Death Rides the Surf Read online

  Praise for the Kate Kennedy Mysteries

  “A charming new series that sparkles like the South Florida sunshine…Kate Kennedy is a warm and funny heroine…An ideal beach read…Sure to please.”

  —Nancy Martin, author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries

  “Miss Marple with a modern twist.”

  —Donna Andrews, Agatha and Anthony Award–winning author of You’ve Got Murder and Delete All Suspects

  “Kate Kennedy will make you laugh and keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.”

  —Victoria Thompson, author of the Gaslight Mysteries

  “The characters in this new series are terrific. Nora Charles has done a great job creating the characters and setting for the story. I look forward to reading many more in the series and highly recommend this book.”

  —Mystery Morgue

  “Excellent…[an] entertaining read.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “Death Is a Bargain is another top-notch entry in a great series.”—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead Days of Summer

  “A fun take on an English village cozy with an endearing heroine, Death with an Ocean View is a quick read that has potential to become a favorite with young and old alike.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Kate Kennedy Mysteries by Nora Charles

  DEATH WITH AN OCEAN VIEW

  WHO KILLED SWAMI SCHWARTZ?

  DEATH IS A BARGAIN

  HURRICANE HOMICIDE

  DEATH RIDES THE SURF

  Death Rides the Surf

  NORA CHARLES

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DEATH RIDES THE SURF

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2007 by Noreen Wald.

  Cover art by Hiro Kimura.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 1-4295-4804-5

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  To the memory of Ballou Hanson

  The lovable and loving Westie

  was born on Christmas Eve 1993 in Jakarta, Indonesia,

  and left us on November 13, 2005, in McLean, Virginia.

  The real Ballou gave as much—or more—love and support

  to his real parents, Peggy and Jim Hanson,

  as the fictional Ballou gives to Kate.

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks to Steve Smith. I literally couldn’t have done this one without him. And thanks to the usual suspects: Donna Andrews, Carla Coupe, Ellen Crosby, Diane and Dave Dufour, Laura Durham, Barbara Giorgio, Peggy Hanson, Doris Holland, Susan Kavanagh, Valerie Patterson, Gail Prensky, Billy Reckdenwald, Pat Sanders, Dr. Diane Shirer, Gloria and Paul Stuart, Joyce Sweeney, and Sandi Wilson.

  And a big thank you to my editor, Tom Colgan, and to my agent, Peter Rubie. They are the best support team any author could have.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  ChapterThirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  One

  Monday evening, October 30

  There were funerals where you knew, with cold certainty, that the corpse wouldn’t be the only person you’d never see again. Kate Kennedy had just returned from one.

  The deceased, Jane Kuloski Whitcomb, flew with Kate almost fifty years ago when they’d been Eastern Airlines stewardesses. Over the decades, they exchanged Christmas cards and photos of their kids, and met a few times when Jane would come back to New York to visit her mother.

  Somehow Kate, who prided herself on her powers of observation, hadn’t noticed that Jane had become a practicing snob. Then last winter, Jane—who’d married a dermatologist, not a detective—moved from the Midwest to Palm Beach and attempted to revive their old friendship. Kate discovered that not only did they have nothing in common, she didn’t even like Jane.

  Of course, that awakening hadn’t kept Kate from attending Jane’s requiem mass, where she’d shared a pew with two of the other—and much more famous—Kennedy family cousins.

  “Shriver or Smith?” Marlene Friedman, Kate’s forever best friend and former sister-in-law, sounded like Chris Matthews as she and Kate strolled down the Neptune Boulevard Pier, trying to walk off calories after devouring platters of fried shrimp and hot fudge sundaes at dinner.

  Kate picked up the pace. “I
’m not sure. They all look alike to me. Lots of teeth. I think the young man—well, he must be in his forties—might have been one of Bobby’s brood.”

  A pale gold harvest moon rose in the early evening sky. The moist, salty air held a hint of South Florida autumn, as waves on either side of them crashed against the beach.

  Under the spotlights, one of the two guys at the end of the pier appeared to be struggling with a large fish. A bearded, younger man stowed bait and beer in a small motorboat. A mellow Frank Sinatra sang “My Way,” but the lyrics faded out as Kate and Marlene approached the men. The bearded man waved. He looked familiar. Probably a regular at the Neptune Inn.

  Kate waved back. Sometime over the last year, after the intense, constant grieving for Charlie—who’d never lived in the condo he’d chosen—had morphed into a dull ache, always with her but bearable, Palmetto Beach had become home.

  Marlene shook her head, her platinum twist holding firm in the sea breeze. “Really, an honest-to-God celebrity sighting and you can’t even identify which Kennedy you saw.”

  “I was at a funeral, Marlene.” Kate laughed. “I couldn’t ask for an autograph.”

  Marlene’s frustrated expression indicated that was exactly what Kate should have done. “So, if you didn’t relate to any of the mourners, maybe I would. Widower Whitcomb walks, talks, and has money, right? How bad can he be? And I could use a chemical peel. A dermatologist’s almost as good as a plastic surgeon.”

  Kate laughed. She and Marlene had put Kate’s granddaughter Katharine’s unrequited love story on hold during dinner, though Marlene did report on her morning visit to the boy’s grandmother who ran the only tanning salon/talking skull operation in South Florida.

  “Shark!” The slimmer of the two fishermen standing at the edge of the pier dropped his pole. “Jesus Christ! Is that blood?”

  The motor on the small boat revved up, and the bearded young man at the tiller veered south toward what appeared to be, by the light of the moon, a body floating facedown.

  “Call 911, quick!” the slim fisherman yelled, and then hopped into the bearded young man’s moving boat.

  The heavyset man peered into the water. “Looks like one of them goddamn surfers.” He gestured toward the beach. “That’s a piece of his board over there.”

  As the man punched in the numbers on his cell phone, Marlene screamed. An ungodly, piercing wail. Kate watched in horror as the bearded man steadied the boat and the slim man reached over port side into the sea and pulled a bloody stump on board.

  Two

  Two nights earlier

  Saturday, October 28

  “I hate school, I hate my mother, and I hate being a virgin,” Katharine Kennedy said. “Please don’t tell me to go home. I’m moving to Florida, Auntie Marlene, and I’m shedding excess baggage: classes, college, chastity. I know you of all people will understand and support me. And I need you to intercede with Nana. I’ll live at Ocean Vista till I find a job. In the cab from the airport, I passed a help-wanted sign. Pink Platinum is hiring.”

  Starting over? As a lap dancer? Katharine had just turned eighteen. If Marlene provided refuge for her best friend’s granddaughter, Kate would kill her.

  “Jennifer and Kevin must be worried sick, Katharine. Let’s call them. Then you can stay here for fall break while we sort this out.”

  The girl’s freckled face flushed, her auburn curls bouncing as she shook her head. “If you turn me in to my parents, Auntie Marlene, I might be forced to tell Nana about you.”

  Good God! Could Katharine somehow have discovered that her now dead and revered grandfather, Charlie, and her “Auntie Marlene” once had a four-martini fling almost a half century ago?

  Katharine smiled, then gestured toward the hallway. “Shall I put my bags in the guest room?”

  Like a flamboyant, frightened Willie Loman, Marlene rehearsed what she would say, determined to sell her best friend on the idea of her granddaughter moving in.

  With Marlene’s checkered past, Katharine might have unearthed any number of unsavory secrets, but that brief boozy bedding of her best friend’s husband atop a pile of coats during a cocktail party had always led Marlene’s guilt parade. The act of adultery should top her long list of sins, considering she’d been engaged to Charlie’s twin brother at the time. A doubleheader, commandment-breaking, grievous matter. A mortal sin, even if she wasn’t a Catholic. A sin she fully expected to go to hell for, unless God had a sense of humor and had sent Katharine here as a kind of hell-on-earth punishment.

  If Marlene could find out why Katharine was really here, lying to Kate might be easier. Based on her own experience, she felt certain there must be a man in the picture. Marlene’s heart ached at the thought of her beloved Katharine chasing after some guy, then being hurt if he rejected her.

  Men, not money, were the root of all evil. Marlene laughed. Maybe she should have that embroidered on a pillowcase or a T-shirt; she’d probably sell a million of them.

  Putting her past on hold—three marriages, six engagements, and she’d need a calculator to add up the total number of men she’d dated—Marlene picked up the phone and presented her pitch to Kate.

  “I still don’t understand. Why did Katharine come here?” Kate asked.

  With decades of experience, Marlene translated. Kate was really asking why Katharine had shown up at Marlene’s condo door instead of at her grandmother’s. So Marlene, though she seldom did, measured her response. “Oh Kate, your granddaughter knows I’m a sucker for a sob story. You might have sent her packing.”

  “And you think I should let her stay?”

  “Well, yes. Katharine’s not herself. Something is eating at her. Something serious. We need to find out what’s wrong. That may take a few days.”

  “She hasn’t been returning my phone calls.” Kate sighed. “I figured she was caught up in college life. A school as large as NYU can be overwhelming and, you know, she’s living on her own with a roommate in the West Village. I almost wish she’d followed Lauren’s lead and gone to Harvard, but she so wanted to study theater.”

  Marlene could hear the worry in Kate’s voice. She took a sip of Scotch, wishing she had a cigarette. “Come on, Kate. Lauren’s smart and beautiful, but she has no spark. She’s like your stuffy in-laws, the Lowells. Katharine’s not only the spitting image of her father and grandfather, she inherited their spirit, as well. And like Charlie, your granddaughter’s a real New Yorker. She’d have hated Harvard.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if she’s happy at NYU either.”

  “I don’t think her problem has anything to do with geography, Kate.”

  “Then why did she run away to Florida? Why is she talking about finding a job here? Why would a real New Yorker leave the city she loves?”

  “Cherhez l’homme.” Marlene’s accent sounded more Queens than Paris.

  “A man?” Kate’s voice rose. “She’s barely eighteen. How can you think Katharine came to Florida because of a man!”

  “Are you so old you don’t remember your seventeenth summer, Kate? You spent a hell of a lot of time under the boardwalk at Rockaway, doing God knows what with that Latin lover from Ridgewood.”

  Dead silence. Had Marlene gone too far? She counted to ten. Nothing but silence. She plunged. “Come back, Kate. I feel like I’m talking to myself here.”

  “Okay.” Kate sounded resigned. “Tell Katharine she can stay with me. You and I will figure out how to deal with Jennifer and Kevin. Then we’ll figure out who this man is and why Katharine followed him to Florida.”

  Three

  Ballou always knew when Kate needed comforting. She hung up after talking to Marlene and the little white Westie settled in at her feet, licking her left hand.

  Though Kate hated to admit it, Marlene might be right about Katharine. The girl had been acting strangely ever since she started college. No wait, even before that. Ever since late July when Katharine had returned from a week in Acapulco. On the telephone, her bouncy voice
had taken on an edge of sadness and the stories she’d once shared so openly with her grandmother seemed edited.

  Maybe all teenagers abridged their adventures sooner or later; still, Kate had sensed a secretiveness that might well have stemmed from a budding romance. Had Katharine met a man in Mexico? Kate thought about the young woman who’d vanished while vacationing in Acapulco in August. Her mother was still all over TV, pleading for information. God, that could have been Katharine.

  Kate petted Ballou, running her fingers through his soft fur, grateful for his devotion. His feelings were never shrouded in secrecy.

  Kate sighed. Stop it. What had she expected? To be privy to her granddaughter’s sex life? She felt herself flush, watching her pale arm redden, the fine hairs standing straight up. Odd how only the hair on her head had turned silver while all her other body hair remained chestnut.

  Here she was, staring at seventy, and Marlene could still strike a nerve with a crack about Kate’s seventeenth summer. God, would she never grow up? Would she die worrying about what had or hadn’t happened a lifetime ago?

  She wondered if Marlene ever regretted her past, then realized there weren’t enough hours in a day for her former sister-in-law to properly reflect on her long-ago transgressions. Kate laughed out loud, startling Ballou.