by Nora charles
“I know Sam Meyers,” Myrtle said. “He brings his granny here every Friday night for the fish fry. Ms. Meyers is an activist, you know, and a founding member of NOW. She’s fighting city hall. The town fathers want to let some New York outfit buy the Rainbow Beach trailer park and tear it down to build yet another multimillion-dollar condo.”
“I read about that,” Kate said. “And I’ve driven past there many times on my way to Palm Beach. The only trailer park in the county directly on the ocean. It’s been there for ages, right?”
Myrtle nodded. “Since 1948, and some of them folks are the original owners. Damn shame what’s done in the name of progress. Anyway, Sam works with computers. Nice young man, not like that white trash, Claude Jensen, he hangs out with. That boy’s been in and out of one correctional institution or another since he was thirteen. The state of Florida should build Claude his own wing. He’s waiting trial for a DWI right now.”
Good God. Kate wondered if Katharine’s surfing lesson was over. “Myrtle, do you know Jon Michael Tyler, too?”
“In a manner of speaking, I do. Hold the thought. The counterman’s waving me over. I’ll be back with those muffins in a sec, hon.” Her pink and gray uniform stretched tight across her fanny as she hustled toward the counter.
Marlene arched her perfectly penciled-in left brow. “Myrtle’s probably one of Jon Michael’s grandmother’s talking skull’s clients.” Her tone combined amusement and disdain.
Kate figured that Marlene, a woman who’d consulted fortune tellers, astrologists, and tarot card readers, shouldn’t scoff at talking skulls. As she’d done so many times for more than sixty years, Kate kept her opinion to herself. “I’m really worried about Katharine, Marlene. Will you keep an eye on her tomorrow? I have to go to Jane’s funeral up in Palm Beach.”
“Oh, yeah, that stewardess who married a multimillionaire, just like the heroine of an old movie. I always wanted to be Doris Day, but who knew about Rock Hudson?” Marlene sighed. “Of course, I’ll watch our girl, Kate. The more I hear about these surfers the more I think Katharine’s in over her head.” Her sister-in-law’s water metaphor made Kate even more nervous.
“Here we go.” Myrtle placed two blueberry muffins the size of melons on the table. Kate shuddered at the calorie count, but figured she wouldn’t eat at the picnic. Skipping dinner was one of the few perks of life without Charlie.
“So, what about Jon Michael?” Marlene asked Myrtle the question before Kate could. That happened a lot.
“Well, I’m a client of Florita Flannigan, his grandmother.”
Marlene managed to kick Kate under the table while taking a bite of her muffin.
“The skull and I were old souls together. Romped through the Renaissance.” Myrtle tapped her index finger against her double chin. “You two girls should make an appointment. There’s always a real long wait to meet Mandrake, but me being so close to the family, I’m sure I could get you in. Maybe next week.”
“Why don’t you do that, Myrtle?” Kate said. “And as soon as possible. I really want to meet Florita Flannigan.”
“I understand Jon Michael’s a friend of Claude’s,” Marlene said.
“Right,” Myrtle said. “All four of them surf together. Like I say, Sam’s a good guy. And that Roberto’s a charmer. I think Jon Michael’s a sweet kid, but the skull has revealed to me and Florita that her grandson is courting disaster. I figure it must be connected to some scheme of Claude’s.”
Courting disaster. And courting Katharine? Kate shoved the muffin away.
Nine
Marlene hadn’t had any time alone with Katharine. She worried about what the girl knew and how she’d gotten her information. Of Marlene’s many past peccadilloes, the one she absolutely never wanted Kate to ever hear about was that four-martini fling with Charlie. As she stirred green peppers into her macaroni salad, she plotted how she could get Katharine alone and question her. Delicately, of course. Hah. When had she ever been delicate either in appearance or approach?
Because of the unpleasantness—Mary Frances’s euphemism for the murder on the beach—during last year’s Halloween costume party in the recreation room, this year the Ocean Vista board of directors had voted unanimously for a pre-Halloween picnic supper.
New Yorkers never referred to a meal served at the dinner hour as supper: supper was a light meal served in a club like the Copacabana or the Latin Quarter after the theater, around eleven P.M.
No question, Marlene had compromised her principles living among all these Midwesterners and Southerners.
Sighing, she added chopped celery and deviled eggs as she glanced at the clock: 6:10. She had twenty minutes to fix her face and change her clothes. She wondered if the newly widowed Bernie Gordon from the eighth floor would be at the picnic. Maybe she’d wear her new scarlet harem pants. Go as a concubine. But where the hell had she put her off-the-shoulder black satin blouse? Though she’d gotten rid of most her treasures—well, okay, junk—at the Palmetto Beach mile-square flea market, followed by all of her furniture after last summer’s back-to-back hurricanes, over the past month, Marlene had restored chaos to her apartment.
The condo’s decorating committee had done a great job. The wooden picnic tables in the sand, courtesy of the city of Palmetto Beach, were covered with orange tablecloths featuring black cats and witches on broomsticks. Paper plates, strong enough to hold hot food, were decorated with ghosts and goblins. Orange and black balloons and jack-o’-lanterns were hanging on the fence around the pool area. All of the condo owners had brought their beach chairs and their favorite dishes.
Charcoal in the barbeque pit—also courtesy of the city—glowed, as Mary Frances, dressed as a very sexy, not at all scary witch, stirred a cauldron, actually an expensive copper pot from Williams-Sonoma, filled with meatballs in red sauce.
Joe Sajak served as the dancing ex-nun’s sous chef, handing Mary Frances a huge spoon, saying, “The better to stir with, my dear.” God, he was enough to make Marlene barf.
A breeze from the teal blue ocean ruffled the palm trees. The sun hovered on the horizon. The clean, crisp scent from the sea proved as intoxicating as Marlene’s double gin with a splash of tonic. Paradise found, Marlene thought, then rejected her cynical attitude. It was indeed a perfect evening. And she could almost understand why some Ocean Vista residents believed they lived in paradise.
No sign of Kate, who would be bringing the chocolate fudge cake she’d purchased at Dinah’s. Her sister-in-law wasn’t much of a baker or a cook. Somehow that deficiency—Kate had so damn few—pleased Marlene.
No sign of Katharine either. Or the surfers. Why? Those waves were as good as they get in South Florida.
Kate, in no mood for a picnic, watched the action on the beach through her picture window. The picnickers must be roasting in those costumes. Why did so many bright, seemingly sane, retirees revert to their second childhoods every Halloween?
She didn’t dare step out onto the balcony where Marlene might spot her and wave her down. Katharine hadn’t come home. Could a surfing lesson last for more than three hours? Kate didn’t think so.
Restless, she picked up the Sun-Sentinel and read, for the third time, a follow-up story on Amanda Rowling’s disappearance in Acapulco.
The girl’s mother, Grace Rowling, was on her way to Fort Lauderdale. The Mexican police had advised Mrs. Rowling that the two surfers who’d been seen with her daughter on the night she’d vanished had returned to South Florida. Mrs. Rowling had an appointment with one of the surfers, but declined to give his name. The accompanying photographs of mother and daughter seemed eerily alike. Both appeared to be blonde, pretty, and far too wholesome to be part of such a sad story. Only the terror in Grace Rowling’s eyes revealed the tragic truth.
Kate heard a key turn in the front door and stepped away from the window. A barking Ballou ran through the foyer.
“I thought I heard my favorite Westie.” A smiling Katharine had returned.
The li
ttle dog yelped with abandon, delighted to see Katharine, his tail wagging, his tongue licking her hand.
“Hi, Nana. Aren’t you going to the picnic?” Kate’s granddaughter was flushed. Katharine’s freckles seemed to have merged into one big rash. Sunburn or passion? Maybe a bit of both. Her red hair was wet and strewn with seaweed. The towel wrapped around her bikini was streaked and stained. Whatever Katharine had been doing had taken its toil.
“Do you want to go?” Kate asked, wondering if the girl had been drinking.
Katharine grinned. “Sure.” For a brief moment, she looked and sounded almost like the girl Kate had known, before this angry young woman had emerged.
She turned and headed down the corridor toward the guest bathroom. “I want to grab a fast shower.”
“Great,” Kate said. “I’ll bring the chocolate cake down and wait for you on the beach.”
“Listen, Nana,” Katharine called over her shoulder. “I’ve invited Jon Michael and his grandmother to the picnic. I hope that’s okay.”
Kate wondered if Florita Flannigan would bring the talking skull.
Ten
Kate, her mind in a jumble, crossed the pool area, holding Ballou’s leash and his pooper-scooper with her right hand and the cake box in her left. Her appearance at the picnic would be delayed; the Westie needed a walk. So did his mistress.
She placed the box on the picnic table, said hi to Marlene, and then headed for the damp sand at the water’s edge. She loved the sea, always had, even as a child more than half a century ago at Rockaway Beach where Queens meets the Atlantic Ocean. The sound of waves rolling in soothed her.
Early evening in October might be the best time of the year to walk along the shore in South Florida. The sky seemed to spring from the sea and stretch to the heavens, the sun a sinking semicircle, a pale moon waiting in the wings.
While the sharp salt air had cleared her head, her heart still hurt. What could she do to help Katharine? The answer was as sharp as the air: nothing. A young woman in the throes of her first real crush didn’t desire advice to the lovelorn from her grandmother.
“Hey, Kate, wait up.” Joe Sajak’s voice broke into her reverie.
She hadn’t heard his footsteps in the sand. Turning, as Ballou tugged her forward, she said, “Oh hi, Joe,” hoping he’d note her lack of enthusiasm. Ballou had expressed his feelings with a low growl.
Joe hadn’t yet donned his Batman costume; maybe he was saving that for dessert.
“I need to talk to you.” He grinned, showing teeth, bleached to bright white. The widower of Stella Sajak, who was murdered on the beach last Halloween, Joe had moved from grief to lust less than a week after his wife’s funeral. Lean, with thick white hair, and the recipient of Stella’s cash and condo, he fancied himself quite the catch. Several Ocean Vista widows, divorcees, and one ex-nun had fueled that fancy.
Kate gauged how rude her response should be. Would “sorry, I’m thinking” pass muster?
“It’s about my love life.”
Damn! In this game, she who hesitated lost. Kate stared at him, saying nothing, but wishing that Ballou who was toying with a dead fish would poop on Joe’s toes.
“I’ve been playing the merry widower way too long.” He sighed, then brushed a strand of expensively styled hair out of his Paul Newman blue eyes.
Kate, cursing silently, nodded. Where was he going with this?
“It’s time for me to settle down, to stop flitting around, to get serious, and make one of my many lady friends very happy.”
Ballou yelped, straining on his leash. Kate wanted to yelp, too. Instead, she choked out, “Really?”
“Yes,” Joe shouted. “I want to go steady, possibly get engaged, maybe even get married again. I’ve narrowed the field down to two and, though I’ve dated women from Miami to Palm Beach, the lucky ladies are both Ocean Vista residents.” He leered at Kate.
Good God, she’d never dated him, never even brought him a casserole, so she couldn’t be a candidate, could she?
“They’re two very different women. One might say at either end of the morality yardstick.” Joe paused, watching the waves, seeming to be deep in thought.
Since shallow Sajak had never expressed any depth before this moment, Kate figured his silent stare was for her benefit; no doubt he believed it added gravitas.
“Who?” Kate stammered, hating herself for asking, but hell, she had to end this conversation and get back to the picnic. Katharine must be there by now.
“Mary Frances, beautiful inside and out, but she’s a virgin and a man has his needs. Dare I ask a nun to break her vow of chastity?”
Kate laughed so loud, Joe jumped.
“I don’t see what’s so damn funny, Kate.”
She bit her lip. It was her turn to stare at the sea.
“My runner-up would be Marlene.” Joe sounded solemn. “But I suspect that she’s been around the block, that she’s slept with far too many men…three husbands for starters.”
Knowing Marlene once had a crush on Joe—she’d had a crush on almost every man she’d ever met—but now couldn’t stand him, Kate said, “Right. Her husbands were only the hors d’oeuvres.”
With perfect timing, Ballou did his business. Kate used the pooper-scooper, regretting that he’d missed Joe’s left foot by less than an inch. She pulled on the little dog’s leash. “Come on, Ballou. We’re finished here.”
Claude Jensen, perched high in his lifeguard seat, waved as she walked by. “Keep your dog outta the water, ma’am. Them sharks they saw up in Boca might be down here by now. One bite and that little hair ball’s gone.”
Marlene, emboldened by two gin and tonics, spotted Katharine, dressed as Britney Spears, all bare midriff and shoulders, and decided to ask the girl just exactly what she knew about her Auntie Marlene’s checkered past before Kate and Ballou returned from their walk.
It took Marlene a few minutes to navigate around the three-deep crowd at the picnic table. By the time she reached Katharine, the girl had company: Jon Michael and an attractive older woman whom Marlene presumed was his grandmother.
The shoeless surfer wore white cutoff shorts and a purple hibiscus lei around his neck. His bare chest glistened as if he’d smothered it in grease. He smelled like lanolin, baby oil, and tea—one of Marlene’s own favorite homemade tanning lotions—flowers, and pot. After fifty years, Marlene still recognized the aroma of marijuana.
“Auntie Marlene, you’ve already met Jon Michael.” Katharine, her voice brimming with pride, turned toward the older woman. “And this is his grandmother, the famous Florita Flannigan.”
Florita’s flowers were on her head, a crown of lilies almost as white as her thick, well-styled, chin-length hair. A slim woman, her lightly tanned, heart-shaped face was sweet, albeit lined. She’d dressed in a white peasant blouse with a rose-colored drawstring and a ruffled rose ankle-length skirt. She was barefoot; her toenail polish matched her skirt. Marlene felt certain this wasn’t a costume, that Florita had worn her work clothes.
Marlene extended her hand. “Welcome to Ocean Vista, Florita. Happy Halloween. Did you bring the skull?”
Florita laughed, a tinkling laugh, like a schoolgirl’s. “No, he doesn’t make house calls.”
Marlene liked her, but curbed her enthusiasm; the woman was, after all, Jon Michael’s grandmother.
“We like Katharine very much.” Florita’s blue eyes sparkled.
Marlene figured that hadn’t been a royal we, that Florita had been referring to herself and her grandson…and maybe to the talking skull. Had Katharine made his acquaintance?
“Can I make an appointment?” Marlene asked, hearing a hint of desperation in her voice. Meeting Jon Michael’s grandmother’s skull could lead to all kinds of inside information about the surfer. Kate would be so jealous.
Florita whipped a small spiral notebook out of her pocket and flipped it open. “You’re in luck, Marlene. Our ten o’clock tomorrow morning canceled.” Florita smiled. “Joe Sa
jak’s next in line. He’s been waiting for an appointment for weeks; I thought I’d surprise him tonight with this cancellation. They’re so rare, you know. The lady who canceled has been arrested. I know Mandrake’s advice could have prevented that unpleasantness. Anyway, Marlene, since you’re Katharine’s kin, you can have the appointment.” Florita smiled again. “It’s two hundred dollars for the hour.”
Humph. Up from fifty-five dollars just a few days ago, Marlene thought, but said, “Great!”
“Got beer?” Jon Michael headed toward the bar.
Katharine yelled over her bare shoulder as she followed Jon Michael. “Auntie Marlene, I’ll be back in a flash. I can’t wait to hear what you plan to discuss with the skull.”
Marlene felt a flash of panic. Could the skull—or Florita Flannigan—have revealed her secrets to Katharine?
Eleven
Kate sipped a wine cooler; it tasted like sour grapes. Or maybe Katharine’s costume had turned her stomach. She dumped the wine in the sand and reached into her pocket for a Pepcid AC.
When would she hear from Nick? She’d left a detailed message asking the detective to check out Jon Michael Tyler and Roberto Romero, then for good measure, had thrown in Claude Jensen and Sam Meyers, even though she hadn’t met Sam yet and knew almost nothing about him, other than that he, too, had a grandmother.
Jon Michael’s grandmother, Florita Flannigan, was holding court under a palm tree in the pool area. Several Ocean Vista residents were her clients and devoted fans of the talking skull.
Down at the shoreline, Katharine and Jon Michael strolled arm in arm.
Kate stood, gulped, and headed toward the pool area. Gassy or not, she needed to have a word with Mrs. Flannigan, who, Kate figured, must be Jon Michael’s maternal grandmother. Where were his parents?
Florita sat in a blue and white plastic armchair at a round, glass table near the deep end of the pool. With all the chairs taken, some of the more agile Ocean Vista residents were sitting, legs dangling, on the diving board. Others stood, almost reverentially, waiting to catch Florita’s eye. God, only in South Florida, Kate thought, but then she remembered how much a grilled cheese sandwich depicting the “face of the Virgin Mary” had sold for on eBay.
