Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) (5 page)

Ten

Kate walked into a corridor filled with confusion.

Marlene, on her knees, blocked much of what appeared to be a man’s body.

Pacing in the center of the corridor, Mary Frances shouted into her cell phone, “Of course, it’s an emergency. I wouldn’t have called 911 if it weren’t.”

The Baby Boomer doll lady, Linda Something—Kate couldn’t think—was stroking her cat and crying. “Two dead in three days, Precious. It’s time to get out of Dodge.” A huge sob punctuated her sentence.

Kate dropped the carton, and the three doughnuts tumbled out as the cups hit the floor, splattering coffee and tea all over her new gray and white sneakers.

An agitated Ballou yelped when he spotted his mistress and ran out from under the swastika tablecloth to Kate’s side. She bent and scooped him up, pausing amid all the chaos to note how heavy he’d gotten—too many of Marlene’s treats.

As Kate murmured, “It’s okay,” the Westie covered her face in wet kisses.

“Quick, call Nick Carbone, Kate!” Mary Frances screamed. “The 911 operator just put me on hold.”

Clutching Ballou, Kate spun around to Marlene.

Her sister-in-law appeared stricken and, despite her tanned face, pale beneath well-applied makeup.

“Is it Carl Krieg?” Kate’s voice, barely above a whisper, cracked. She fixated on a black boot. “Is he dead?” Ballou barked, squirming in her arms. “It’s okay,” Kate said again, thinking it probably wasn’t.

“I thought so,” Marlene said, breathing hard, as she rose from her knees. “But it seems he’s only dead drunk.” She lifted a corner of the tablecloth and gestured toward Carl’s still, florid face. “Take a whiff. He’s passed out cold.”

“Why don’t you ladies take a coffee break?” Sean Cunningham said. “I’ll sober him up. God knows, I’ve done it often enough, haven’t I?” The clown came across as sincere, sounding concerned for all involved.

Where had Sean come from? And how long had he been standing there, observing them?

“Give Jocko and me fifteen minutes. You gals go on over to the bakery.” He glanced down at the carton and its former contents, then pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “My treat.”

Both his movements and his dialogue seemed orchestrated.

“Does that invitation include me and Precious?”

Sean crossed the corridor and draped an arm around Linda’s shoulder. “Absolutely, my dear.” He tucked the twenty into the deep V of her purple spandex t-shirt.

As they sat in the shade of a huge umbrella-topped table near the circus entrance, Mary Frances and Marlene, fighting to hold the floor, recounted what Kate had missed in the corridor while buying the doughnuts.

This time, the doll lady, Linda, had gone for coffee. Since animals weren’t allowed in the flea market—except for the Cunningham corridor vendors’ special dispensation—Linda had left Precious in Marlene’s arms, warning, “Mind you, Mrs. Kennedy, keep your Westie in his proper place.”

The Westie in question sat at Kate’s feet, watching the cat.

“So, of course, I assumed Carl was dead.” Marlene finally finished the story.

“We all did,” Mary Frances begrudgingly agreed. “I was terrified, thinking the vendors might be murdered, one by one.” She glanced at Marlene.

Kate didn’t feel ready to share her brief moment with the beautiful little boy—it had affected her too deeply to be examined just yet. Instead, she launched into her meeting with Sean and Donna in the bakery, and her suspicions that the killer knew Whitey had shot the incriminating photographs.

“A man called the Humane Society.” Marlene frowned. “It’s a real stretch to conclude that man was Whitey Ford.”

“She’s right, Kate.” Mary Frances again sounded less than eager to be caught agreeing with Marlene.

“Well, we can’t prove anything—at least not yet.” Kate shrugged. “But I’d bet the condo that Whitey took those photographs and made the call.”

“Whitey Ford couldn’t take a proper picture to save his arse.” Linda Rutledge placed a large cardboard box filled with doughnuts and cinnamon raisin bagels on the table. “The best photographer in the corridor is Freddie Ducksworth.”

Interesting, Kate thought, wondering how much the doll lady had overheard. Hadn’t Sean whispered that Freddie, the comic-book vendor, and Whitey, the Dewar’s pitchers vendor, hadn’t spoken in several years? Since they were neighbors in the corridor, that must have been awkward, at best.

“I see you kept your dog at bay, Mrs. Kennedy.” Linda sat in the empty chair next to Marlene, who stroked a contented Precious, and reached for a bagel. “My favorites. Nothing like them in Liverpool. And I ordered them smeared with cream cheese.”

“Ballou is always very well-behaved, Ms. Rutledge.” Sitting like a gentleman at Kate’s feet, Ballou stirred at the sound of his name and licked her hand, while still watching the cat.

“Call me Linda. And don’t bristle. Some mean little dogs thrive on tormenting my poor Precious. And their masters don’t give a fig. I meant that as a compliment, Kate. I can call you, Kate, right, seeing as we’ll be working side by side.” Linda bit into the bagel. “Brilliant.” Kate jumped on the doll lady’s attitude adjustment and moved in for the kill.

“Of course, please do call me Kate. And I will have a bagel. Cinnamon raisin is my favorite too. I have one every Sunday morning after church.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Marlene smirking. Well, Kate might be laying it on thicker than cream cheese, but she told the truth.

The doll lady smiled.

“So, Freddie’s good with a camera. Tell me, does he focus on the circus animals? They’re such interesting subjects and right under his nose.” Kate took a bite of her bagel. “Yummy, aren’t they?”

“Righto.” Linda swallowed. “Freddie’s favorite models are the tigers; he must have five hundred photos of those cats. Always pulling out the latest batch and shoving them under my nose. Freddie believes tigers are brighter than most people and better-looking too.” Linda lifted Precious out of Marlene’s lap and rubbed the cat’s stomach. “He often reads his comic books to them, claims they can recognize the cartoon characters’ names. Drives their tamer wild.” Linda shifted Precious to her knees and sipped her coffee. “If you ask me, Freddie Ducksworth is daft.”

“What about the elephants?” Kate asked. “Did Freddie ever take pictures of them?”

Linda shook her head, her long hair rolling with the movement. “I never saw him shooting any elephants. Why do you ask?” Kate could almost see Linda’s mind working, quickly coming up with an answer to her own question. “Do photographs of the circus elephants have something to do with Whitey’s murder?”

The doll lady was no dope. Still…could she be playing Kate? Pretending to process new information, while knowing full well the photographs might be a motive? And more importantly, could Linda Rutledge be a woman scorned?

During Sean’s steady stream of gossip yesterday afternoon as he’d introduced Kate and Marlene around the corridor, he’d started with Linda’s broken romance with Whitey.

Linda met Kate’s eyes. “I told you Freddie’s a bit off. He’s no killer, though. Not bright enough, for starters.” She tugged at her purple spandex shirt, trying to stretch the material to cover her cleavage, and she sounded nervous, on edge.

Kate nodded, then kept quiet, hoping Marlene and Mary Frances would do the same.

“I think someone is after us circus-corridor vendors. It began with the automobile crash.”

What crash? Where was Linda going?

“I doubt Carl Krieg had anything to do with that. He just likes dressing up like a storm trooper and strutting about. For him, every day is Halloween. Carl’s all style and no substance, just like the Jerry who landed in my Aunt Jessica’s garden during World War II.” The doll lady sighed. “A pilot but not a very good one, and not out of his teens. Destroyed my old auntie’s tea rose bushes, though he’d been convinced he zeroed in on Ten Downing Street. Kept demanding to meet Churchill.”

Again, Kate nodded, leaning in closer to Linda. Mary Frances opened her mouth, then catching Kate’s disapproving glance, shut it. Precious meowed—a plaintive sound—the cat’s tone matching her mistress’s.

“Unlike the German’s plane, Suzanna’s car crash was no accident.” Linda shed a tear and let it roll down her face. “Whitey checked it out. Someone had mucked around under the bonnet and tampered with the brand new Volvo’s brakes.”

If this was an act, it was quite a performance.

“I’d swear on my auntie’s grave, Whitey must have figured out who tampered with the Volvo’s brakes. And why everyone in the corridor was in danger.” Linda gulped. “And Whitey had a big mouth, especially after a snootful of scotch. Probably told the killer what he knew, signed his own death warrant.”

“It’s safe to return to work, ladies.” Sean’s high, lilting voice startled Kate. “We have Carl sleeping it off on a cot in the fire eater’s bunk. Suzanna and Freddie are here and open for business. Jocko’s manning the fort, watching over both your tables. But customers are champing at the bit, so you’d better hurry back to your posts.” He paused, unblinking in the bright sunshine. “Now.”

Eleven

Sean Cunningham’s imperial attitude grated, but Kate had to admit he’d been right about the customers. She and Marlene, with Mary Frances serving as a most efficient stock girl, had sold almost two hundred dollars’ worth of those truly ugly bowls, plus a Miriam Haskell pin for another two hundred, within fifteen minutes.

Across the aisle, the Jordan mother and daughter team were doing well too. Good, Kate thought, not wanting to outshine the competition on their first day. Suzanna Jordan, sleek in all black—ballet slippers, Capri pants, and turtleneck—had been checking out Marlene’s wares when Kate, Mary Frances, and Marlene had returned to the corridor. She appeared perturbed when she spotted Marlene’s rather large display of Haskell brooches and earrings.

Ballou, admonished to be on his best behavior, reveled in the crowded corridor, greeting each potential customer with friendly, but not overwhelming, curiosity.

At the table next to Suzanna and Olivia, the latter in an unfortunate orange flowered print—and why hadn’t Suzanna shared her fashion flair with her daughter?—Freddie Ducksworth’s comic-book aficionados, many of them preteens dressed as Spiderman or the Hulk, stood in lines three-deep. The Santa-shaped man, a wide smile fixed in place, obviously thrived on his customers’ demands for attention.

The Cunningham Circus booth was closed, and Jocko had disappeared, no doubt changing into his clown costume for the matinee. Of course, that booth made most of its money post-performance.

To their left, Kate and Marlene’s neighbor haggled for ten minutes, then closed a sale with a young woman who purchased a bridal doll the size of a well-nourished preschooler for over a hundred dollars a foot.

Precious, curled up in front of a Tudor dollhouse, had slept through the entire transaction.

Only Carl’s table, manned by Sean himself, sold nothing. The pre-circus crowd wasn’t into Nazi memorabilia. Or maybe Sean, already in his clown suit and makeup, had turned them off.

Kate handed a florid matron a plastic shopping bag filled with mustard-color luncheon plates, thinking for the twentieth time in as many minutes, there’s no accounting for taste. Mary Frances closed an empty carton, glanced at her watch, and stood up. “I’m out of here.”

“Can’t you stay just a little longer, Mary Frances?” Marlene came across as desperate and close to begging. “You’ve been such a big help. Say yes, I’ll put you on commission.”

Yes, Kate would definitely call that begging.

“No, I can’t stay. I have an advanced tango class at two. And I need to go home to shower and change. I’m all sweaty.” Mary Frances wiped her brow with a paper towel from a roll that Kate, in neat mode, had packed in a carton, along with Kleenex and a small box of antibacterial wipes, confident all three items would come in handy.

“You’re already Broward County’s tango champion, for God’s sake.” Marlene stamped her foot, causing a sweet-faced shopper to back away from a portable white vinyl phonograph circa 1955. “Why would you want to pay for an advanced lesson?”

Ballou cocked his head and looked intent in response to Marlene’s sharp tone.

The dancing ex-nun appeared flustered. “If you must know, I’ve entered the South Florida Senior Ms. Beauty Pageant, and I need to brush up for the talent segment. One of the contestants used to dance with Donald O’Connor.”

Kate’s cell phone rang, and she grabbed it, noticing Marlene had been rendered speechless when Mary Frances walked away, giving them a brief wave over one shoulder.

“Kate Kennedy.”

“This is MonaLisa Buccino returning your call.”

It might be Kate’s imagination, but Sean was staring at her, as if straining to eavesdrop. She turned her back on him, facing the shelves on the tent wall. Silly, she thought. Sean would need Superman’s ears to overhear her conversation from the far side of the doll lady’s booth.

“Thank you for returning my call. I’m working at the Palmetto Beach Flea Market, and I wanted to discuss the possibility of animal abuse at the Cunningham Circus with you.”

“Have you witnessed such abuse yourself, Ms. Kennedy?”

Kate took a deep breath. Had she? “I may have. Could we meet to discuss this? At your convenience, of course.”

“Where do you live?”

“Here in Palmetto Beach. On A1A. Near Neptune Boulevard.”

“Me too.” MonaLisa had a clear, warm voice. “I live just north of Neptune. I walk my Lab on the beach every evening about six.”

“A beautiful yellow Lab?”

“Yes. At least, I think Tippi’s beautiful.”

“I live just south of Neptune. We’ve nodded to each other. I’m the woman with the Westie.”

Kate had stopped—censored—herself from saying
older
woman. Ballou nuzzled her ankle and she bent down to pet him.

“The lady with the short silver hair?” MonaLisa sounded even warmer.

“Right.”

“How about us and our dogs meeting near the pier at six?”

“It’s a date.”

By ten minutes to two, as the last of the stragglers were entering the circus, Kate felt tired, hungry, and exhilarated. They’d had a great time and made a pile of money.

“Can I leave him with you during the performance?” Kate glanced up from sorting silver earrings and saw Donna Viera, in her drum majorette costume, and her little boy, Billy, standing in front of the doll lady’s booth. “The sitter didn’t show up. Please. I’m totally desperate.”

Lots of desperation in the corridor today.

Billy clutched his mother’s hand, his eyes downcast, checking out the floor.

“I don’t fancy kids,” Linda growled. “They don’t like me, and I don’t like them—”

“I’ll watch him.” The words tumbled out of Kate’s mouth with no thought given.

Donna turned from Linda to Kate. She shrugged. “Any port in a storm, I guess.” No smile. No warmth. She moved her son in Kate’s direction.

Billy’s lopsided grin grabbed Kate’s heart. “Hi, Billy, we’re going to hang out for the next two hours.”

His mother took off. No kiss good-bye.

Marlene groaned. Kate knew her former sister-in-law didn’t much fancy kids either. Except for hers and Charlie’s.

“It’s lunch time. Not a prospect in sight.” Kate pointed to the uniformed guard who’d come on duty shortly after their coffee break. “The guard will watch our booth along with all the others. Let’s stretch our legs, take Ballou for a walk, and feed this young man.”

A happy Billy and an excited Ballou were now nose to nose at her feet.

“Can he be my dog…just for today?” The child looked up at her, his big blue eyes dancing.

Joy engulfed Kate, warmth flooded her body. Decades disappeared, youth returned. A little boy needed her again.