Condo Crazies: Murder At The Albatross Page 5

  Kate opened her mouth to refuse his invitation, but there was something in his voice she recognized all too well—not quite desperation but something akin to it. Like when you’re tired of treading water and you grab for something to keep you afloat.

  “Kate?”

  “I’m here. Yes, Mr. Delaney. I think Alexis would like that. She and Carly seem to enjoy each other’s company.”

  “It’s Tom, and by the end of the evening, I hope you will like it, too.”

  “Um—” Kate refrained from commenting. “Where shall we meet you?”

  “My place. I enjoy cooking and haven’t had a chance to do any here. Say six o’clock? The boat parade starts at nine and we’ll have a good view.”

  “Boat parade?”

  “Boat owners decorate and light their boats for the holidays and sail them down the Intracoastal. Santas, reindeer, and all. I’ve never seen it, but I hear it’s really something.”

  “That’ll be four of us who haven’t seen it then. Sounds good. See you at six. I’ll bring dessert.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “But I want to. See you then—Tom.”

  “Good…good. Looking forward to it, Kate.”

  Kate put down the receiver and stared at it. “Huh. Wait ‘til Devin hears about this.”

  Chapter 18

  “Here comes the fireboat,” Carly shouted over the first volley of explosions. Fireworks spewed into the air, bursting, crackling, and lighting the night sky—noise carried by the flowing water, then tunneled by the condo buildings lining the Intracoastal. The ear-splitting, cannon-like barrages were impressive.

  “Wow…this is so cool.” Carly seemed younger than her sixteen years as she leaned on the balcony railing, watching the barge boat lead the bedazzling flotilla of yuletide-decorated boats. Ropes of twinkling lights sparkled on the water, doubling images of palm trees and reindeers leading Santa on sleds in tropical settings.

  “It is, isn’t it.” Alexis agreed, standing next to her. “Pretty nice, huh, Mom?”

  “No argument here, Ally. Definitely cool.” Kate was sitting in one of the two chaises with Tom Delaney. They sipped the espressos Tom made on his new espresso machine. She turned to him. “And so was your dinner, Tom. From beginning to end. It was quite a menu. The delicious shrimp appetizers, the filet mignon was perfect, and all those Florentine vegetables. Did you bake the crusty pecan bread loaf too?”

  “No credit there,” Tom laughed. “Carmine’s Market was glad to provide that. And your tiramisu dessert was fit for the gods.”

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner.” Kate waved her demitasse cup at the illuminated spectacle before them. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

  “Best I’ve enjoyed since I’ve been down here. It’s been a while since Carly and I had such a good time together.” Tom looked at his daughter, started to speak, then stopped and raised his cup to his lips

  “It’s not easy, is it?” Kate said, sensing the reason for his hesitation. “Raising a child single-handedly, I mean.”

  “Not easy for Carly and not for me, either.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I was always too busy making my way up the corporate ladder to be involved in her life before this.”

  “What matters is that you’re here for her now. She’s still a kid and needs her dad. I think the reason those two bonded,” Kate nodded at the girls, “is that they’re in similar situations and understand each other’s needs.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m glad Carly’s got such a good influence for a friend. Alexis seems to have her head on straight. Carly told me about Alexis’s father. Tough on you.” He looked at Kate. “You seem to have come through it okay.”

  “No one goes through this stuff and comes out okay, Tom. We just look okay, but we’re all glued back together, just hoping when the glue dries we’re whole enough to go on.” Kate returned his direct look; she thought she could see his anguish. “It gets better, you know, the pain of it dulls after a while.”

  “I hope so. I’m tired of feeling angry. So,” he said, changing the subject, “what did you do before you moved down here?”

  “Catering. I had a good business going in Rumson. Lots of affluent people who like to entertain or have to fulfill their social obligations and don’t want to cook.”

  “And I had the nerve to cook for you? I didn’t know you were a professional chef.”

  “Your meal could be served at the finest Rumson affair. As good as anything I could prepare.”

  “Thanks. Maybe we could do this again?” He stared through the darkness at Kate.

  Kate hesitated. “I’m going to start canvassing for a catering base. And once I find it, I’ll be setting up and advertising. I’ll be pretty busy.” She stood up and looked at Alexis laughing with Carly.

  “No involvement, Kate. Just dinner and company.” Tom looked at her intently. “I don’t want involvement either at this point.”

  She flushed in the darkness and avoided answering his correct deduction. “Honestly, I know how busy my job gets.” She rose and walked to the sliding balcony door. “We had a delightful evening, Tom. Thank you, again. Alexis,” she called.

  “Just company,” Tom repeated ignoring her feeble excuse. “Nothing more. I’ll ask you again, at another time, Kate.”

  Kate waited at the foyer door for Alexis. “We need to find ourselves first, Tom, before we can find anyone else.”

  “But we can have fun in the process, can’t we?”

  “I hope you do. Lovely evening, great food. Thanks,” Kate said coolly. She walked to the elevator, Alexis close on her heels.

  “What was that about?” Alexis asked as soon as the elevator doors closed.

  “Great boat parade, wasn’t it?” Kate evaded.

  “Yes, but what was that about?” Alexis persisted.

  “Mr. Delaney wants to see us again and I’ll be too busy.”

  “He wants to see you again, you mean. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing…I just don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.” The elevator door dinged and opened to their floor. Almost immediately, Penthouse One’s door opened a crack.

  Kate, already uncomfortable with Tom’s repeated invitation and Alexis’s probing questions, scowled at the eye peering out at them. “Yes, Ms. Pruitt, we’re back. Have a good night,” she said crisply. The door snapped shut.

  Alexis giggled as they unlocked their door and entered Penthouse Two.

  “Boy, Mom. Mr. Delaney seems to push your buttons, doesn’t he?”

  Chapter 19

  “Ay—dios mio. La br-r-ruja!” Valentina screamed from the patio just outside the lounge’s French doors, her rolling r’s even more pronounced than usual.

  Inside the lounge, condo residents, gossiping and piling their plates with scrambled eggs, muffins, and fruit from Kate’s lavishly prepared breakfast buffet, stopped short and looked at the doors.

  “Malo Pr-r-ronόstico,” Valentina shrieked again.

  “Pure soap opera,” Devin commented. “What’s she saying?”

  Alexis, rinsing strawberries at the sink, wrinkled her brow. “If I heard her right, something about a witch and a bad omen. But I could be wrong. Spanish wasn’t my best subject. This could kill your meal, Mom.” She looked at the deserted buffet line in the lounge.

  Plates abandoned, the residents swarmed to the patio to see Valentina making the sign of the cross and staring at the flagpole. A stunned silence fell over the jabbering crowd as they followed the line of her pointing finger.

  Suspended from the top of the flagpole was an effigy of a witch, her neck in a noose, swinging slowly in the morning breeze. Under her pointed hat, the witch’s black hair blew around her face, but there was no hiding the thick eyebrows or the heavy eyelashes covering her eyes. A design on the front of the witch’s long, black dress grabbed everyone’s attention—a yellow swastika.

  “Ohmigod,” Yetta Horowitz exclaimed. “Another swastika. And look at the face
. It looks just like—”

  “Hah. Damned if it don’t look like Delores.” Chester Cheney’s short laugh was cut off by his phlegmy cough.

  A solid thumping heralded Phoebe Burlingame’s appearance. “What’s the commotion here?” Her sharp eyes fell on the Latina. “Valentina, I could hear you five stories up, with the sliders shut.” Phoebe glared at the others who resembled statues cemented in place. “Can anyone tell me what’s going on? Chester? Yetta?” She turned to members of her board.

  “Judge—” Chester coughed and pointed to the witch swinging in the wind.

  Both hands resting on her cane’s silver alligator head, Phoebe took stock of the situation and turned to the residents behind her. “I’m going to ask you all to return to your breakfast in the lounge,” she calmly directed. “No one is to leave that room and no one,” she looked sternly at the unit owners, “is to venture out to the patio or the grounds by the flagpole.”

  Phoebe turned to Chester. “Mr. Cheney, please stand inside the doors to the patio, and Mrs. Horowitz, inside the doors to the lobby. No one is to leave the lounge,” she repeated, “until the police get here.” She drew a cell phone from a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt. Her gaze fell on the Latina who was still seated, rosary in hand, lips moving silently. “Valentina, pull yourself together and join the others. Let’s not have a repeat of your earlier performance. Devin, stay with me, please.”

  Phoebe looked expectantly at the residents who turned and quietly filed into the lounge, apparently relieved to have the situation taken in hand by someone, but especially by the capable Judge Phoebe.

  As ordered, Chester stationed himself inside the patio door, a hint of a military background evident by an at-ease stance and stony countenance.

  Yetta eyed the cheese Danish as she hooked a nearby chair in front of the doors leading to the lobby. She made herself comfortable, leaned over and took one of the Danishes, and moaned softly as she sank her teeth into the buttery confection.

  “Cheese Danishes make everything better,” she said to no one in particular, “and this shiksa knows how to make them.”

  Outside the lounge, Phoebe jabbed a speed dial number into her cell phone and waited for the connection. “Detective Ezuma? Phoebe Burlingame from The Albatross. There’s been another incident here. How soon can you get here?” She listened and nodded her approval at the detective’s reply. “I’ve directed all the residents into the lounge. They’ll be there for you.”

  Phoebe ended the call. Her jaw took a hard set as she turned to Devin. “I don’t have a good feeling about any of this—not at all.”

  Chapter 20

  “She’s not answerin’.’” Latasha stopped knocking on Penthouse One’s door and turned to Phoebe. “She could be out.”

  “Not in the daytime, she couldn’t.” Chester wheezed. “Crawly things only come out in the dark.” He picked at the scabs on his arms as he attempted to stare down the detective.

  The detective eyed him, wordlessly, before she turned away and knocked yet another time.

  “So how’d you get on the force?” Chester asked the detective. “Cause you’re a woman…and black?” He cackled. “Only thing you’re missin’ is a handicap.”

  “Mr. Cheney.” Phoebe Burlingame whirled on him and gave a mighty thump to the floor with her cane. “Your comment was egregious, insulting, and discriminatory. I will not tolerate such behavior in my presence or on any board over which I preside. After you apologize to Detective Ezuma, you may leave. You will be hearing from me shortly.”

  Chester Cheney’s sneer faded quickly under Phoebe’s barrage. He ducked his head and mumbled, “Aw, geez, Judge. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Y’know me, can’t keep my mouth shut.”

  “Your apology, Mr. Cheney.” Judge Phoebe drew herself up to her full five feet. She leaned on her cane and glared at the errant board member. Her white hair stood erect, a crown accentuating a stern countenance that always bode formidable judgments.

  Chester backed away from Latasha. “Er-r-r-r. Detective, I offer my sorriest apology. I didn’t mean no harm…only sayin’ what a lot of people think and don’t say.”

  “Mr. Cheney!”

  “Leavin’, Judge…leavin.’” He scuffed his feet down the hall to the waiting elevator, Judge Phoebe’s eyes boring a hole into his back.

  She turned to the officer before her. “Detective Ezuma, what can I say…you’ve heard this before, and it’s always from bigoted, myopic, pseudo-patriotic fools. I am sorry this happened to you at all, but particularly in this building.”

  Latasha shrugged. “If it a happened on the street, Judge, Mr. Cheney’s sorry ass…pardon me…Mr. Cheney would be sittin’ in the patrol car. Right now, I got a job to do, findin’ Miz Pruitt. None of the residents I interrogated in the lounge have seen her lately. Some of ‘em have heard about her but not seen her at all. What’s the story, Judge?”

  Phoebe shrugged. “Condos house strange birds, Detective. Delores Pruitt is a very strange bird, indeed. Now, what do you think about checking in on Ms. Pruitt…in case she needs help?” Phoebe eyed the detective keenly.

  “I was about to ask if you could get your building manager to open the door for us since we suspect Ms. Pruitt may be in need of assistance.” She took out her cell phone. “Lieutenant, Detective Ezuma here. I’m gonna need a couple of uniforms at The Albatross for condo entry and inspection. I got a request by the board president to enter the premises of a Delores Pruitt.” She listened. “Yes, sir, the same one with the door swastika incident. This time, it’s a witch swastika.”

  Chapter 21

  The ophthalmologist said she had the vision of a forty-year-old, but it was dark—just after two in the morning—when she saw the shadowy form in the parking lot enter the trash room. And it was seven stories down. Judge Phoebe couldn’t tell if the figure was male or female, but she could see it was a slender person dressed in dark clothing. It emerged from the trash room and staggered back to the condo carrying two filled garbage bags and dragging a third.

  Why on God’s green earth would anyone be bringing trash to the condo?

  The figure paused to shift its load before continuing on to the building. Whoever it was melted into the shadows of the night.

  The security surveillance had to be installed immediately, not next week as the company had promised. Phoebe wondered what floor the trash bearer went. Ordinarily, one could check the elevator floor indicator, but this system only showed information at the lobby level.

  No doubt about it. There was something amiss at The Albatross. Sooner or later, the perpetrator would surface. They always did.

  The old woman turned from the window. She thought retirement would be dedicated to the freedom of an undisciplined lifestyle—no schedules, no contacts with felons or their greedy advocates—just the writing of her memoirs of forty years on the bench. A pleasant, fulfilling existence.

  She should have known better. The girl who’d read all the Nancy Drew and Beverly Grey, Girl Detective, books started college at sixteen, finished law school by twenty-two, and was nominated to the bench at thirty, wasn’t going to retire to a dull life. It wasn’t that Phoebe Lillian Burlingame looked for adventure. It always found her.

  She turned out the light and stepped on the footstool next to her bed. When did they start making beds so high?

  She pulled the sheet up to her chin, folded it over the soft blanket and closed her eyes. She knew there would be another chapter in The Albatross’s chain of events. She was sure of it. She needed sleep to be ready for it.

  Chapter 22

  “Phew! Damn hot in here. Real bad smell too.” Detective Latasha Ezuma stood in the foyer of Penthouse One and peered into the darkened condo. The only light came from around the drawn, heavy drapes. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the stench of decay hanging in the air. Somethin’ definitely not right here.

  She beamed her flashlight on the foyer wall and flicked the light switch—nothing.

  “E
lectricity’s off.” She turned to the uniformed officers with her. “Go look at the other rooms. Don’t touch nothin’.”

  The officers flicked on their flashlights and melted into the darkness.

  Latasha went to the windows and pulled on the drapery cords. The heavy material slowly parted. A small flowerpot of dead flowers sat on the sill, baking in the hot sun. She looked around. She’d seen some weird things in her seven years on the force, but this scene, in this setting, surprised her. Mounds of black garbage bags, some opened with decayed food spilling out, and stacks of old newspapers lined the perimeter of the room. Dilapidated old furniture and bric-a-brak even thrift shops would reject, cluttered the middle of the living and dining rooms. Not a foot of flooring showed anywhere in the room. The woman was a real hoarder.

  The officers returned. “No one in the bedrooms, Detective.” The younger of the two policemen shook his head. “Never seen anything like this. All the rooms are piled high with what looks like garbage.” He looked around the room. “Like this.”

  Latasha nodded and picked her way through a maze of another stack of garbage bags leading into the kitchen. She looked at the room. It was a disaster. Dirty dishes, pots, and cutlery piled high in the sink, a spoon in a half-empty can of soup, a picked-over dried chicken carcass, and a few slices of dry, moldy bread spilling out of a plastic bag on the kitchen counter…how does anyone live like this? Latasha held her breath against the fetid odor and returned to the foyer. An opened pocketbook lay on a table. Keys, a wallet, and some crumpled wrappers were evident. A telephone receiver lay on the foyer table. No sound emanated from the handset. Latasha motioned the policemen out of the apartment, followed them, and shut the door behind her. She sucked air into her mouth, blew it out through her nose and reached for her cell phone.