Free Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) by Noreen Wald

Schwartz at my home, in the garden that faces the sea, on Tuesday morning at eleven. A reception will follow. I trust you’ll be joining us, Mrs. Kennedy.” No question. A simple declarative sentence.
    “Thank you for inviting me. I’d be glad to attend.” Marlene would be pea-green not to be invited to this funeral.
    “I’m up in Palm Beach. Off A1A, a few houses north of Mar-A-Lago. You can’t miss the McFee crest on the front gates.” She sighed. “I just don’t understand how they ever allowed that dreadful man to buy Marjorie’s lovely home and turn it into a private club. The noise carries right over onto my verandah.”
    Kate, who’d had the former Marjorie Merriweather Post estate pointed out to her by Marlene on more occasions than she could count, said, “I think I know exactly where you are.”
    “Splendid.” Magnolia sighed again. “One more thing, Mrs. Kennedy. I’m something of a perfectionist. And we want this memorial to be beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. Swami deserves no less. Don’t you agree?”
    “Er… yes.”
    “Well, then please come to a rehearsal tomorrow evening at seven. I’m inviting all the board members who were present at Swami’s last supper. And his dear friend, our host, Danny Mancini. I feel we should all say a few words at the memorial. With a run-through, we won’t be repeating ourselves, now will we? I’ll be serving cocktails and a light repast. Formal attire will not be required. My driver will pick you up at six thirty. And you might take a look at St Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. I believe you’ll find inspiration there. Good day, Mrs. Kennedy.”
    Magnolia hung up, gently but firmly.
    A sharp rap at the front door jarred Kate before she could process her conversation with Magnolia McFee.
    Ballou barked. He loved company. Except for Mary Frances.
    On her way through the foyer, Kate glanced at the grandfather clock. It actually had belonged to Charlie’s grandfather, and was one of the few possessions they’d brought with them from Rockville Centre. Why did so many seniors throw away so much of their past when they moved to Florida? Kate missed her Cherrywood four- poster bed almost as much as she missed her bedmate, but Charlie had wanted “a fresh start.” Some start. He’d dropped dead at the closing, never sleeping, even for one night in their new bed.
    The condo, all spare lines and neutral colors, had been decorated by her son Peter’s long-time partner, Edmund, a plastic surgeon with a flair for interior design. Naturally neat, Kate had adapted to the cool tones and easy-to-clean surroundings, but mourned the warm traditional furnishings she and Charlie had sold or given away before the move.
    The clock c hime d three tunes. She’d had a long nap. Thank heavens she’d put on sunblock. Still, her face felt tight. As tight as her heart.
    Suddenly Ballou began barking and leaping against the door. “Who is it?” Old habits died hard. Did she really have to check on the rapper’s identity? Could a trespasser triumph over all those locks and manage to get into the building? Well, maybe, but he’d never be able to sneak past Miss Mitford.
    “Open the door, Kate.” Marlene sounded stressed. She pushed her way in, crying, as she swooped up the little dog, ecstatic to see her.
    Strange. Marlene always had been quick to anger, but slow to cry. What happened up in Palm Beach? Or could this be some residual damage from having been locked in the freezer?
    “Come in.” She kissed Marlene’s spotty cheek. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea. It looks as if we’re both having a really bad day.”

Eighteen

      
    Dr. Jack Gallagher smiled at his reflection in the glass doors on his way into the NBC affiliate station’s green room. His on-camera performance had been a smashing success, and the favorable PR had made his drive down to Fort Lauderdale more than worthwhile.
    Some of the questions—especially the print reporters’ questions—had been