Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

Twelve

Were her fingertips turning blue? Could she have frostbite already? Marlene hopped from one foot to the other trying to stay warm. When exposed to extremely cold conditions, a person is supposed to keep moving, right? She could picture her obituary headline: “Woman Freezes to Death in South Florida.”

What earthly purpose did this oversized refrigerator serve? How many bloody fur coats could Dallas Dalton own? She banged on the door. Futile. Way too thick. No one could hear her. Surely one of the workmen or Mary Frances would notice she’d gone missing. But what if they just assumed she’d left? The place was so damn big, they might easily believe that.

Why had Ocean Vista’s board agreed to let Dallas Dalton gobble up so many units and then allow her to do this hellish renovation? Greed. With Dallas’s dough, the board planned on building an indoor garage and remodeling and enlarging the swimming pool.

As condo president, Marlene held herself responsible. Why hadn’t she vetoed the motion? Cold guilt blanketed her soul. Would this ice box be her coffin? Even though no one could hear, she screamed.

After her second shriek, the door opened.

“Poor directions, Mrs. Friedman?” The head engineer seemed testy.

“Did you hear me scream?” She couldn’t stop shaking. Would she ever be warm again?

“No, ma’am. Nothing can be heard from inside the freezer, its walls are completely soundproof.”

“Then how—”

“Your friend, Miss Costello, returned to the foyer alone. I reckoned y’all might have wandered off base.” Though he
smile
d
as he held the door open for her, Marlene heard the reproach in his soft southern drawl. Well, hell, she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Are you accusing me of spying, Mr. Jones?” She could be pretty testy herself.

“Why would you even entertain such a wild idea, ma’am?” Jeff Jones certainly sounded sincere. “I’m just real grateful you’re drawing out.”

Trailing behind him, she said. “You know damn well that refrigerator is dangerous. Dallas Dalton’s asking for trouble. What will she be storing in there?” Marlene wondered if—and why—the building inspector had approved the plans for that room.

Without looking around, Jeff Jones shook his head, but
a
s they approached Mary Frances, who appeared to be flirting with the plumber in the foyer, Jones stopped short, turned, and placed his right hand on Marlene’s still cold forearm. “It might be best for both of us, ma’am, if you don’t mention your little side excursion to Miz Dalton.” Then he gave a quick polite half-bow, like a s
mall
boy at dance class, and headed back toward the statuary hall. Or maybe to the freezer.

With the top
of her 1958 white Caddy convertible down and the mid-morning sun on her face, a defrosted Marlene was driving up A1A to the Breakers. And, by God, she wouldn’t let her fifteen-minute delay, even those chilling few minutes in the freezer, ruin her date-to-die-for. The single-lane traffic was moving and with any luck—she deserved a break—she might arrive in Palm Beach on time.

She would have taken I-95; however, highway driving on a Saturday morning in season would totally destroy any shred of serenity—not to mention sanity—that she had left.

As she passed through Delray Beach, the Atlantic on her right and a Mizner mansion on her left, Nat King Cole sang “When I Fall in Love, It Will Be Forever.” Marlene smiled, not exactly her theme song, but one lived in hope. She raised the volume and sang along with Nat.

Having a man in her life was like having a bagel for breakfast. She could get along without one, but why would she want to?

She’d loved all three of her husbands. Truly. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t still be looking, would she? Her heart jumped as Nat sang “Mona Lisa.” Lying to herself, how devious could she get?

Hell, she’d be looking for a guy even if she’d hated all her husbands. All her boyfriends. All those men who fell into neither category. Truth be told, Marlene
needed
a man in her life. Sometimes the wrong man. Too often, the wrong man.

She shuddered in the warm sun, remembering some of the losers. And the one she’d wanted the most, an insatiable itch that
made
her betray Kate. A careless four-martini one-night stand, when they’d been very young. And, if possible, he’d felt even guiltier than she had. Adultery is an ugly word, so Marlene Friedman and Charlie Kennedy never spoke it aloud again. And Kate, thank God, had never known. Marlene had lived with the residual scars, marring body and soul, blotting what might have been great days.

D
amn
it. She was destroying her own serenity. And sanity. She’d have to deal with the guilt, as she’d done for decades. Anything else would only hurt Kate. She loved Kate like a sister. A much longer, far more enduring love than all the others.

Marlene changed the song and repressed the memories it had stirred up. Fred Astaire singing Cole Porter always cheered her up.

If Brideshead had been built on the beach, it might have resembled the Breakers. Though she’d been here several times, the approach to one of the most elegant resorts in the world still took Marlene’s breath away. The driveway, wide and sweeping. The lovingly nurtured, abundant foliage, wild with color. The manicured lawns on either side, green and lush. In the distance, off to the right, two impeccably outfitted men were playing golf. The weather-beaten shingles in no way detracted from the grand hotel’s enduring charm: an architectural marriage of beach cottage and manor house that appeared both imposing and inviting.

In a setting where one almost expected a footman to appear and take your luggage, Marlene settled for valet parking.

Remnants of the Roaring Twenties lingered in the huge, traditionally decorated lobby. Here, again, the Breakers reminded Marlene of a British estate turned into a hotel. Settees and tables grouped in courtly open areas, as well as cozy nooks for private conversations, two fine restaurants, a beautiful bar with an ocean view, smart, upscale shops, and portraits of Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate who’d put Florida on the map. Old Henry could have been the lord of the manor who’d only sold his country house on the condition that he’d always
remain
on view.

Marlene could picture tea dances, cups spiked with gin, bobbed-hair flappers in short, loose, chiffon dresses dancing the Charleston and flirting with abandon.

It was
tim
e to do a little flirting herself.

He’d said he’d be waiting in the north wing. Well, that covered a lot of territory. Marlene turned left, then right down a long corridor, heading in what she hoped was northeast toward the ocean. After winding up in the freezer, she couldn’t count on her sense of direction.

Guests in Brooks Brothers or Burberry sports clothes—lightweight wool, navy blue blazers and white trousers reigned supreme for both men and women—sipped coffee, read the Palm Beach Shiny Sheet, inspected their tennis rackets, or just lounged in the comfortable chairs.

No bathing suits or shorts on parade in this lobby.

Marlene, the lady in red, was the only primary color in sight.

“You must be Marlene Friedman. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

She heard him before she saw him. A strong, upbeat voice, coming from her left. She pivoted and watched as a tall, heavyset man with a kind round face and a broad smile rose from a club chair off to the side in one of the lobby’s cozy corners.

He held out a huge hand. “I’m Harry Archer.” His blue eyes twinkled. And he had good teeth.

Best of all, she didn’t have to worry about those thirty extra pounds she’d subtracted for her Last Romance profile. Harry Archer had reduced his weight too.

A kindred spirit. Kind of sexy. Marlene suddenly felt all warm and toasty. Definitely a date to die for.

Thi
rteen

The Palmetto Beach Yoga Institute’s pastel rose stucco and charming Spanish courtyard design looked more Boca than Broward.

Sanjay Patel greeted Kate, Tiffani, and Ballou with a shy smile and a pat for the dog, then lowered his eyes. Kate sensed sorrow—genuine—about Swami’s death, mixed with another emotion. Could that be fear?

“Look, Sanjay,” Tiffani’s voice was high-pitched, nervous. “I need to show Mrs. Kennedy something. We’ll be in my office. Will you be here for a while?”

Ballou yelped; Tiffani had stepped on
him.

Sanjay stroked the Westie and said, “Oh, yes. I’m waiting for Dr. Gallagher.” He turned to Kate. “Has Tiffani told you I’m to be the new director, Mrs. Kennedy?”

Guileless? Or guilty? Kate censured herself. She’d always admired Sanjay, even considered him as a potential date for her granddaughter, for heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her?

“Congratulations.” She tried to put some warmth into her voice. “Tell me, Sanjay, why is Dr. Gallagher the one to name Swami’s replacement? Because he’s chairman of the Yoga Institute’s board of directors?”

Sanjay seemed embarrassed. “I only learned today that Dr. Gallagher is not only the CEO of the Palmetto Beach Medical Center, where I would like to work after I take the Florida Boards, but he is also the controlling partner in the Yoga Institute. So, in effect, he already is my boss.”

Spinning around to confront Tiffani, Kate asked, “Did you know that?”

“You sound like you’re accusing me of hiding something, Mrs. Kennedy. Of course I knew. I keep the records. And the Yoga Institute isn’t their only partnership. That’s what I wanted to show you.”

Kate flinched. “I’m sorry, Tiffani, I didn’t—” She stopped, realizing she had no finish, that her mind was in turmoil, that everyone looked guilty.

“If you’ll both excuse me, I still have some calls to make to cancel the rest of our afternoon students.” With a brief polite nod, Sanjay returned to his small office.

“Are you on my side or what?”

Tiffani had both hands on her hips and a defiant look on her face. She reminded Kate of her younger granddaughter, Katharine, years ago, when she’d been about to throw a temper tantrum.

Kate laughed. “Yes, I am. Now talk to me, Tiffani. And show me the files. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on here.”

Tiffani sighed, then her facial muscles relaxed, and she
spoke. “Swami and Dr. Gallagher recently formed another corporation. It’s called Life Preserver and it’s located way out west in an industrial park not far from where I live.”

“What does the company do?” Kate took a guess. “Make some sort of safety equipment?”

“I haven’t a clue, but it’s a totally separate corporation.”

“Separate from the Yoga Institute?”

“Yes.” Tiffani nodded. “I thought as a board member you might have heard about it.”

“I only became a board member last night.”

“Right. Maybe none of the board knows.” Tiffani twirled the end of her ponytail. “I’m surprised Sanjay didn’t.”

Kate felt doubt, fear, and a not unpleasant rush of adrenaline. “Let’s take a look at those files.”

“There’s something else.” Tiffani had lowered her voice, almost whispering.

As Charlie used to say, there always was. Something more. Something Tiffani really didn’t want to share.

Kate waited.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

With Ballou at her side, she followed the girl into Swami Schwartz’s office. A well-appointed room with a camel leather sofa, two chocolate-brown leather arm chairs, teak bookcases, a massive teak desk, and an East Indian influence evidenced by the colorful rich fabrics chosen for the drapes and throw pillows. An oval Persian rug covered part of the dark oak floor.

Tiffani pointed to a small desk off in an alcove. “That’s my workstation. I’ll bring up the Life Preserver file first.”

So the “something else” wasn’t related to the new corporation? Kate wanted Tiffani to reveal any and all evidence in her own time, but Nick Carbone could be on his way.

With two clicks of the mouse, Tiffani had the Life Preserver Corporation prospectus on the screen. She pointed to the bold, ornate green script on the cover page.
Kate put her prescription sunglasses on.

“See, Mrs. Kennedy, it’s out near Powerline Road in a seedy industrial park. I live a couple of blocks from there in a rundown rental complex.” She spoke without a trace of self-pity.

Not an address one would associate with the aristocratic doctor whose Medical Center on A1A was state of the art. “How many pages?”

Tiffani clicked again. “Four.”

“Quick, print them.” Kate didn’t consider this tampering with evidence. After all, they were merely gathering information, not destroying files. Nick Carbone would have equal access to everything.

Kate grabbed the pages, folded them, and stuffed them in her sweatpants pocket. Just in case. “What else do you need to tell me? We don’t have much time.”

Ballou’s ears went up, seemingly on alert, and he barked. Had he heard something? Had the police arrived?

“Now, Tiffani.”

The girl clicked again. Another file came up. This one titled “Tantra Workshop.”

“What’s that?” This time, Kate had no clue. No guess.

Tiffani blushed, color flooding up from neck to forehead. “It’s a workshop for a few special yoga students.
Swami’s private clients.” She was whispering again, yet Kate thought she heard a woman scorned. A woman in fear of being arrested.
“Tantra workshops, as the brochures state, provide its participants with an invigorating mix of spirituality and sexuality.”

“Just who are these private clients?”

“Well, Magnolia McFee for one.”

Good grief, Magnolia was eighty-seven years old. Kate suppressed a giggle.

“And Dallas Dalton has requested a brochure.”

“Print it.”

Ballou barked loudly as Nick Carbone’s rough, angry voice preceded his entrance.

“Who the hell is in there?”