Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

Seve
n

Jack Gallagher appraised h
is mahogany deck and the sleek white fifty-foot yacht moored at its far end with smug satisfaction. Hell, he more than deserved all his pretty toys: the custom-made Mercedes, the mansion on the Intracoastal, the Louis XVI furniture—somewhat out of place in a South Florida setting, but what he treasured most of all. He liked to think that Thomas Jefferson might have sat on one of his satin armchairs, supposed to have graced Versailles.

He’d worked hard, too damn hard—racing the clock all of his life—but now time had caught up with
him.
Though he jogged daily, had the blood pressure of a teenager, could stand on his head lost in meditation for fifteen minutes, and looked a decade younger, he would be turning seventy-nine this spring. And no matter how hard he ran, he couldn’t stay far ahead of the grim reaper.

“Cheer up, old man,” he said aloud. When had he started talking to
hims
elf? “You have more than enough years left to complete your mission.”

He turned his face upward, savoring the clear blue sky. Sunshine always lifted his spirits. One of the reasons why he’d decided to move to Palmetto Beach all those years ago.

Yet this morning as the sun’s rays peeked through the slats of his blinds, he’d woken up with a dull ache at the back of his skull and not from last night’s champagne. His head still hurt. And why shouldn’t it? Hadn’t his friend died last night? And when Detective Carbone—from whose thick head he’d removed a bullet a few years ago—ad said that Horatio Harmon, Palmetto Beach’s long-time coroner, was out of town, he’d offered to perform the autopsy today, a procedure he hadn’t done since medical school. Gruesome business. He dreaded it. After tagging the blood samples and sewing the body back together, he’d probably throw up. At least he hoped events would be in that order.

Friday evening’s dinner party had been the start of the worst night of Jack Gallagher’s life—and he’d survived some pretty rough nights. He suspected there would be a lot more to come.

His cell phone playing the “Marseilles” startled him. He glanced at the caller ID. Magnolia McFee. Damnation. Oh, better answer. She knew he always had his phone with him.

“Dr. Gallagher here.”

“Oh, my poor darling. What a tragic end for our Swami. And to think, you of all people will be doing his autopsy.
You know I plan to lobby Congress against that barbaric procedure. And I swear I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Heartbreaking. I ache for you, my dear, dear Jack.”

If she weren’t the fourth richest woman in America and hadn’t endowed both the Yoga Institute and the Medical Center so generously, he would have played the grief card and hung up. Instead, he gritted his teeth and forced a smile into a voice. “You always put others above yourself, Magnolia.” Knowing it would drive her crazy, he added. “You need your sleep. I’ll prescribe something for you.”

“Oh, no. I take too damn much medicine already. What’s wrong with you, Jack? You know I want to keep my body as pure as possible.”

Had he gotten her mind off Swami? And the autopsy? “I plan to have a memorial service at my place. A celebration of Swami’s life.” Her voice caught, but only for a moment. South Florida’s most celebrated hostess was on a mission. “When will the body be ready?”

Magnolia, raised in the lap of tobacco luxury in Winston-Salem, had gone through life assuming no one would ever question her decisions. Why fight her? “I’ll be doing the autopsy later today and should have the results of the tests and the blood work ready for the police by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for the undertaker to pick up the body then. How’s Tuesday morning for your memorial?”

“I’d like to pick out the casket.” Jack could picture Magnolia checking off items on her ever-present to-do list. “Is the Adam’s Family Mortuary handling things? I’ll need to coordinate with them. Swami should look his best. A new Nehru jacket, I think.”

“They are. But, Magnolia, there’s no need for a jacket. Swami will be cremated.”

“Cremated?” He could hear the outrage in her voice. “How can you allow that? As a Christian, don’t you believe in the Final Judgment? And the resurrection of the body when it joins its soul for eternity?”

“Swami didn’t plan to be murdered. As the executor of his will and his best friend, I’m convinced that, under these totally unexpected circumstances, he would have wanted to be cremated.” Jack could feel sweat breaking out all over his body.

“An autopsy and a cremation. Your behavior belies all that I believe in. All that I thought you believed in, Jack.” Magnolia groaned sadly, then made a sniffling noise. “I’m taking this up with the elders at the next Lazarus Society meeting.”

“May I remind you, my dear, we are the elders.” Not wanting to push the old witch too far, he switched from curt to caring. “Now have a cup of tea, Magnolia, then start planning a great memorial service and an elegant reception. Invite all of the A-list.
Think
of it as a going away party. I’ll bring his ashes in my favorite Indian urn. You know how much Swami always loved your parties.”

E
ight

Ocean Vista’s lobby had been decorated with too much gilt, too much marble, and way too many mirrors for its aging population. The fountain in the center featured a faux alabaster statue of Aphrodite surrounded with Hallmark-card-cute Cupids in some seventies’ interior designer’s misguided vision of grandeur.

However, the comfortable green couch and several groupings of easy chairs made the lobby a gathering place for gossips. Several sat there now, chatting the fine Saturday morning away.

The front desk, off to the right as Kate and Ballou came out of the elevator, was manned by the miserable Miss Mitford. With her sullen expression firmly in place and a severe black suit covering her thin frame, the sentinel was guarding her post like a U.S. Marine MP guarding his prisoners.

Rather than cross the lobby with Ballou, a violation of the condo’s rules, Kate made two quick right turns and exited into the pool area. They’d walk on the beach instead of along A1A. “We’re flexible, right, Ballou?”

The Westie yelped eagerly. Kate took that as a yes. Charlie had always insisted Ballou understood English better than several of his fellow employees at the NYPD.

While she had no real agenda, Kate did have a vague notion she might just check out Mancini’s on their morning stroll.

She skirted around the sunbathers sprawled on chaise lounges, all lined up in rows facing east. Nary a head turned as she and Ballou crossed the pool area behind them. Much as she resented Charlie dying, leaving her alone in a retirement place of his choosing, Kate had to admit this was one gorgeous morning. On the beach, palm trees swayed like fat hula dancers in the light breeze. The ocean, white-capped with winter waves—not nearly as high as the summer waves at her beloved Jones Beach—was a Wedgewood blue today, diluting to a hint of aqua in the shallow water. And the sun that Ocean Vista’s residents were worshipping deserved nothing less. Big, bright, bold, and beautiful, it sent rays of warmth down Kate’s back as she and Ballou trudged north through the sand.

While he preferred woods to water, Ballou seemed delighted to be out for a walk in this glorious weather, investigating the odd dead crab, digging fiercely and spraying sand in his wake.

Uninvited, Swami’s death floated into Kate’s mind and anchored there, dragging her spirits down, turning the sunshine sour.

What a waste of a wonderful life. A man who’d devoted his time and energy to helping others achieve a healthier body and soul. A man who’d convinced Kate she could move on, cherishing Charlie’s memory, and knowing her husband’s love would always be with her, by living—or trying to live—in the moment.

Why would anyone want to kill a man like that?

As they neared Neptune Boulevard, Kate marveled at the size of the crowd.

Snowbirds, only in Florida from New Year’s to Easter, seemed determined to make the most of their season in the sun. Pale tourists lay on hotel towels, their necks and noses turning red, and it wasn’t even ten a.m. Local families toting kids, coolers, and picnic hampers were all set for a long Saturday at the beach. Surfers flirted with pretty girls while waiting to ride a wave. Had she ever been so tanned, so toned, or so young? With her milky-white skin, her teenage preference for Steinbeck over sports, and her “having been born old”—according to Marlene—Kate decided: No. Never.

Glad to see people milling about on the pier, Kate waved to Herb Wagner, the proprietor of the Neptune Inn as he set up tables for lunch on the restaurant’s screened-in porch. Three months ago, he and all the other store owners on the pier had been ready to close, but now with Palmetto Beach’s new council’s support, their businesses were thriving. That happy thought brought a smile to Kate’s face.

Taking a left off the beach at Neptune Boulevard, Kate cleaned up after Ballou, who never did his business in the sand, then deposited the plastic baggie into the large trash can by the public parking lot. Marlene also claimed Kate had been born obsessive-compulsive. Kate thought of herself as neat: A trait her former sister-in-law had never related to.

Lots of cars and bikes were here today. The Palmetto Beach Library at the far north end of the parking area had a steady stream of young and old passing through its doors. That, too, made Kate smile. She had much more in common with readers than surfers.

“Come on, Ballou, let’s do a little snooping.” She felt a stir of excitement as they walked west toward Mancini’s.

Yellow crime-scene tape in front of the restaurant stopped her in her tracks. What had she expected? Danny Mancini to greet her with a cappuccino and a clue to the killer?

“I guess we can go home now, Dr. Watson.” Ballou was pulling her in the direction of the drawbridge, where many more SUVs and convertibles were heading in their direction, then off-island.

The door to Mancini’s flew open and Tiffani Cruz, followed by a young policeman carrying a ledger and a box of files, came out. The cop nodded at Kate, thanked Tiffani, then walked over to a police car parked a couple of feet away from the restaurant. Some detective. Despite the siren on its roof, Kate hadn’t even spotted the blue and white car.

“Mrs. Kennedy, can I talk to you?”

Kate turned away from the young cop, wondering what evidence might be in those files, and saw that Tiffani’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Yes, dear.” Kate patted Tiffani’s hand, noticing the nails were bitten to the quick. Last night, Kate remembered, they’d been blood-red and long enough to stir a drink. Fake, of course. Still she’d never seen Tiffani without them. And the girl wasn’t wearing any makeup. Something must be very wrong.

Tiffani yanked her yellow t-shirt down over her belly button in what might be a gesture of respect. Kate’s older granddaughter, Lauren, the Harvard pre-law fan of Dr. Phil, always showed some skin between her tops and her bottoms. But her younger sister, Katharine, Kate’s namesake and, though she shouldn’t admit it, her favorite, kept her stomach covered.

Ballou sniffed at Tiffani’s sneakers, then jumped up to sniff and lick her hand—a sure sign of approval.

“I’m so scared, Mrs. Kennedy. I think I’m in big trouble.”

Knowing she was being sucked in, Kate wait for the bait After all, the girl was younger than Lauren. “What can I do to help?”

Ni
ne

When the rush of incoming traffic stopped for a red light, Kate led Tiffani across Neptune Boulevard to Dinah’s, a Palmetto Beach tradition that was as close to a New York City coffee shop as any restaurant Kate had found in South Florida. And one of the only places where she could take Ballou.

Located in the small shopping mall that also housed a bookstore, a drugstore, and a bathing suit shop, Dinah’s smelled of freshly baked cornbread and strong coffee.

Kate ordered both. Tiffani only wanted coffee and conversation.

On his best behavior, Ballou lay quietly under the table.

“That Detective Carbone kept me at the restaurant long after you all went home. Me, Sanjay, and Dr. Gallagher. He kept at me, asking questions over and over about Swami Schwartz and me. You know, personal stuff…like was our relationship more than professional.”

Kate, dying to know that herself, but well-trained by Charlie, just nodded.

Tiffani was starting to cry. “Honest to God, Mrs. Kennedy, the way that Detective Carbone kept hammering at me last night, it was like so obvious he believed I killed Swami. After what seemed like hours, he asked Dr. Gallagher to do the autopsy, then ordered me and Mr. Mancini to meet him at the restaurant early this morning. Again with the questions. A few minutes ago, Detective Carbone got a phone call, then he and Mr. Mancini took off, leaving me to help that young cop finish packing up the files. And,” she sobbed, “Carbone asked me to stop by police headquarters at eleven thirty. Do you
think
I’m going to be arrested?” The girl looked terrified.

Three things puzzled Kate: Nick Carbone’s seemingly irrational suspicion of Tiffani; why he’d asked Jack Gallagher to perform Swami’s autopsy; and where he’d gone with Danny Mancini this morning, leaving his prime suspect behind to gather up what might be evidence. She forced herself to focus on Tiffani’s question.

Kate spoke with a lot more conviction than she felt, “Certainly not.”

“Mrs. Kennedy, will you please come with me to the police station?” Tiffani’s whisper sounded strained. “But we have to stop by the Yoga Institute first. There’s something I need to show you before I speak to Detective Carbone.”

Need. Kate let the word roll around in her head, deciding when a woman expressed “need” rather than “want,” she expected results. If Kate agreed to accompany
Tiffani
on her morning rounds, would she have to meet her expectations?

“Well, well, fancy running into two of my more charming dinner companions from last night. Neither of you gals spiked the coffee with cyanide this morning, now did you?” Dallas Dalton’s twang carried, causing heads to turn. Or maybe her rhinestone cowgirl outfit turned the heads of the diners in the next booth and at the counter.

“Move over, sugar,” Dallas said, the white fringe on her jacket swaying as she slid in next to Tiffani.

Ballou yelped, but then rearranged himself at Kate’s feet. Dallas ignored the little dog, not even acknowledging she’d stepped on his paw.

Kate gave him a sympathetic pat.

“My gracious, that cornbread looks as good as my mama’s. I think I’ll join you all for some postmortem girl talk.”

“We have to go soon,” Kate said, but her full cup of coffee and untouched food belied her words.

Dallas pointed a French-manicured index finger at her. “So, sugar, whodunit?”

“The name’s Kate.” Dallas made her lose her appetite. “And I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?”

Could that be a look of respect flashing in Dallas Dalton’s big blue eyes?

“Yes—right—Kate. And your last name is Kennedy, if I do recall correctly. Just like my favorite president. Such a tragedy that beautiful man got himself shot in the city I was named after.” Dallas flagged one of the waitresses, then gestured toward Kate. “I’ll have exactly what she’s having, sugar.”

Most of the wait staff at Dinah’s were women in their late sixties. A few of them—married, widowed, or divorced—had worked there part-time for decades to get out of the house and meet people, and now considered their steady customers family who couldn’t get along without their favorite waitress, but the majority of them worked eight-hour shifts, wearing orthopedic oxfords and support hose, to supplement their Social Security checks.

Madge, the waitress Dallas had addressed, was seventy-two and, indeed, had been at Dinah’s for years and loved her customers, but she
needed
—that word again—the money. She’d once told Kate, without a hint of self-pity, she’d probably die on the job. Though Dinah’s regulars weren’t famous movie stars’ wealthy widows, they were, for the most part, far better mannered than Dallas Dalton.

“You bet, sugar, in a sec,” Madge said sweetly, then walked as slowly as humanly possible over to the sideboard filled with steaming coffee pots. Kate wondered if Madge had ever considered lacing a customer’s cup with cyanide.

Tiffani smiled, a wicked little grin, seeming to support a sister waitress’s small defiance.

Dallas fixed her baby blue eyes on Kate. With the sun streaming through the window behind her, she looked older than she had in the soft lighting at Mancini’s…her carefully applied navy eyeliner more noticeable…the gray-blue eye shadow slightly smudged. She had creases on her cheeks, but her chin line was firm, her skin pink and healthy, and her smile—much more wicked than Tiffani’s—bright. Though past her prime—Kate scolded herself, ashamed of her ageism and sexist thought process—Dallas Dalton was a very pretty woman.

“Is the whodunit question still on the table, Kate?” The twang had acquired a smirk.

Tiffani started, spilling coffee onto her saucer.

“Yes.” Kate hoped Tiffani would let Dallas do the talking.

“Did y’all know Swami’s father, David Schwartz, and Danny Mancini grew up in the same section of Brooklyn? That they’d been best buddies back in high school. Went off to war together. I understand they were pretty tough kids. Movable crap games. Fixed fights. All very Damon Runyon. I really loved
Guys and Dolls,
didn’t you Kate?”

Sitting next to Dallas, Tiffani looked totally bewildered—and why not? She was much too young to grasp any of Dallas’ New York-gangster, musical comedy references.

Without waiting for Kate’s review of
Guys and Dolls,
Dallas kept talking, “Even in his golden years, Danny Mancini is quite the gambler. Horses. Y’all know Shane and I loved horses—had our own stable—but we only bet on the Kentucky Derby. For Danny, horse racing is an addiction, not a sport. He owed his bookie three hundred grand. And when he turned to his old pal’s son, Swami said no. Now,
min
d you, he’d already paid off many of Danny’s gambling debts. But this time, Danny was in real danger of losing the restaurant. He’d already mortgaged his house. If
I were a betting woman, I’d wager Danny Mancini killed Swami Schwartz.”

Tiffani gasped. “He did insist on pouring the Anisette.” Wondering why Dallas was telling them all this, Kate shook her head. “Though Danny had both the means and the opportunity, what would have been his motive? With Swami dead, he couldn’t borrow any more money from him.”

“Sugar, Danny Mancini is Swami Schwartz’s godfather. He’s in the yogi’s will.”