Free Death Rides the Surf (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 5) by Noreen Wald Page A

Marlene, she added an “r” to soda.
    Since it was not yet eleven and she hated beer—a margarita might have been a different story—Marlene said, “Soda, please,” and went back to wondering who the hell Annette thought she was.
    Her hostess reached for a glass, and then peered at Marlene. “Aren’t you a bit overdressed? We’re forming a human chain on the ground; you might be dragged off to jail.”

Seventeen

      
    It occurred to Kate, and not for the first time, that her daughter-in-law Jennifer could be a prissy pain. On Jennifer’s mother’s side, the family line went back to John Adams and any history buff knew what a prig he’d been.
    Kate, all too familiar with Nick Carbone’s tactics and how he ran a murder investigation, had offered her best advice, but instead of listening, Jennifer was speed-dialing her attorney in New York.
    The three generations of women sat in Kate’s kitchen, their tea growing cold as they waited for the detective to arrive.
    Katharine lost in a silence propelled by fear had said nothing since she’d heard Carbone wanted to question her. Ballou, his eyes closed, lay at the girl’s feet.
    And where had Marlene gone? Kate had tried both her home and cell phones. No answer. Maybe Marlene had forgotten to turn her cell on; that would be just like her, wouldn’t it? Kate’s impatience caught her attention: misplaced anger, Marlene wasn’t the problem here.
    The degree of Jennifer’s distress was evident in her lack of grooming. She’d awakened to the news that her daughter was about to be questioned in a homicide investigation and hadn’t even bothered to run a comb through her ash blonde hair. Her pale green eyes, minus shadow and mascara, appeared smaller and, without pencil extending them, her brows ended right after the arch.
    The cool stockbroker, paid all those high commissions for her advice, had panicked and called her New York attorney for his.
    “Mom,” Katharine said, breaking her silence, “why won’t you listen to Nana? She’s dating the detective.”
    Katharine’s presumptuous conclusion bandied about so cavalierly, and the resulting look of amazement on Jennifer’s face was worth Kate’s embarrassment. Even better, it worked. Jennifer said, “I’ll get back to you, Henry,” and hung up.
    Kate drained the last of her tepid tea.
    “Any suggestions, Kate?” Jennifer snapped, spilling her tea into the saucer.
    Still fretting about where Katharine had been all day yesterday, Kate succumbed to an urge to throw her daughter-in-law off guard and said, “Nick might be interested in why—and when—you flew down to Fort Lauderdale, Jennifer.”
    A flushed Katharine fidgeted in her chair, then stood—disturbing Ballou, who yelped and moved over to Kate’s foot—and put the kettle back on to boil.
    Jennifer waved her right hand as if swatting a mosquito. “Where the hell are you coming from, Kate?”
    Kate didn’t have a clue, but not for a New York minute did she buy into Jennifer’s story about meeting a client in Palm Beach. And neither would Nick. Like Katharine, Kate believed Jennifer had traveled from the city on a mission: to bring her daughter home. What lengths would Jennifer have gone to in order to achieve that goal? Kate laughed, nervous laughter. She really didn’t think her daughter-in-law had anything to do with Jon Michael’s death. It was a shark, wasn’t it? And a shark attack couldn’t be a homicide, could it?
    “What’s so damn funny, Kate?” Jennifer stood too, towering over Kate, her hands on hips, her body language shouting confrontation. “A detective—your boyfriend, I might add—is on his way to interrogate my daughter, and you’ve just accused me of God knows what, and now you’re laughing.”
    Katharine stared down at the kitchen floor as if entranced with those vapid beige tiles.
    The telephone rang, jarring the three women. Kate rose and answered it, saying, “Hello,” in a shaky voice.
    “It’s Nick,