Death Rides the Surf (6 page)

Monday morning, October 30

The skull resided
with his owner in a pink bungalow with a white picket fence. A calligraphy-scripted shingle, hanging on a lamppost in the well-tended yard, read,
TANNING SALON
&
SPIRITUAL COUNSELING
.

Marlene had spent the morning on the Internet researching the skull’s history and success story or, maybe more accurately, Florita Flannigan’s success story.

In 1969, Florita, a native of Rhode Island, had fled to Florida as a young divorcée to escape New England’s “wicked winters and rigid morality,” and settled in Palmetto Beach, then a small fishing village, to raise her toddler as a “sea nymph.” When the nymph turned nineteen she’d fled Palmetto Beach, leaving behind her two-year-old son, Jon Michael, to be raised by his grandmother.

While divorcing her third husband—a gal Marlene could relate to—Florita enrolled in beauty school, graduated with honors, then opened a beauty shop in her front parlor.

When Florita had discovered that Floridians, surrounded by sunshine, would pay big money for artificial rays’ instant gratification, she turned her beauty shop into Palmetto Beach’s first tanning salon. The operation was an overnight success. Raising Jon Michael had proved more difficult. Still, from Florita’s profile in
Parade
magazine, Marlene gathered that the grandmother and grandson had a close, if often contentious, relationship.

For the crystal skull and Florita, it had been love at first sight. They’d met in Mexico. An East Indian mystic, who owned a souvenir store in Acapulco—Marlene found it odd how Acapulco kept popping up and even odder how an East Indian had been living there—swore that the skull he’d found in an Incan temple’s ruins had magical powers to heal both body and soul. Florita, entranced with the four-thousand-year-old skull’s mesmerizing features, had paid the East Indian mystic one dollar for every year the skull had been around. She named him Mandrake, after the magician in her favorite comic strip.

Parade
had quoted Florita: “I figured buying a healing relic with a proven history of curing folks for four-thousnd dollars was a real bargain.” The article pointed out that the skull, one of several traveling the New Age circuit, didn’t actually talk; he communicated via telepathy. Some believers heard more during their private sessions than others. And Florita often acted as interpreter. The photo, credited to Jon Michael Tyler, showed a twenty-pound piece of crystal, crafted to look like a human skull, complete with sunken eye sockets and missing teeth.

True believers, including Donald Trump’s butler and a former First Lady, who’d met with several of the world’s best-known talking skulls, testified that Mandrake was the most impressive, citing conversations ranging from clairvoyant to miraculous.

One self-proclaimed psychic from Cincinnati had reported that Florita’s skull had acted as a medium, translating a message in Romanian from an ancestor on her mother’s side who’d been a warlock during the Middle Ages.

Marlene had absorbed all this information with no prejudice and concluded that Florita was a con artist, her clients were crazy, and her grandson was a snake.

She pushed open the white, wooden gate, walked up the primrose-lined path, and rang the doorbell. It chimed to the tune of “What Kind of Fool Am I?”

Florita’s smile seemed forced and, though she wore a pretty caftan with long, flowing sleeves, her hair lacked last evening’s perfection and her face was drawn and wan. “Do come in, Marlene. I’m so glad to see you.” She sounded anything but.

The South Florida bungalow, furnished like a New England cottage, oozed cozy charm. Cabbage roses and chintz abounded. A carafe of tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies were on a small mahogany table in front of a pink and lime green plaid loveseat.

Florita gestured toward the loveseat. “Please sit down, Marlene. Mandrake and I have had a difficult morning.”

Marlene sat. The cookies looked homemade.

“It pains me when he gets upset over my problems.” Florita, a perfect hostess, held out the plate. Marlene took two cookies and said nothing, just waited, a trick she’d learned from Kate.

“We both sense disaster.” Florita’s hand shook as she poured the tea. She fussed a bit, passing sugar and milk, and then sat on a cabbage rose–covered club chair catty-corner to the loveseat.

Marlene sipped in silence, still waiting.

“Jon Michael didn’t come home last night.” A tear rolled down his grandmother’s cheek.

“Well, that’s not so unusual for a boy his age, is it?” Marlene worked to put warmth and empathy into her voice.

“Well, as Mandrake pointed out, Jon Michael always calls when he’s not coming home.” She gave Marlene a sly smirk. “I withhold his allowance when he doesn’t.”

“Allowance? Just how old is he, anyway?” Damn. She’d blown her fake concern with a blast of sharp criticism.

“He’ll be twenty-one on Halloween.” Florita fiddled with a huge diamond ring on her right hand. It sparkled in the sunlight and Marlene figured it had be at least ten carats. “I assure you my grandson earns his allowance, Marlene. Jon Michael does a great deal of promotional work for Mandrake and me.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.” Her words were warmer than the tea. Marlene felt relieved. She knew Katharine
had
come home; she’d spotted her this morning.

“It’s just that…” Florita began, and then paused.

Marlene considered patting her hostess’s hand, but settled for an encouraging nod.

“I don’t like my grandson hanging out with those lowlife surfers. I keep telling him they’re not our sort of people.” Anger distorted Florita’s features. “Especially Claude Jensen. The boy comes from a long line of white trash. The father’s a sociopath, serving a life sentence; he killed a girl in Dade. Claude’s a regular chip off the old block. He’s served time in jail, too, and he’s awaiting trial now. Mandrake and I believe Claude’s leading Jon Michael astray. Sam Meyers seems okay, but why he’s hanging out with the surfers is a mystery to me. What’s in it for him?”

Marlene found herself believing Florita. But then she remembered that telling great stories was how cons sucked their marks in.

The owner of the best tanning salon and skull-reading operation in South Florida frowned. “There’s another serious concern, Marlene.”

What now? Marlene placed her now tepid tea on the table and met Florita’s eyes. They’d turned cold.

“Mandrake says you’re not a true believer. He doesn’t wish to meet you.” Florita stood. “There’ll be no charge for today’s visit. No hard feelings. I’ll pack up the rest of these cookies for you.”

Marlene was about to tell her what she could do with her cookies when Florita shoved aside her flowing sleeve to glance at her watch. A diamond bracelet Rolex.

Hot damn! Could Florita be Diamond Lil?

Monday evening, October 30

The body floating
facedown in the water was a blond. Kate felt faint, but there was nothing to grab except Marlene. Before she could reach out, Kate felt Marlene’s strong arm, the arm of a former champion swimmer, encircle her, enabling her to keep her balance, to stay on her feet.

The bearded young man in the rowboat covered the bloody stump with a tarp as the slim fisherman jumped into the water and swam toward the body.

The heavyset fisherman on the pier had reached 911. Help was on its way, but Kate knew no one could help. Dear God, which blond surfer lay dead in the water? Claude or Jon Michael? Or someone else?

Like a television promo, a picture of Katharine quarreling with Jon Michael on the beach late last night flashed through Kate’s head, followed by a dull ache. What had happened to the surfer—and the dead man might well be a total stranger—was an accident. A shark attack. Too often Kate’s imagination could be macabre, painful, and off-kilter. Still, she felt unnerved and, yes, frightened.

The slim fisherman had the body in tow. “Give me a hand,” he yelled to the young man in the rowboat.

As the men struggled to get the body over the side of the boat, the ambulance’s siren heralded its approach, and Kate caught a glimpse of Jon Michael’s profile.

She slipped out of Marlene’s grip, and slumped down on the dock, scraping her palm. The last thing she saw before she started to scream was the one-legged corpse landing in the boat.

“A little drink
never hurt anyone.” Marlene handed a gin and tonic in a tall, frosted glass, garnished with lime, to her sister-in-law. “Consider it medicinal.”

They were sitting in Kate’s living room, so beige and so bland, with nothing out of place, wondering where Katharine had gone and how they would tell her that Jon Michael was dead.

Was this what shell-shock felt like? Kate reached for the drink. Her hand shook, but she drained a quarter of the glass in one gulp. It didn’t wash away the scene on the pier.

A paramedic had pronounced Jon Michael dead. No one covered his body. A police officer briefly interviewed Kate, Marlene, and the three fishermen, and then told them to leave, that someone would be in touch with them later. Nick Carbone? Why hadn’t he called her back? She’d stared out at the ocean, never once glancing down at Jon Michael’s body or that bloody stump. Another policeman held the piece of surfboard as if it were made of platinum. Maybe to cops, all clues were platinum.

Kate finished the gin and tonic and considering having another.

She’d never thought she could feel resentful about her granddaughter’s actions. But Nana’s condo had made Katharine’s desperate pursuit of Jon Michael both convenient and affordable. Her darling Katharine had been using Kate. No question she’d wanted the surfer at any cost.

What had happened to her granddaughter in Acapulco? Had she been wooed, then dumped? Had passion trumped pride? Why else would Katharine have followed Jon Michael to Palmetto Beach? And what had they been arguing about on the beach just before the surfer rode his last wave?

“You ready for a refill?” Marlene tapped Kate’s empty glass.

“Sure. Why not?” Kate used her napkin to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Sweating in air-conditioning. Not good. She fought an urge to scream. “Marlene, did Katharine say anything to you when you saw her walking Ballou this morning?”

Kate watched Marlene, standing behind the small rattan bar near the dining room, pour a dollop of tonic into the gin, then stir. She considering telling her sister-in-law to add more tonic, then figured, what the hell, getting a bit tipsy might not be a bad idea right now.

“Katharine waved, said hi, but nothing else. Why?” Marlene put the drink on the table in front of Kate. “I was on my way to visit Florita. My mind was on Mandrake.”

“I’m wondering—well, worrying—about where the devil Katharine could be. It’s almost eight and no one has seen her since early this morning.”

“Yeah,” Marlene agreed, not offering any ideas.

Kate shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on something else. “So, you’re convinced Florita cons her clients and doesn’t really believe the skull can communicate.”

“Hell yes. The Golden Glow tanning salon’s legit, but the talking skull’s a con game. Florita wouldn’t let me see him perform because she damn well knew that I was on to her.” Marlene waved a bottle of vermouth over her second dry martini.

The intercom rang. Kate, hoping it might be Katharine, ran into the foyer to answer.

“You have a visitor, Mrs. Kennedy.” Miss Mitford sounded even more somber than usual. “A Mrs. Rowling is here in the lobby. She’d like to see you.”

“Mrs. Rowling?” Kate said. “I don’t think I know…”

“Amanda Rowling, that girl who disappeared in Acapulco,” Marlene shouted from the bar. “Grace Rowling’s her mother!”

A shaking Kate said in a strained voice, “Please send Mrs. Rowling up, Miss Mitford.”

Marlene downed half her martini in one gulp. “She must know about Katharine and Jon Michael. Why else would she come?” Marlene sounded as nervous as Kate felt.

“Maybe she thinks I know something.” Icy fear ran through Kate’s body, drying the sweat, leaving her weak. What did the woman want? Had she heard about the surfer’s death? Or, God forbid, could Grace Rowling be bringing bad news about Katharine?

The sharp rap
on the door made Kate jump and Ballou bark. She willed herself to smile as she opened it.

Grace Rowling wore khakis and a white polo shirt; she had short blonde hair, big brown eyes in an oval face, and, though she had to be in her forties, was as small and slim as a teenager. She would be pretty if her features weren’t etched in pain.

“Come in, Mrs. Rowling.” Empathy replaced distrust as Kate shook the woman’s hand. “We’re very sorry about your daughter.”

“Please call me Grace, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“I will if you’ll call me Kate.” She pointed to the bar. “And this is my sister-in-law, Marlene Friedman.”

“Would you like a drink?” Marlene asked.

“A Diet Coke, please.”

“Should I put a shot of rum in it?”

Grace almost managed a smile. “Make it half a shot. Thanks, Marlene.” She petted Ballou, who was sniffing her feet. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I’m very concerned about your granddaughter, Katharine.”

The icy fear settled in Kate’s heart. She sputtered. “Why?”

“Those surfers, Kate.” Grace Rowling sounded patient, as if she were explaining the obvious to a child. “They’re dangerous men. I just heard that Jon Michael was attacked by a shark. Well, good. One down, two to go.”

Grace’s hard words—she spoke so softly and sounded so Midwest wholesome—had caught Kate off guard. “Two to go?” she asked, grateful that Marlene had remained quiet.

“Yes. Claude and Roberto. They were with Jon Michael and my daughter the night Amanda disappeared.” Grace blinked, but tears fell and then rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away. Kate doubted she even noticed them.

For a moment Kate wondered if Grace Rowling had anything to do with Jon Michael’s death. How? Had she hired someone to sic a shark on him? Kate felt as crazy as her thoughts.

“I’ve seen you on television, Grace,” Marlene said, “and it’s all so sad. Why don’t you tell us what you think happened to Amanda?”

Sometimes Marlene really got it right. Kate smiled at her sister-in-law.

Grace smiled at Marlene, too. Clearly, she’d come to tell them her story and she needed them to listen. “My daughter is beautiful and talented. She’s only a fair student, but a wonderful actress. She played Liza in
My Fair Lady
in the senior play. And she’s so popular. Everyone loves Amanda.”

It broke Kate’s heart to hear Grace talk in the present tense. Did she really believe Amanda was still alive?

“Acapulco was her graduation present, her last fling with her two girlfriends before starting college. She’s enrolled in UCLA, you know.” Grace sipped her Diet Coke, probably laced with more rum than she’d wanted. “On the night before she was to fly home, my daughter, who’d told her girlfriends she had a date—but hadn’t told them his name—left the Tropicana Club with a young, blond male. Several witnesses, including the bartender, swear to that.”

“With just one of the boys?” Kate asked.

“Yes, though the bartender said she’d been drinking at the bar earlier with three young men, all surfers, two blonds and a Latino. They’d been in the bar before, but he didn’t know their names.”

“But he couldn’t recall which blond?” Kate vaguely remembered hearing that during one of Grace Rowling’s countless television interviews.

Grace tried to grin; it turned into a grimace. “I guess all WASP tourists look alike to Mexican bartenders.”

“So either Claude or Jon Michael left with Amanda.” Marlene was mixing another martini.

Ballou had settled down between Kate and Grace, a compliment to their guest, and was now snoring.

“Well, the three surfers admitted that they’d bought Amanda a drink, but swore that none of them left with her.” Grace placed her right index finger on her left pinkie. “Claude says he never saw Amanda leave; he was in the men’s room.” She moved her right index finger to her ring finger. “And Roberto and Jon Michael swear they’d left the Tropicana Club at the same time and saw Amanda heading toward the beach. Alone.”

“What do the Mexican police think?” Kate asked, knowing the answer.

Grace groaned. “They claim they’re still investigating all leads, but they allowed those three surfers to leave the country after only asking them a few questions. ‘
Sí
, Señora Rowling, it is all very suspicious, but there is no evidence and no body’ has become their mantra.”

“And Amanda had mentioned the surfers to you before she disappeared.” Marlene drained her glass. Kate hoped it was Marlene’s nightcap.

“Yes, we talked every night. Amanda told me on the phone the day before she disappeared that she had a crush on a sexy blond surfer.” Grace sighed. “It had to be Jon Michael. No girl in her right mind would describe Claude Jensen as sexy. My daughter has made some poor choices in men, but she would never have gotten past yellow teeth and no brains.”

Kate figured that there might have been more than two blond surfers in Acapulco last summer, but only said, “How did you learn that the surfers were in Palmetto Beach?”

“I hired a private detective. He’s doing what the Mexican police should be doing, investigating those three men.” Grace shook her head. “As for me, I’ll haunt them. I’ll follow them to the ends of the earth, at least until my money runs out.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Those three bastards know where my daughter is.” She wiped her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

Kate, always within reach of Pepcid AC, Kleenex, and Tylenol, dug into her handbag and handed Grace a small package of tissues.

“Thanks,” Grace whispered as her face crumbled. “Amanda and I were very close. If she were alive she’d call me. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Neither Kate nor Marlene answered Grace’s question.

“If Jon Michael killed Amanda, now he’s dead and I’ll never know the truth.” Grace’s agony was palpable. “Do you think someone killed him?”

Thinking Grace would be the prime suspect, Kate said, “No. I saw Jon Michael’s body. I’m sure a shark killed him.”

Grace shook her head. “Is your granddaughter here, Kate? I really need to talk to her.”