Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

Ten

Marlene hadn’t been so excited since she’d lost her virginity. Her heart was dancing to a salsa beat. She turned the air conditioner on full blast. February might be South Florida’s coldest month, but hustling around her apartment, bursting with nervous energy and bordering on an anxiety attack, she felt like a hot flash from hell had consumed her body. Sweat seemed to ooze out of the deepest recesses of her soul. And with all the mess—total mess—though Marlene usually preferred to think of the clutter in her apartment as casual disarray, she couldn’t find her red patent leather, strappy sandals. The ones with the four-inch heels.

“
Think
.” Marlene crawled out from under one of the beds in her guest room. “Where did you take them off?” Talking to herself. A sure sign she was crazed. After all, she wasn’t seventeen and about to hitchhike down to
Rockaway Beach with Tony De Luca to share an illegal beer and a robust round of necking under the boardwalk. A half-century had passed; no, flown by.

She was now Marlene Friedman Gorski Kennedy Weiss. Three times a bride. Twice divorced. Once widowed. Well, twice widowed, though Kevin, Charlie Kennedy’s twin brother and her second husband, had died long after their divorce. Still, she’d planned and paid for Kevin’s funeral, thanks to the generosity of Jack Weiss, her third and last late husband. May he and the Kennedy brothers rest in peace.

Enough with depressing memories. Hell, she might be old, sweaty, and, uh, Rubenesque. But today, she would pull herself together and drive up to the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach—a far cry from Rockaway Beach—to her first date with a man who composed charmingly romantic emails and looked like he enjoyed a good meal. If she could only find her goddamn shoes.

Feeling twenty pounds thinner—her new Lycra tummy tucker working its magic, and her hour-long makeup session leaving a golden glow on her skin, defining her hazel eyes, and creating an illusion of cheekbones—Marlene almost waltzed into the lobby. Only to run into Mary Frances Costello, who was waving a letter and wearing her teacher-knows-best face.

“We have a legal problem.”

When the Ocean Vista condo owners had so
wisely
elected Marlene president of the board of directors in a rather distasteful special election that mirrored the town of
Palmetto Beach’s equally distasteful special election, they’d also
none-too-wisely
voted in the dancing nun as vice-president. Over the last few months, Marlene had been suffering from the results of the electorate’s VP decision on a daily basis.

“What now, Mary Frances? I’m on my way to Palm Beach.”

“Mrs. Lombardo, on the seventh floor, has complained to the town council about one of Dallas Dalton’s king-size whirlpool tubs causing her bathroom ceiling to buckle. A building inspector is on his way. As an eyewitness, I can vouch that Gina Lombardo’s ceiling is ready to cave at any moment and she’s hopping mad. She just had the bathroom painted and put up new wallpaper. And the fawns are wet.”

“Fawns? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Please lower your voice, Mrs. Friedman.” Miss Mitford the sentinel said, sounding vexed.

“The wallpaper’s pattern. Frolicking fawns. That’s Gina’s bathroom’s theme. All the faucets are deer-shaped. Anyway, the fawns were stained by falling wet debris and Gina’s going to sue Dallas Dalton.” Mary Frances paused, then smirked, and read from the letter she’d been waving around. “She’s also suing Ocean Vista’s board of directors for agreeing to such an enormous, under-supervised, and completely unethical expansion.”

Marlene felt the sweat rising, flooding her face from neck to forehead. She reached into her red patent leather handbag, yanked out a wad of tissues, and then gently patted her cheeks, trying not to smear her makeup. “I have an appointment in Palm Beach.”

“You’ll have an appointment in court if you don’t speak to Gina Lombardo and try to calm her down. She’s already hired an attorney and called the
Sun-
Sentinel.
Next she’ll be appearing on Channel Seven.”

Glancing at her watch, Marlene groaned. “Hell’s bells. Where is Gina now?”

“Up in Dallas Dalton’s spread, screaming at her workmen.”

Damn. Since she didn’t have his phone number, she couldn’t even tell her date-to-die-for that she might be late. Marlene headed for the elevator, calling over her shoulder, “Move it, Mary Frances.”

Dallas Dalton owned almost 3,500 square feet, having purchased Ocean Vista’s top floor’s entire right wing, and turned all five units into a massive apartment, with spectacular views of the pier, the ocean, and downtown Fort Lauderdale.

The whirlpool tub in question was located in what had been a one-bedroom unit directly above Gina’s condo, but now that one-bedroom—along with its living and dining rooms, plus the kitchen and bath—had been remodeled into a resort-size spa.

The workforce that Dallas Dalton had hired, ten men strong, including engineers, electricians, plumbers, and two architects, had allowed Marlene and Mary Frances access to the cavernous apartment.

In an entrance hall the size of Marlene’s living room, an irate Gina Lombardo was wagging a finger at a tall guy in designer jeans, while wailing about her ruined wallpaper.

Jeez! Dallas Dalton would need a map to find the kitchen. “Twenty people could live here with room for guests,” Marlene said.

Another older, heavier tall guy, holding a set of blueprints, laughed. “We’re imported from Texas, ma’am, we like wide-open spaces.” He smiled at Marlene and Mary Frances. “Howdy, ladies, I’m Jeff Jones, the chief engineer.”

The designer jeans guy turned out to be the head plumber, also “imported from Texas,” and he was assuring Gina Lombardo that he’d solve the problem pronto.

The chief engineer concurred. “Yep. After the plumber fixes the leak, I’ll have to reinforce the floor.” He smiled at Gina. “And don’t you fret, ma’am, Miz Dalton accepts full responsibility for any damage and will take care of all costs incurred by her neighbor down below and the Ocean Vista board.” Jeff Jones handed Gina a check. Then he offered another check, made out to Ocean Vista and signed by Dallas Dalton, to Marlene. “Y’all can see the amount has been left blank…on both checks…just to show our good faith.”

Marlene’s anger morphed to envy. Being a multimillionaire made life really easy. Then she realized that Dallas’ money had solved her problem too. She took the check and put it in her red handbag. “Thanks.”

If she hurried, she’d be on time for her date-to-die-for.

“Mary Frances, let’s go.” She looked around the b
allr
oom-size living room. No sign of the dancing nun.

The plumber smiled. “I think that pretty little lady went on tour.”

“Which way did she head?”

“South, toward the solarium. Now that’s really some
thing worth seeing. We put in a skylight and the telescope brings you so close to heaven that you think you’re swinging on a star.” He gestured left with his thumb. “Go around the circle in the statuary hall outside the kitchen and keep going till you reach the archway. The solarium is off to the east.”

Marlene, never noted for her sense of direction, not only couldn’t find Mary Frances, she couldn’t find her way back to the foyer.

She’d gone round the circle until she felt as if she knew the seven bronze statues—all of dead presidents—on a first name basis. “So Woodrow, where the hell is Mary Frances?”

She decided to search one more time, then try screaming.

At the arch, she turned right and entered a long corridor. Had she taken this route before? No. She’d have remembered that large metal door at the end of the pale yellow hallway.

Would a thick steel door lead to a solarium and a telescope that swept you up to the stars? What would she find behind a door like this? Mary Frances?

Marlene reached for the knob, so icy cold that her fingers smarted. Strange. The door opened. She stepped in. A blast of frigid air almost knocked her off her feet. The temperature had to be way below freezing. Shivering, she glanced around, hearing the heavy door as it closed behind her. Four steel walls. Cables hanging from a steel ceiling. No windows. No furniture. No Mary Frances.

Though she’d been sweating all morning, she felt so cold that her fingers and her toes, peeking out of her red patent leather sandals, hurt. She reached into her matching bag and pulled out her cell phone. Useless. No signal. Damn. She had to get out of there. She spun around and turned the knob. Nothing. She tried again. Oh, God. The door was locked.

Eleven

Kate had heard more than enough from Dallas Dalton. She stood and said, “Tiffani and I have to leave. Enjoy your cornbread.”

Back in the almost blinding mid-morning sunshine, Kate readjusted her slouchy hat and big, black sunglasses. If she’d known that Ballou’s walk would turn into a marathon morning, she’d have put sunblock and a lipstick in her sweatpants pocket. She certainly wasn’t dressed for detective work.

The Westie, happy to be on an extra-long outing, pulled on his leash.

“Is your car here?”

“Yes, right over there.” Tiffani looked puzzled. “I live way west of here, Mrs. Kennedy. And I sure didn’t walk across the bridge this morning.”

Good Lord. Had Kate become a Palmetto Beach
provincial, assuming everyone she knew lived east of the Intracoastal?

Tiffani was pointing across Neptune Boulevard to a faded blue Honda parked in front of the Let’s Just Curl Up and Dye hair salon, a few yards away from Mancini’s.

Kate had tried and rejected the salon. The owner, a young woman with mange spiked hair, had trimmed Kate’s unruly mane, applied a seaweed mousse, then sent her home with silver spikes. Marlene, however, had been having her hair cut and colored there for years—though she traveled off-island to have her nails done.

“Okay, Tiffani. Let’s drive for a bit with the air conditioner on, while you tell me why we
need
to stop at the Yoga Institute to show me something before you meet Detective Carbone at the police station.”

Talk about need: The beat up Honda desperately
needed
a good wash. And its interior
needed
a good scrubbing, but first the clutter in the back
needed
to be thrown away. Moving an empty Wendy’s bag to the floor, Kate settled into the grimy front seat. Most offensive of all, the car smelled like onions. She rolled down the window.

Tiffani drove south on A1A at a steady pace in the surprisingly light traffic heading toward Fort Lauderdale on this balmy Saturday morning during the height of tourist season.

“So, like what do you want to know, Mrs. Kennedy?” Tiffani seemed defensive. Did she regret asking for Kate’s help?

“I can only give you advice if I know what’s bothering you. You said you needed to show me something. What? If
I accompany you to the police station, I expect you to tell me and Detective Carbone the truth.”

Flashing the right turn signal, Tiffani headed for the bridge. A half-dozen cars were lined up in front of her, waiting to cross.

“Okay. I’ll tell you. But Dallas Dalton delayed us and we have to get to the Yoga Institute before the cops show up with a search warrant. I heard Detective Carbone say a warrant could take a couple of hours.”

Hoping not to show any reaction, Kate merely nodded. “There’s some stuff in the computer that’s going to make me look real bad. I swear to you, Mrs. Kennedy, I didn’t kill Swami. Why would I? I loved him.”

Kate almost whispered her question. “And he didn’t love you back?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tiffani sounded stunned. “I don’t get turned down often. I felt
hurt and…
I don’t
know…
embarrassed…angry. I’d been getting mixed signals from him. I sent him some pretty nasty emails after he’d rejected me. And some totally sappy ones before. Combined, they’ll add up to a motive for murder.”

“Maybe not.” June Cleaver at her most reassuring. “Try not to worry.” She didn’t want Tiffani tampering with evidence. While the girl might be capable of erasing email, Kate didn’t
think
Tiffani could be capable of murder. Carbone must know that too.

“Swami seemed to like me. A lot. Told me my yoga positions were poetry in motion. Then Mrs. Money Bags, Dallas Dalton, rode into town, offering to serve on the board, to endow the institute, and to fund Swami’s research, while crying on his shoulder about her dear, dead husband, Shane. Suddenly Swami became fascinated by a woman old enough to be his mother.”

Was Dallas old enough to be Swami’s mother? Well, yes. He’d been in his mid-forties. Kate figured that, though well-preserved, Dallas had to be twenty years older than Swami. Of course, Kate could have been his mother too. And he could have been Tiffani’s father.

Tiffani had said something else that intrigued Kate. “What sort of research had Dallas offered to fund?”

The girl shrugged, pulling her visor down. The sun’s rays felt more like July than February. The early morning’s cool breeze had long vanished. The Honda’s air conditioner, obviously as beat up as the car, emitted stale tepid air.

“You got me. Something important, maybe something medical.” Tiffani shook her head, her ponytail swinging from left to right. “Magnolia McFee had recently changed her will, leaving the bulk of her estate to Swami Schwartz for a research project that he was way sold on.”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn’t want to say anything because I really like Magnolia and she adores her useless grandson, but I overheard a screaming match between Swami and that snobby jerk. Laurence kept shouting that he’d see Swami in hell before his family’s money ended up supporting some science fiction project.”

A woman scorned? A woman in fear of being arrested, attributing a motive for murder to another?

As if reading Kate’s mind—or, more likely, her expression—Tiffani said, “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Dr. Patel. Sanjay heard them fighting too. He told me later that Laurence McFee is an angry young man.”

Switching gears, Kate said, “Will the Yoga Institute be open this morning?”

“Dr. Patel called me at seven. He was going over there to call all the students and cancel today’s classes. Out of respect, you know.”

Yes, Kate thought. Or maybe Sanjay Patel had decided it wouldn’t be good for business if the police arrived with a search warrant while the fully packed Saturday classes were in session.

“And Dr. Gallagher’s holding a press conference this afternoon to announce that Dr. Patel will be the new director of the Yoga Institute.”

Kate wondered if Jack Gallagher’s press conference would be scheduled before or after he performed Swami Schwartz’s autopsy.