Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) (15 page)

Thirty-Three

Friday, August 11, Fifty-Six Years Ago

Even sinners sleep,
Kate thought as her alarm went off. She’d last glanced at the clock at three a.m.
It was now seven thirty.

Weary—maybe total exhaustion would be her eternal punishment—she struggled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom.

Of all things, she had to go to a nine a.m.
funeral Mass with her mother. A neighbor, not a friend. So Mom wouldn’t be joining the funeral procession following the hearse to Calvary after church. They hardly knew old Mrs. Porter, but Kate’s mother seemed to thrive
on
burials. She enjoyed throwing a rose on top of the casket right before the gravediggers covered it with dirt. Kate considered herself lucky to be spared this one. She had a date with Marlene to see
a movie
this afternoon.

After the requiem Mass, Kate and her mother dissected the service over a second breakfast at Wolke’s, then parted ways. Maggie had errands to run and Kate had money to burn. Etta had given her five dollars. “For no reason, just because.” Her grandmother did that every couple of months. Kate planned to buy a book at Miss Ida’s. She’d treat Marlene to White Castle hamburgers and an orange crush with the change.

Kate, Miss Ida’s only customer, browsed. Rex Stout had a new mystery. The entire Norton family loved Nero Wolfe and Archie. Or maybe she’d get a Perry Mason. She ran her hand across a pile of recently arrived paperback mysteries, admiring how smooth and fresh their covers felt, and inhaling the scent of cologne. The proprietor smelled like one of Wolfe’s orchids.

How she loved the bookstore. So quiet. So full of promise.

“Hello, stranger.” Sophie. She’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Starting, Kate sent several books flying off the counter as she spun around. “I thought you were away.” She sounded tense, but not upset, though she was. “In Cleveland.”

“Well, outside Cleveland. In some dreary town, smaller than Jackson Heights. With only one movie theater. Nothing to do. And my batty old Russian cousin’s so cheap she wouldn’t allow me to make a long distance call.”

Did that mean Sophie would have called if she could? Kate hoped—no, prayed—that was true. “I left a couple messages with your father.”

“He only phoned one time, but he mentioned you’d asked for me. He should have given you my number.”

Sophie looked puzzled. Worried. “Papa has a lot on his mind.”

“Yes, I think he does.” Kate also thought Mr. Provakov had used her. But for what purpose? “He’s been acting odd.”

“It’s good to see you, Kate. What are you doing this afternoon?” Sophie, ignoring Kate’s comment, seemed to have gotten over her concern for her father. “Can we go to the movies?”

Not even thinking about asking Marlene first, Kate said, “Yes.” And she didn’t question Sophie about her “aunt” in the Russian Tea Room’s bathroom. There’d be time for that later.

“The Boulevard’s always freezing. I’d like to stop home first and get a sweater. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I’ll go with you. I’m meeting up with Marlene at the White Castle at twelve thirty; we’re going to bring a couple of bags of hamburgers to the movies.”

“Good,” Sophie said. “We’ll have lunch at the matinee. I like that.”

Five well-dressed, middle-aged matrons came into the store. The one in the feathered hat said, “Good morning, Miss Ida. We need five copies of all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels. We’re starting a book group.”

Miss Ida smiled. The store’s morning sales had moved from slow to profitable.

“I’ll
take the Nero Wolfe. And I know Mom will be in for a Perry Mason.” She put her five-dollar bill on the counter, letting the ladies see Miss Ida had other good customers.

Sophie and Kate walked the five blocks, chatting as if they’d never been apart. Strange how much Kate’s mood had improved, how delighted she was to be Sophie’s friend again. Yet she had some doubts. Sophie’s lack of laughter. Intense, Kate’s mother had said. And she wouldn’t drop Marlene. Her forever best friend. They’d just gotten back on track. A trio of friends might prove complicated, but this morning, with the sun warming her face and a slight breeze blowing through her hair, Kate felt nothing less than pure joy.

“The carnival’s opening tonight.” Sophie pointed to the vacant lot directly across Thirty-fourth Avenue from her apartment house. Workers were putting up poker booths and cotton candy and hot dog stands. Minus any riders, the Tilt-a-Whirl and Ferris wheel were going through test runs.

Kate had never missed a carnival. “I’ll be there around seven with Marlene and my parents. Are you coming?”

“Papa says the carnival is decadent.” Sophie shrugged. “I don’t know if he’ll let me go.”

Kate, not sure what
decadent
meant, said nothing.

Sophie used her own key to get into the lobby. “I think my father went to a meeting.” Kate didn’t have a key to her house. Either her mother or grandmother was always home. And if for some reason they weren’t, Mrs. Friedman had a spare key. Kate hadn’t resented that arrangement until now.

The elevator still reeked of cabbage. Kate imagined that, decades from now, the building would smell the same. Smells, like sins, weren’t easily removed.

With a smaller key, Sophie opened the door to the apartment. Standing in the small foyer, Kate could hear voices coming from the living room.

“Oh,” Sophie said, “I didn’t think anyone would be here.” She sounded upset. Almost frightened.

Kate followed her into the living room. Mr. and Mrs. Provakov, and the tall, skinny blond man were huddled over what appeared to be a chart or a map.

Mr. Provakov looked up, then snatched the chart out of the younger man’s hand and muttered something in Russian to Sophie, who flushed deep red.

Half-filled cartons were scattered around the room. Could they be moving?

The seldom-seen Irina Provakov looked over at Kate. “This is Sophie’s friend, Kate Kennedy.” Mrs. Provakov spoke in accented English, her voice low. Almost monotone. She gestured toward the skinny guy. “This is my colleague, Mr. Wager.”

“We work together at the Weather Bureau,” Mr. Wager said.

Her husband frowned, then spat out harsh, rapid Russian. Kate felt sure Sophie’s father was cursing. The young man had just said Irina Provakov worked at the Weather Bureau. Could Mr. Provakov be angry because he hadn’t wanted Kate to know where his wife worked? But why would that matter?

The young man stared at a carpet on the wall, mumbling, “Pleased to meet you, Kate.”

She felt relieved because the gangly Mr. Wager sounded a lot like Henry Fonda.

Sophie ran into the bedroom and returned with her sweater. “Let’s get out of here, Kate.”

Mr. Provakov, usually so strict, never even questioned where they were going. Neither did Sophie’s mother.

“What’s wrong?” Kate asked the quiet Sophie, as they walked over to Northern Boulevard, heading down to the White Castle.

Sophie shook her head. “I can’t talk about it, Kate. Let’s just enjoy the afternoon.”

Though Marlene shot a quizzical glance at Kate, she acted pleased to see Sophie, and her ceaseless chatter made the six blocks to the movie bearable.

Kate had no way of knowing
this
would be the last movie she’d ever see with Sophie. No way of knowing the Provakov family would be gone by morning.

No way of knowing Muriel Goodman had been arrested today.

No way of knowing one week fro
m today, on August 18, the United States would be struck with a nuclear
accident
set in motion this afternoon in Sophie’s living room.

Thirty-Four

The Present

“Kirk
Island?”
The site of the nuclear disaster was the motive for Weatherwise’s murder? Bob Seeley’s parents died that day. And what had brought Sophie Provakov to Ocean Vista? A motive of her own? Kate wanted to collapse on the bed, gather her thoughts, make some sense out of this. She wished she had a Pepcid AC.

“Put the file back, Kate. We have to get out of here.” Sophie glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom door.

As surely as if a switch had been pulled, a light went on in the dark, never-examined corner of Kate’s brain. “That young guy who’d worked with your mother...he disappeared that year, then became Uncle Weatherwise, didn’t he?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes. Get rid of that folder. Now!” Had Kate recognized anything about Weatherwise? After all, she’d changed. Marlene had changed. And she hadn’t even recognized Sophie.

More than fifty-five years had passed. Anyone who’d survived that long had changed. The blond, gangly man had grown fat and bald. And old—the best disguise of all. Had morphed into the odious Uncle Weatherwise. She should have known. Maybe she’d been lying to herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Damn it, Kate, pull yourself together.”

A door slammed shut. Footsteps clicked on the tile in the hall. Someone was marching toward the bedroom.

Kate jumped off the bed, stuck the folder back, closed the armoire, and yanked off her plastic gloves, sticking them in her pocket. She wanted to wipe the know-it-all grin off Sophie’s face.

“Let me do the talking, Kate.” Sophie smoothed her skirt. “Get over to the window. Pull open the shutter. Pretend you’re admiring the view.”

“What the hell?” Bob Seeley shouted. Very out of character, Kate thought. But then, so was cooking the books, stealing your clients’ money, and, possibly, having murdered a weatherman and a detective. “What are you doing here, Kate?”

Entering, but not breaking in.
No, that wouldn’t cut it. She stared out the window in silence.

“Ms. Corbin, I thought you were assessing my unit’s market value.” Seeley sounded frustrated, angry. Like Weatherwise felt before he’d been murdered? And was Bob planning on selling his condo? Moving?

“Please relax, Mr. Seeley. I’m doing my job, acting on your behalf.” Sophie had assumed her S. J. Corbin persona.

“Why is this woman here? I trusted you with my key, Ms. Corbin. This is an outrage.” His voice cracked. “Kate and her pal, Marlene, were nosing around Miami yesterday, interrogating my former coworkers.”

The blonde receptionist had to be the tattletale. Mr. Moose wouldn’t have blown off two new investors.

“I pride myself on being the eyes and the ears of my clients. This morning, I ran into Mrs. Kennedy on her way to the condo meeting and, just by chance, she mentioned how much she loved Ocean Vista and her apartment, but really wished she could be on a higher floor. Knowing she lived in your tier, I couldn’t let that golden opportunity slip by.” S. J. sighed. “Just think, Mr. Seeley, I might have appraised your unit and sold it during my first visit.” Damn, S. J. was good. Knowing the Realtor was lying through her beautifully capped teeth, Kate almost believed her.

“Of course, if I’d been aware that Mrs. Kennedy had invaded your former office, or in any way violated your trust, I would never have shown her your apartment.” Seeley, seemingly stumped, stared at S. J.

Kate figured the next line was hers. “I’ve decided I prefer the third floor.”

S. J. smiled. “Nothing ventured.”

“I would have had to spend a bundle to put some sizzle in this place. So, thanks for the tour, but no thanks, S. J.” Kate turned from the window, and crossed in front of Bob on her way to the bedroom door. She paused, meeting his eyes. “Did I miss anything important at the meeting?”

He blinked first. “Yes, we’re under mandatory evacuation this evening. Igor has been upgraded to a Category Four hurricane. It’s expected to hit Fort Lauderdale late tomorrow.”

“Then I better start packing.” Kate stepped into the hall, then pulled a Columbo, sticking her head back into the room. “When did you decide to move out of Ocean Vista, Bob? Before or after Weatherwise was murdered?” She didn’t wait for his answer.

“Where the hell have you been?” Marlene shouted, running from the kitchen to the foyer, when Kate arrived back home. “Bob left the meeting at least ten minutes ago. What happened? Did he catch you in the act? Should I call a lawyer?”

Ballou, on Marlene’s heels, cocked his head at his mistress. The Westie wanted in on whatever was going on.

“No, I don’t need an attorney, but I could use a cup of tea. Just let me put the kettle on.”

“I tried to keep the meeting going, but we had the TV on, then the governor ordered an evacuation from Miami to Palm Beach. There was nothing more to say. I’ll make you a cup of tea, but
I
need a martini.”

“It’s not even eleven o’clock, Marlene.”

“Somewhere the sun is over the yardarm; I’ll use my imagination.”

“Your imagination almost landed me in jail.”

Thirty minutes
later, a tepid wave in a smooth sea washed over Kate’s toes. The calm before the storm, she supposed. Uncle Weatherwise’s replacement had made Igor sound as wicked as Katrina; she’d turned off the television. She had enough turmoil in her life without listening to dire predictions.

Kate couldn’t decide whose behavior was worse, Marlene’s or Ballou’s. Both wanted their own way and both were demanding Kate’s full attention

The Westie wouldn’t budge, engrossed in investigating a dead crab, using the shell like a hockey puck. Her sister-in-law wouldn’t shut up, rehashing and analyzing every word of Kate’s abridged tale of the break-in and its aftermath. Kate hadn’t mentioned the Kirk Island connection. She couldn’t. Not until she had a chance to question Sophie.

When Marlene had gone home to change, Kate left two messages on S. J. Corbin’s answering machine and alerted Miss Mitford to keep an eye out for the Realtor.

Sophie had proved to be a smooth liar. Had she always been one or had she developed that skill after becoming a broker?

“So where did Sophie go?” Marlene, as relentless as a federal prosecutor, wouldn’t quit. “She and her parents just vanished, right? And you never heard from her again.”

“For God’s sake, Bob came home; we had no time to play catch up.”

“Yo!” Coming from behind, Rosie O’Grady’s greeting could probably be heard in Cuba. Or at least in Bimini. Kate couldn’t remember when she’d been so glad to be interrupted.

“Why ain’t you two packing? We gotta go tonight. The governor or FEMA or some idiot decided we can’t take our own cars.” She laughed. “Mine’s in police custody, anyway. The first bus arrives at six.”

“You’re right, Rosie,” Kate said. “Come on, Ballou, we’re heading home.”

“Are you two old enough to remember that hurricane almost sixty years ago, I think? Knocked down a lotta trees in the boroughs. And wacked the hell out of eastern Long Island. I was staying on Kirk Island at my boyfriend’s.” Rosie pushed her hair off her face. The breeze had picked up. “The wind howled all evening. Blew the roof off his bungalow. The whole island got flooded. We climbed out an attic window. Thought we’d be dead by dawn, but a fishing boat rescued us.”

Kirk Island. Could Kate be going crazy? She fought panic, tried to breathe deeply, but the past seemed to have popped up and grabbed her by the throat, choking her.

“That nuclear thing, a few years later, wasn’t that on Kirk Island too?” Marlene asked.

“Yeah,” Rosie said. “Friday, August eighteenth. I’ll never forget. Lucky I was dancing onstage at Radio City. Paul, my boyfriend—well, we were engaged by then—died that day.”