Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

Four

“I’m Dallas Dalton.”
The blonde had a Texas twang and a diamond necklace that would have crushed a less imposing bosom. “I’m new to Palmetto Beach, but I knew Swami in South Beach. I’m just thrilled to death to have the chance to serve on his little ole board of directors.” She drawled “directors” into a paragraph.

Sanjay Patel sprang to his feet, pulled out a chair for Kate, then seated her between himself and Jack Gallagher. Great—surrounded by doctors. Maybe one of them had an antacid in his pocket.

Mary Frances on Sanjay’s left leaned across the table to shake hands with Dallas. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Dalton. I’m Mary Frances Costello. Aren’t you Shane Dalton’s widow? I heard you bought a couple of condos in Ocean Vista.”

“Indeed I am, sugar. And call me Dallas. I purchased all five apartments on the right wing of that little ole condominium’s top floor. Just as soon as the contractors knock down all the walls, remove those ugly old kitchens, put in a huge new one, and then redo all five bathrooms in Italian marble, I’m moving in.”

While the ladies were chatting, Kate rummaged in her purse, found the Pepcid AC, popped it in her mouth, and swallowed it neat. Why hadn’t Mary Frances mentioned that a famous cowboy star’s very rich widow was about to be their new neighbor?

“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Kennedy?” Sanjay’s soft brown eyes registered concern.

She sighed. “I’m wondering why I’m here. Everyone else seems to be a board member.”

“Didn’t Miss Costello tell you why you were invited?”

Kate shook her head.

Sanjay smiled. “Like Palmetto Beach, the Yoga Institute is growing. Swami is most impressed with you, Mrs. Kennedy, and he plans to offer you a position on the board.”

She’d like to twist Mary Frances into a pretzel position.

“And what about you, sugar?” Realizing a beat late that Dallas Dalton was addressing her, Kate spun her head to the right “Are you studying under Swami?”

“Why, yes, I am.” Kate hesitated. “Although I’m working with Sanjay.”

“Well, just among us board members, the amount of hands-on yoga instruction you get from Swami Schwartz seems to be directly connected to the number of zeros in your bank account. I can tell y’all he never let go of my legs.”

In the dead silence that followed Dallas’s observation, a heavy scent of flowery perfume filled the air, overpowering even Mancini’s ever-present smell of garlic.

Jack Gallagher—as if in anticipation of the aroma’s owner—was on his feet in a flash, but it was Dallas Dalton who greeted the new arrival, “Well, howdy there, Magnolia. My gracious, aren’t you smelling like a gardenia-filled funeral parlor on the last night of a three-day wake?”

Kate knew Mrs. McFee had endowed the Yoga Institute and served on its board. Though she’d never met the tobacco heiress, she’d seen a portrait of Magnolia, dressed in a blue velvet gown trimmed with amine and topped off with a diamond tiara, prominently displayed in the meditation room, and a photograph of her in leotards along with a paragraph praising her philanthropic history graced the institute’s brochures.

In person, Magnolia McFee’s white hair resembled a cumulus cloud and her thin frame appeared frail. Her portrait and photograph had more than flattered the eighty-seven-year-old woman; tonight the fourth wealthiest woman in America looked like the little old lady she was.

“When are you going to give up that cheap cologne?” The Texas twang grated.

Though Kate had decided Dallas Dalton must be the rudest woman she’d ever met, Magnolia McFee threw back her head and laughed. Color flooded her face, making her instantly appear younger and healthier.

“I see inheriting Shane’s millions has done nothing to improve your manners, Dallas. But then what can you expect from a sharecropper’s daughter?” Magnolia McFee embraced Jack Gallagher and then took his seat. “Have the waiter rearrange the chairs, Jack. I want to sit next to Dallas, but I want you on my other side.” She turned to Kate. “No offense, Miss…”

“Kate Kennedy. And it’s Mrs.” She offered her hand, trying to ignore the sickening scent. She’d be delighted to move another seat away. “No offense taken. I gather you and Mrs. Dalton are old friends.”

Magnolia McFee’s pale blue eyes met Kate’s. “Old enemies, my dear. So much more fun, don’t you think?”

As Kate resettled in her new location, she heard Magnolia McFee ask Dallas Dalton, “Have you joined the Lazarus Society yet? We need fresh blood.”

Jack Gallagher made an abrupt and rather rude shift in his chair. His broad shoulders now blocked Kate’s view and prevented her from hearing Dallas’s response.

A face Kate had seen in the society pages approached the table. Laurence McFee IV, a handsome, if chronically unemployed, soap opera actor, lived in his grandmother’s Palm Beach mansion—the society editor always was gushing about how Magnolia’s manor rivaled Mar-A-Lago and had been decorated in much finer taste—between acting gigs. Tonight the blond young man ware a navy blazer and a sour expression as he slid into the seat next to Mary Frances.

“Sorry, I had trouble parking the Rolls, Grandmama. And I’m a tad worried.” Frown lines formed on his tanned brow. “This is such a dicey neighborhood.”

Kate wished she could click her heels and be transported back to her cozy living room where Ballou waited loyally. With the exception of Sanjay and, for the most part, Mary Frances, all the other guests seemed so shallow, so self-serving, so unpleasant. She felt tense and ached to go home. And where was Swami Schwartz?

A deep voice answered her question. “Hello, my friends.” The guest of honor took the last available chair between Laurence McFee IV and Dallas Dalton.

“Rats,” Mary Frances whispered, leaning in front of Sanjay Patel. “If Swami had only arrived a minute earlier he’d be sitting next to me.”

Kate added Mary Frances to her list of undesirable tablemates.

Five

Swami Schwartz had
never hidden his Brooklyn roots. The son of an American father and an East Indian mother, Swami, known as Allen while growing up, took off after high school graduation to find himself in India. He’d stayed there for twelve years practicing yoga and meditation techniques, fasting and praying, then moved to Miami. With the help of a few rich friends like Magnolia McFee, he’d opened the Palmetto Beach Yoga Institute five years ago. At forty-six, he remained reed thin and, despite a pronounced Brooklyn accent, exotically attractive.

Never as attractive as tonight, Kate thought.

Danny Mancini trotted behind Swami carrying a magnum of Moet. “On the house. Nothing’s too good for my friend, Swami.”
He
balanced a sterling silver tray holding eight Waterford flutes. They all, including Danny and
Tiffani, toasted Swami with only Sanjay abstaining, hoisting his water glass instead.

Hours later, Kate would recall how quickly attitudes had improved after Swami’s arrival. How his charisma captivated her fellow diners and made them smile instead of snipe. How tension evaporated and her stomach felt fine. How with Swami’s easy conversation, the mellow music, and the fabulous food, Kate was enjoying herself.

Jack Gallagher had danced with Mary Frances. Laurence McFee led Granny Magnolia in a smooth foxtrot. And Swami Schwartz two-stepped all over Kate’s new shoes. But she didn’t care and, after a second glass of champagne, agreed to serve on the board.

When they’d returned from the smaller-than-her-balcony dance floor, Dallas Dalton was gone. “Ladies room,” Sanjay said in answer to Jack Gallagher’s questioning the Texan’s whereabouts.

Yet Kate, while dancing, had observed Sanjay in a close encounter with Tiffani near the espresso machine at the tiny bar and had watched Dallas heading toward the front of the restaurant, away from the restrooms.

From that moment, Kate’s mental images had moved to fast forward.

Dallas Dalton returned to the table from the direction of the ladies room. Had she gone out the restaurant’s front door, walked around the corner to the parking lot, and reentered through the back door? If so, why? And she’d left her Chanel clutch on the table. Dallas didn’t strike Kate as the sort of woman who’d go to the ladies room without her lipstick.

A Baked Alaska presented with flair and flames, both somehow striking Kate as overkill, was followed by an inordinate amount of discussion led by Danny Mancini regarding who wanted cappuccino or espresso and, if espresso, who wanted Anisette or Sambuca.

Swami waved away the Baked Alaska and requested tiramisu, saying, “I might as well have my favorite.”

Magnolia McFee, passing on dessert, asked Jack Gallagher to dance as the piano player segued from “I Get a Kick out of You” into “Anything Goes.” They managed a more than passable Charleston, and by the time they took their seats again, Tiffani was placing a double espresso in front of Swami Schwartz. “Brewed it myself.” She spoke softly, in a tone meant to show intimacy.

Kate had swallowed the last of her Baked Alaska and was sipping her cappuccino when Swami, who’d almost chugged his espresso, grimaced, clutched his stomach, and fell face first into the tiramisu.

Dallas Dalton reacted quickly, grabbing his collar and gently lifting Swami’s head up. She sniffed, then said, “I smell something…”

Removing Dallas’s grip on Swami’s shirt, Jack Gallagher knelt next to the yogi. “Almonds.”

For Kate, sitting next to Magnolia, gardenia still trumped all other scents, and everyone’s movements seemed blurred.

“Cyanide!” Dallas Dalton screamed. “Call 911. Now!”

Magnolia McFee whipped a soft white mask out of her purse and shoved it into the doctor’s hand. “Use this while you resuscitate him. You, of all people, know better than to inhale without a filter, Jack.”

Danny Mancini fumbled in his breast pocket, then pulled out a cell phone.

Did Magnolia carry a mask with her at all times? Strange? Or convenient?

The older woman clutched her right hand across her heart—looking as if she were about to recite a passionate rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance. She gasped, then said, “Who’d have thought he’d be the first to go?”

Though Jack Gallagher worked heroically to revive him, Swami Schwartz was dead.

“So someone has murdered him?” Sanjay Patel might have been talking to himself. He looked shell-shocked.

Mary Frances, who’d been standing, slid back down on her chair, and made the sign of the cross. “Why would anyone want to poison a saint like Swami?”

Turning toward Mary Frances, Kate watched as a smile formed on Laurence McFee’s face, quickly fading when he met her eye.

Tiffani Cruz sat in Jack Gallagher’s empty chair, weeping wildly. The restaurateur behind her spoke to a 911 operator, barking directions but appearing dazed.

A siren could be heard in the distance.

Just about then Kate reached a frightening conclusion. During all the confusion of the dancers returning to the table, the sugar bowl, the Anisette bottle, the demitasse cups being passed around, and Tiffani pouring espresso while Danny was serving cappuccinos with cute dolphin-shaped stirrers made of brown sugar, each of them had both the means and the opportunity to have poisoned Swami Schwartz.

But who had the motive?

Six

“
Any chance Mary Frances killed Swami?” Marlene sounded hopeful. The relationship between Kate’s former sister-in-law and the former nun ran from cool to cold to, on occasion, frigid.

They were sitting in Kate’s living room with a sleepy Ballou curled in a white furry ball at Marlene’s feet, half-on, half-off. Without Charlie Kennedy—who in his widow’s opinion had been the sharpest homicide detective ever to grace the NYPD—around to discuss every detail of the yogi’s death, Kate had phoned Marlene as soon as she’d returned home, even though by the time the police had finished it was after midnight. Since Marlene routinely watched Letterman, Kate knew she’d be awake and available to fill in for Charlie.

“Mary Frances idolized the man,” Kate said, admitting to herself that she had too.

Marlene snorted. “Yeah, but from what you’re saying about Tiffani’s reaction to Swami’s demise, her idol had both the proverbial feet of clay and a roving eye for nubile young women. Sounds like the yogi might have been sharing more than a lotus position with Tiffani. Maybe Mary Frances found out and laced his coffee with cyanide.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Kate tried to muster a smile but couldn’t.

“Right, our tango champion wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her title. Too bad.” Marlene reached down to move Ballou gently off her foot. “If you want to pick my brains in the middle of the night when I should be in bed getting eight hours of beauty sleep in preparation for my date to die for, I require Johnny Walker Black and potato chips.”

Kate followed her into the kitchen, putting the kettle on while Marlene poked around in a kitchen cabinet. Like the rest of the apartment, it seemed too bland. Too many neutral tones. Too clean. Too Spartan. Charlie had added color to her decorating as well as to her life.

“Don’t you have any onion dip mix?”

“Would you settle for a cup of tea and a piece of crumb cake? I made it myself.”

“Oh, Kate, you’re still so June Cleaver. Well, when trapped in a TV twilight zone somewhere in the sixties, I can play nice.” Marlene reached into an
al
uminum
canister and pulled out two English breakfast decaf tea bags. “Here we go.”

Taking a seat at the table, Marlene gestured toward the cake. “Hey, if I’m giving up booze and dip, give me a hunk of that.”

As Kate attempted to cut the cake, her hand shook, scattering crumbs across the place mat.

“Let me do that. Sit down. You’re really upset about this Swami Schwartz’s death, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Kate handed Marlene the knife. “Such a vital man, a truly good man, and his meditation classes have helped me so much. I can’t believe he’s gone.” She wiped a tear with her napkin.

“So who wanted him dead?”

Kate sighed. “According to Detective Carbone that would be Tiffani Cruz.”

“Ah. Our old pal, Nick Carbone, is on the case.” Marlene cut a slice of cake the size of a shoe and put it on her plate. “Hasn’t the Palmetto Beach Police Department put him out to pasture yet?”

This time Kate managed a smile. “Carbone claims he’s South Florida’s answer to Lenny Briscoe.”

“Hmm…great cake, Kate. Did you really make it? Or were you just trying to keep me from having a scotch?”

“Of course I made it,” Kate said, hoping she’d thrown away the box. “But you wouldn’t want to drink so late at night anyway before your big date tomorrow.”

“That’s true. And I have to get to bed, so let’s move this mystery along. If we eliminate you and the dancing nun, I figure one of seven people must have murdered Swami Schwartz. Our new neighbor, Dallas Dalton, for one, who’s been tearing up Ocean Vista’s entire top floor, making us all hate her before she even moves in. Did you hear she leased a suite of rooms at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach while the world’s largest condo unit is being completed?” Not waiting for an answer, Marlene continued, counting on her fingers. “The very rich, very social, very philanthropic Magnolia McFee. Her wastrel grandson, Laurence. That Indian doctor you like so much, Sanjay What’s-His-Name. Jack Gallagher—by the way, I heard him interviewed on TV—pompous ass, isn’t he? Danny Mancini. He seems like such an old charmer, but I hear he has extremely dangerous friends. Or Detective Carbone’s first choice, Tiffani Cruz. And why would our favorite waitress, a walking, talking blonde joke, be his prime suspect?”

“Well, she did brew the espresso
and
serve the double demitasse cup,
and
that cup’s dregs did have an almond odor. Nick Carbone latched onto that and wouldn’t let go.” Remembering, Kate shook her head. “And Tiffani reacted as if she’d been much closer to Swami than any student or part-time employee should have been.”

“You said Danny Mancini called 911. What were all of you doing while waiting for help to arrive?”

Kate nodded, trying to freeze-frame the group’s frantic movements. “Dr. Gallagher made a valiant attempt to revive him, but we all knew he was gone before the medics got there. They tried too. Hooked him up to an IV. The police arrived minutes after the ambulance, but by then there was no question that Swami was dead.”

‘Tell me about Jack Gallagher’s
valiant
attempt. Was the doctor the first one to reach Swami after he’d landed in the tiramisu?”

Kate closed her eyes, trying to recall. “No…Dallas
Dalton lifted his head up, literally, by the collar, yet with a gentle touch, I thought. Said she smelled something. Then Jack Gallagher pulled her hands away…again, gently. I guess the doctor got a whiff, too, because he said, ‘Almonds,’ then started mouth-to-mouth—wait no—before he got started, Magnolia McFee handed him a mask.”

“A mask? Why would she have a mask?”

“Apparently, despite the way she and her grandson danced that lively Charleston, Magnolia McFee is a very sick lady. To quote her ‘My lungs are on their last legs. And my heart’s no valentine either. I never know when I’ll require resuscitation. Do you
think
I want some stranger breathing into my mouth without a mask?’”

Marlene grinned. “Not to mention what the Good Samaritan might catch from Magnolia.”

“Exactly. Or what might have happened to Jack Gallagher if he hadn’t been wearing that mask. Sanjay Patel told me that even inhaling cyanide can kill you.”