded. Still, she tried again. “Family secrets can destroy us, Nick. In some way, we’re all victims of our pasts, aren’t we? I’d like to help.”

Ballou tugged on his leash, wanting to move forward. And, to Kate’s amazement, Nick patted the top of her head, pivoted like a cadet, and went the other way.

Th
irty-Six

“Everything’s just fine.” Marlene
was whispering. Kate had called in her Jane Cleaver, mother-knows-best mode, and Marlene, in the middle of inviting Harry Archer down to Miami for dinner, didn’t have time for a lecture. She glanced over at Harry and, still whispering, said, “Keep your phone on, I’ll call if I need you to send in the Marines.”

After his audience of aging bobby soxers had mobbed Jack Gallagher as if he was the second coming of Sinatra, the doctor swept Dallas Dalton off into a corner where, apparently, they’d come to a truce. The Texan then joined the other newcomers filling out applications for membership in the Lazarus Society.

Marlene had pulled Harry aside and invited him to dinner. Probably smelling a Life Preserver enrollment and—no doubt, with its $120,000 price tag, a hefty commission—he’d readily accepted, suggesting Palm Beach. A half-baked plan was hatching in her head and, wanting Harry as far away from Palmetto Beach as possible, she had countered with South Beach. They’d been discussing their options when Kate called.

Ever polite, Harry had walked a few feet away, but Marlene suspected he was eavesdropping.

“A jealous ex-boyfriend,” she said, by way of explanation, while snapping her phone shut. “I’d never want to be frozen with him.”

“And I don’t much want to be frozen with you.” Dallas appeared at Marlene’s side. “Cryogenics makes for mighty strange roommates.”

“Well, maybe you can be stabled with your horse.”

Harry, employing what closely resembled a cha-cha step, backed away from them. “Dr. Gallagher appears to be ready to leave, ladies. Please excuse me for a moment.”

While Dallas struggled for a retort, Marlene went for the kill. “Where’s your husband, Shane? Frozen? You’ve never mentioned that. Isn’t he on the Life Preserver family plan with you and Thistle?”

Dallas’s perfectly made-up face sagged, her chin almost resting on her chest. “How dare you?”

“We’re going to be late for Magnolia’s command performance.” The unflappable Gallagher reached for Dallas’s elbow. “Come along now, I’ll drive.” Right behind the doctor, Harry nodded in approval.

“The hell you will. Get your hands off me, Jack. I’ll drive myself.” Dallas whirled around and left the room, a panel of white chiffon floating behind her, not unlike Loretta Young’s dramatic exits on her old TV show.

Gallagher sighed. “I’m afraid you touched a nerve, Ms. Friedman. Shane Dalton decided to be frozen and suspended in Arizona next to his first wife, whom he’d divorced decades ago to marry Dallas, and who passed on last year shortly before Shane. Their only son will be a patient there too, when his time comes. So you see, Shane did have a family plan, only Dallas wasn’t on it.”

Marlene bit her lip. “I gather Dallas inherited the horse when Shane died.”

“Indeed.” Gallagher sounded grave. “And Dallas and Thistle will be frozen, suspended, and return together.” Marlene smiled, picturing Dallas and Shane Dalton in a future-life cryonics custody suit, but said nothing.

The Lazarus Society meeting officially over, the doctor, with Harry at his side, led his followers out of the conference room. On their way down the corridor, Gallagher turned to Harry. “Small crowd tonight.”

“But very passionate.” Harry came across as defensive. “Three of the prospects enrolled on the spot. And I’m going to have dinner with Marlene Friedman.”

Did he think she was deaf? Or could Harry be so self-absorbed he didn’t realize she and the squat lady were only a few paces behind him and the doctor?

“What happened to the former nun?” Gallagher sounded puzzled.

Harry shrugged, his broad shoulders rising to his ears, making his thick neck disappear. “She canceled. Said being frozen conflicted with her belief in life after death in heaven, where, when this world ends, her body will again host her soul for all eternity.”

Oh my God! Harry was talking about Mary Frances. Well, good for the dancing nun, he hadn’t conned her.

“That’s so foolish. So sad.” The doctor said. “Poor uninformed woman. Why would anyone allow faith to get in the way of cryonics? Passing up on the chance to be frozen and suspended, gambling on eternity in heaven? Didn’t you explain that cryogenics is the most spiritual branch of science. Your former nun has missed out on the Lazarus Society. On becoming part of Life Preserver’s community, part of our core cell of cryonics patients who’ll come back together, body and soul, to live again in a brave new world.”

Marlene shivered.

“What’s the matter? It’s not cold. Aren’t you feeling well, Ms. Friedman?” The squat lady, who obviously hadn’t been straining to hear Jack—he spoke softly—and Harry’s every word, sounded solicitous.

“I’m fine.” Marlene, still eavesdropping, cut her off.

“By the by, Harry, thanks again for helping me out at the morgue Friday night. I could never have pulled this off without you.”

“My pleasure, Doc. Did Nick Carbone take you at your word?”

“Certainly. Why wouldn’t he? Am I not the most respected doctor in South Florida?”

Jack Gallagher
was
Dr. Frankenstein. Life Preserver
was
his lab. And Harry Archer
was
his henchman.

Thi
rty-Seven

Kate could count th
e number of times she’d ridden in a chauffeured limousine. To weddings and funerals mostly. New Yorkers took taxis, not limos, to special events, as well as when it rained, when running late, or when the Madison Avenue bus didn’t come. She and Georgie Cooper, too short by far to slow dance with, had hailed a taxi to her high school prom. Some of her classmates in their pastel, full-skirted, tulle gowns had hopped on the subway, it’s doors barely wide enough to accommodate those multiple layers of crinolines.

Kate missed the city’s ubiquitous yellow cabs. But maybe, in South Florida, limousines were easier to come by than taxis. This one was white, sleek, and roomier than many a Manhattan studio apartment.

Tonight, she felt almost festive in her silvery gray pantsuit, with an antique silver and green brooch on its lapel that, according to Charlie, flattered both her hair and eyes. And she’d finally finished making up her right eye. Nick Carbone’s face flashed into the picture, complicating her feelings, compromising her memory of Charlie.

Mary Frances opened the built-in mahogany bar.

“Look, my favorite. Macadamia nuts. Should we have a drink?”

The array of bottles, from Remy Martin, to Moet, to Johnny Walker Black, along with the proper crystal, from brandy snifter, to flute, to highball, to hold your drink of choice, impressed Kate. “Sure. How about champagne?”

Wearing a green silk shirt and matching high-waist, wide-leg trousers, reminiscent of a thirties movie star’s loungewear, Mary Frances had bounced into the lobby with a surprisingly upbeat message, “Let’s go get the bad guys.”

Since they were on this mission together, why not toast its success? And Marlene’s success with Harry Archer.

Kate reached for the Moet, then tackled the cork.

“Champagne would be perfect.” Mary Frances sniffed. “Doesn’t the leather smell wonderfully rich? A girl could get used to this.”

The pop exploded like a shot. Even the driver jumped. Kate always had assumed the glass between a limousine’s front and the backseat was soundproof. She wondered if Magnolia McFee—or maybe her grandson, Laurence—had instructed her chauffeur to spy on them. And that thought didn’t strike Kate as paranoia. Quite the contrary. Whispering, she warned Mary Frances.

As they talked about nothing, Kate pressed a button and her window opened. Sipping champagne, she gazed up at the sky. Gathering clouds in a dusky blue sky, and, from beyond the horizon, a glimpse of a rising pale moon. So beautiful it seemed unreal. Like a postcard. Or a paper moon
han
ging
over a cardboard sea.

Winding their way up A1A’s two-lane highway, they arrived in Palm Beach, with mansions to their left on the much wider Intracoastal side, and the ocean to their right. As always, Kate marveled at how narrow the beach strip was on this pricey island. Just enough space for a couple of draped Arabian tent-style cabanas and a few beach chairs. Not much sand for the billionaires to kick around.

Mar-A-Lago loomed ahead, its pink and coral buildings sprawling over acres behind high hedges. Kate said, “Since Magnolia McFee is Donald Trump’s neighbor, we should be there any minute.”

Sure enough, as she spoke, the chauffeur turned left through large black wrought iron gates. A circular driveway, flanked by Royal Palm trees so tall they blocked the waning daylight, ended at a white antebellum mansion with wide pillars and a verandah with swinging settees. Emerald-green grass sloped down to the Intracoastal. Magnolia trees and a huge weeping willow graced the lawn. What a setting. Where were Scarlett and the Tarleton twins?

A ramrod straight unsmiling butler in a charcoal-gray cutaway and striped trousers opened the door. “Welcome to Seacrest.”

Though she’d read about Merrywood and Hickory Hill, and had gone on tours through Mount Vernon and Monticello, this would be Kate’s first time as a guest in a house that actually had a name. And a snobby butler with a British accent. She wished Marlene could be here.

“Mrs. McFee awaits you in the drawing room. Follow me, please.’’ Kate stared in awe at the center hall double staircase, fully expecting to see Rhett standing on the top step, wowing the local belles. Behind her, Mary Frances giggled. Why had Kate allowed her to have a second glass of champagne?

In the drawing room that seemed as large as Ocean Vista’s lobby, floor-to-ceiling French doors opened out onto a terrace with stone steps leading down to a dock. The requisite yacht was berthed next to a cigarette boat. The latter, probably one of Laurence’s toys, seemed appropriate for a scion of a Winston-Salem tobacco family.

“That’s a real Picasso, not a print,” Mary Frances whispered, gesturing toward a painting hanging over a pale yellow sofa. “His blue period. I took an art appreciation course at the Palmetto Beach Senior Center last year.”

Sanjay Patel sat across the room on an identical yellow sofa with Tiffani Cruz, in a too-tight, too-bright mini dress, huddled so close to him that their thighs touched. A Rembrandt hung above their heads, but they only had eyes for each other. Were they the only ones here?

Magnolia McFee, dressed in a Lily Pulitzer pink and green-print cotton shift and a pink cardigan sweater, stepped out from behind an armoire that could have hidden a basketball team.

“How lovely to see you again, Mrs. Kennedy. Miss Costello.” She crossed the room, grabbing hold of Kate’s right and Mary Frances’ left hand for a fleeting moment. A firm grip for such a frail old lady. “Cocktails are being served on the terrace.” Then glancing with distaste that bordered on hostility at Tiffani and Sanjay, Magnolia said, “Please come along now. We need to get started.” Her words cold as cryogenics.

Laurence McFee, in a navy blazer, white linen shirt, khakis, and Bally loafers without socks, stood behind the terrace bar stirring an oversize martini. He nodded cordially at Kate and Mary Frances, then handed the cocktail to Magnolia. “Your favorite, Grandmama.”

Kate, not wanting anyone mixing her drinks, asked for a Diet Coke.

Laurence served her in silence, then opened a bottle of white wine and poured a glass for Mary Frances. Wine from a freshly opened bottle should be fine, but Kate would forbid Mary Frances from accepting a second.

“Excuse me, ladies. I want to take this Scarlett O’Hara down to Dallas.” He placed a ghastly looking concoction on a silver tray. “She’s having a stroll in the English garden.”

An English garden in South Florida soil? Money must be a powerful fertilizer.

Magnolia sighed. “I’m going in to collect Sanjay and Tiffani. No sign of Danny Mancini. Poor soul. But everyone else is here. Jack Gallagher and Dallas Dalton were fussing, so I packed him off to the library to select an urn for Swami from my Indian art collection. You wouldn’t believe the ugly reproduction Jack brought for the memorial. I’m sure Swami wouldn’t have approved either. This is all too depressing, isn’t it?”

A rhetorical question, Kate presumed, as Magnolia turned her back and walked toward the drawing room.

Could Swami’s ashes be in the doctor’s urn? Kate’s heart thumped faster and her stomach lurched. She reached into her pocket for a Pepcid AC, washing it down with Diet Coke. How had Gallagher completed the autopsy so quickly? And, more importantly, with an ongoing police investigation, how could Swami have been cremated so soon after he’d died? And on a Sunday?

“Stay here, Mary Frances.” Kate pointed to a copper-colored rattan chair. “I’m going to talk to Dallas.”

“But I want to help.”

“We need to separate. Ask Tiffani and Sanjay a few questions. Try to find out when their romance really started. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t have any more wine. One of these people poisoned Swami.”

“What about food? Surely we can eat.”

“Only after someone else has sampled whatever you’re thinking about having.”

Maybe Mary Frances wouldn’t make it, even as a third-banana detective.

Kate crossed the terrace, went down the stone steps, and turned left, walking into the English garden via an arched trellis of magnificent yellow roses.

In an alcove filled with beds of foxglove and a statue of Pan, Laurence was nuzzling Dallas’ neck, not seeming to care that she was old enough to be his mother with decades to spare. Dallas moaned, then leaned back in his arms as he worked his way up to her lips.