Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) (10 page)

Twe
nty-One

Why hadn’t Kate wanted to ride with her? The memorial was at St. Anthony’s, a couple of blocks from the hospital. Marlene wondered who’d picked the Fort Lauderdale church for the service. Whitey’s parish, if he’d been a churchgoer, would be in Palmetto Beach.

Had Sean Cunningham or one of Ford’s corridor colleagues planned a reception after the service? She’d only had a quick cup of coffee and a stale, half-toasted bagel at dawn—well, seven thirty, but way too early for Marlene, who like Count Dracula and the Phantom of the Opera preferred the music of the night. A spread—maybe lox and cream cheese and fresh bagels in the church hall—would be most welcome. More important, by mixing with the mourners, she could field questions without appearing too pushy.

If not she’d just have to grab people in the vestibule and fire away.

Over the years, Marlene had made the arrangements for far too many funerals, the price paid for outliving so many loved ones. She’d never planned a memorial service without a food-filled reception following. Would the circus crowd be as hospitable?

Kate once had told Marlene that St. Anthony’s reminded her of a traditional Northern church. So many South Florida churches were modem, their architectural design as airy and light as a beach resort, their stained glass windows done in pastels. Whenever Kate, who put great faith in St. Anthony—revered for finding lost objects—needed to do some serious praying, she often bypassed her parish church, St. Elizabeth’s, and drove down to St. Anthony’s.

“Blimey, Marlene, don’t you look like mourner-in-chief?” Linda Rutledge called out as Marlene entered the last pew. “Come on, let’s go sit down front where we can see all the action.”

Marlene, who’d gone to great trouble to dress appropriately for Whitey Ford’s memorial, took umbrage at Linda’s remark. Yes, she was wearing a tailored, black, lightweight wool pantsuit and, for her, sensible shoes—sling-backs, closed toes—but she hardly looked like a grieving widow.

Nevertheless, she nodded and followed the doll lady, dressed in aqua satin and a matching cartwheel straw hat the size of a bicycle tire, down the aisle.

The front pews were packed. The circus performers and crew had come out in force. The colorfully clad entertainers and the tattooed, tough-talking roustabouts had turned into an eclectic congregation.

“I always sit on the bride’s side.” Linda gestured left, and they slid into seats about ten rows back from the altar.

Directly in front of them sat Jocko Cunningham, no longer among the missing. Indeed, this morning the clown was scrubbed up, smelling of cologne, and dressed in a dark suit and tie. He knelt, head bowed, apparently deep in prayer.

Marlene tapped his shoulder. Jocko jumped, then jerked his head around. “Oh, it’s you, Ms. Friedman, you startled me.”

More like she’d terrified him. Feeling that she had the advantage, she plunged. “We thought you were dead, Jocko. From the smoke. Or maybe murdered like Carl. Where were you? When I left the corridor yesterday, the firefighters were still searching for you and Freddie Ducksworth.”

His pale face flushed. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. “Haven’t I just been thanking God for sparing me?” Jocko yanked a handkerchief out of his breast pocket—to Marlene’s surprise, it was both clean and ironed—and wiped his brow. “I helped get the elephants out, but I knew I couldn’t handle the tigers and went searching all over for their trainer. I finally located Jim, and together we got the tigers into their portable cages. The smoke was fierce. I remember wondering why there weren’t any flames. I could hardly breathe, so a sweeper and Jim wheeled the tigers over to the animal exit. I ran back into the elephants’ par looking for a cloth to cover my mouth and nose. Some bastard—oh—forgive my cursing in church—locked me in. A firefighter found me face down in the straw and rescued me.”

“You were okay?” Marlene heard the doubt in her voice.

“Well, of course, he was,” Linda snapped. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Jocko met Marlene’s gaze. “They wanted to take me to Broward County’s emergency room, Ms. Friedman, to be treated for smoke inhalation, but I refused to go.” Cold. Marlene had made an enemy.

Organ music filled the church and a deep baritone voice sang, “Ave Maria.”

Enemy or not, Marlene boldly spoke over the hymn’s words and music. “Did you see the man’s face? The one who locked you in the cage?”

“No, Ms. Friedman, I didn’t.” Jocko shook his head, his jowls, an unfortunate Cunningham family trait, shaking. “At the time, I was busy vomiting into a rag.” He turned his back and returned to the knee rail.

Marlene didn’t believe the clown’s story. But even if he’d lied about his heroics, someone had apparently locked him in the elephants’ cage. Who? And why?

Across the aisle—on the groom’s side—a sobbing Olivia sat slumped against her mother, the latter rigid and aloof. Suzanna Jordan made Snow White’s wicked stepmother seem warm and fuzzy. The daughter struck Marlene as overly needy and probably clinically depressed, but the mother’s lack of response bordered on contempt.

Had Freddie Ducksworth really been blackmailing Olivia? Had sad-sack Olivia killed Whitey? If she’d been in love—or even believed herself to be in love with the older man—and Whitey had rejected her, could such a timid soul have committed murder? Maybe. A crime of passion was one thing, but Carl Krieg’s death had been premeditated murder. It would have taken a cold-blooded killer to pull that off. A personality more like Suzanna’s than Olivia’s. Or a personality like Donna Viera’s. Or Sean Cunningham’s. Or Freddie Ducksworth’s. Or Linda Rutledge’s. Lots of overbearing people had worked the corridor, including the two dead men.

The doll lady sighed as the priest sprinkled holy water while circling Whitey Ford’s picture, which stood on a small table along with a tall vase of white roses in front of the communion rail.

No casket. No urn. No remains to be sprinkled. Ford’s body, now tagged evidence, was in the morgue, scheduled for an autopsy.

Marlene put on her distance glasses and focused on Whitey’s photograph. Handsome man, with smiling, sexy eyes. According to this morning’s
Sun-Sentinel,
Whitey had donated his body to science, so there’d be no burial either.

Sean Cunningham strode down the aisle and up to the pulpit to deliver the eulogy. When had he arrived?

“Heaven has a new resident,” Sean began, in a sad, but stage-trained boom.

“And hell awaits you!” Olivia screamed from her pew.

Twenty-Two

Kate crossed the threshold and a plastic pitcher filled with water came flying her way. She ducked. Donna had a powerful arm; the pitcher sailed over Kate’s head and landed in the hallway.

“Damn. I thought you were that snake, Sean, slithering back in.”

Kate picked up the pitcher, stepped into the tiny bathroom to grab a towel, then silently mopped up the water. An unsuspecting nurse could slip, fall, and land in the empty bed next to Donna.

“So, okay, I’m sorry.” Kate would bet that the only thing Donna felt sorry about was having missed Sean’s skull.

The broken leg—in a cast up to Donna’s hip and suspended from a sci-fi contraption—had to hurt like hell. Still, the pain etched on her face seemed to emanate from older, deeper wounds, and not the kind caused by physical injury.

“How’s Billy?” The anger dissipated, if only for a moment. “Why didn’t you bring him?” Not even a thank-you for taking care of her little boy. How had this asocial creature taught her son such good manners? And to say his evening prayers?

“He’s fine, Donna. He misses you.” Kate said. “I just wanted to be sure the hospital would allow a five-year-old to visit. If we get permission, I’ll bring him this afternoon.”

“I might be under arrest by then.”

“What?” Kate sank into a chair next to the bed, the smell of disinfectant stronger now, almost overwhelming. “Why?” Her heart couldn’t race any faster if one of her granddaughters was about to go to jail.

“For the murder of Carl Krieg.” Donna’s irises looked as black as her pupils. With puffy lids and dark circles, she seemed to have aged ten years overnight. Her fingers fluttered across the frayed cotton binding on a white blanket, covering her good leg and upper body. “That Detective Carbone either found some—er—evidence or he listened to a bunch of dirty lies.” Fear filled her swollen eyes. “How could he believe such garbage?”

Did you do it, Donna? Kate felt bold enough and curious enough to ask the question but couldn’t get the words out. Maybe she wasn’t prepared to hear the answer.

“I didn’t you know.” Eerie. Had Kate been that transparent? “Why would I kill my uncle? This is South Florida, for God’s sake, not some drafty castle in Denmark.”

The
Hamlet
allusion surprised Kate, but it shouldn’t have. The enigmatic Donna had proved to be a study in contrasts from the moment they’d met.

“So Carl Krieg was your uncle?” Kate hoped her neutral tone masked her skepticism.

“Yes, a great-uncle on my mother’s side. Carl was my grandmother’s brother.”

Kate nodded, waiting. She sat very still, not wanting to distract Donna.

“My grandmother, Greta, and her brother, Carl, grew up in Brazil. They’d moved there from Germany as children right after World War II.”

So Kate’s Hitler’s Youth guess had been on target. “Lots of Germans settled in Rio in the late forties. My great-grandfather had been an SS officer, but Uncle Carl was okay. More than okay. He helped me out financially when I moved down here from New Bedford, and he really loved Billy.”

Took his great-great-nephew out for pancakes, Kate thought.

“Grandmother Greta married a Brazilian, and her only daughter married my father, Antonio Viera. A handsome devil. They migrated to the U.S. and settled in New Bedford. Mom died of breast cancer when I was twelve, and my father, a fisherman, died in a shipwreck a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday. I was bored, lonely, and tired of the cold weather, so I moved down here.” Donna stopped abruptly as if worn out.

“Don’t talk,” Kate said, hoping Donna would continue. “No. Someone murdered my Uncle Carl. I want to tell you about him. About me. When I arrived in Florida, I lived with him for a while. That’s how I met Whitey. And Whitey and Carl introduced me to Sean. And the next thing I knew, some old animal trainer—about to be put out to pasture by the Cunninghams—taught me the ropes, and before I turned twenty, I had an elephant act.”

“Would you like a glass of water?” Kate asked.

Donna ignored Kate’s offer and continued. “Until yesterday, except for my son, Carl Krieg was my only living relative in the entire United States. Now all I have is Billy.”

Yesterday, she’d said something very similar—“there’s no one left”—as she begged Kate to care for Billy. Had that been a reference to Uncle Carl’s recent murder? Probably.

Donna shifted her position, then grimaced. “Damn. I can’t even move an inch without my leg hurting like hell.” Tears glistened, hovered on her lashes, and fell in a steady stream down her cheeks.

Kate handed her a box of tissues and, though tempted to reach out and touch Donna’s slim shoulder, remained in her chair, silently paraphrasing Milton: We also serve who only
sit
and wait.

She didn’t have to wait long.

“My uncle used to sit like a sentinel, drinking scotch and watching the passing parade of tenants and their guests going in and out of the building.” The young woman sighed. Resigned? Forlorn? “Carl was at his post Sunday evening. That skunk, Whitey, had a record number of visitors on the night he drew his fatal bath.”

“Could Carl have told one of those visitors?” In her excitement Kate’s question just popped out. She hadn’t even realized she’d spoken aloud until Donna laughed.

“One of them? Uncle Carl was a card-carrying drunk, Mrs. Kennedy. A drunk who’d show up at my house on a Friday night, drink like a demon, then pass out on my couch. And I’d have to sleep on a futon. He’d be all apologies the next morning and insist on treating Billy and me to a big breakfast.”

Hell’s bells! Maybe Carl had cut up that negative and dropped the pieces in Donna’s wastebasket.

“When he drank, he talked. Uncle Carl blabbed to every single one of them—all suspects—almost like he had a death wish.”

“Who were they?”

Donna tried to adjust her blanket. “God almighty, I can’t stand the pain. Ring for the nurse, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Can you give me the names?” Feeling guilty for pressuring the patient, Kate pressed the CALL button.

“I gave their names to Detective Carbone. And I’m still his odds-on favorite.” Donna shook her head. “Look, the timeline’s hazy. Carl kept changing the order of arrivals and departures. I think one or two might have overlapped, but Whitey’s visitors were Sean, Linda, Olivia, and Suzanna.” Based on his threat to Suzanna, the now-missing Freddie Ducksworth had been at Carl’s apartment that night, snapping pictures through the front window. Had Freddie dropped by Whitey’s too?

“And what about you, Donna, where were you on Sunday night?”

The patient groaned. “Mrs. Kennedy, I don’t give a flying fig what you think about me. But even if you believe I’m a cold-blooded killer, you have to promise me you’ll take care of Billy.”

For today? For a week? Forever? Kate stared at Billy’s mother.

“Promise me!”

“I promise,” Kate said, as Nick Carbone skidded though a small puddle she must have missed and landed on his knees at her feet.