A SENIOR DISCOUNT ON DEATH, by Nora Charles

Well, she’d earned every wrinkle, Kate Kennedy decided, applying SPF-40 sunblock to her cheeks a half century too late. The damage done decades ago, during those carefree summers at Rockaway, another beach on the Atlantic Ocean, back when everyone believed direct exposure to morning sunshine was good for all God’s creatures.

Swiping her greasy fingers with a Wipe & Dry—too fastidious even by her own standards—Kate returned to the Sun-Sentinel’s article about a Cuban drowning while trying to reach Florida. Such a handsome young man. So sad.

“Do you think I’ll ever get my gusto back?” Marlene Friedman, in a plus size scarlet tankini, shifted her chair to catch the sun’s rays on her already tanned-to-toast shoulders. “My lust for life has been slipping away for months—you must have noticed—now it’s gone with the wind.”

Kate smiled, noting Marlene had used two movie titles to describe her loss. They’d spent most of their childhood Saturdays at double features.

“As my best friend and former sister-in-law, you have a moral obligation to help me find it again.”

Kate—convinced that more than a few of those lines on her face were the direct result of Marlene’s bright ideas—sighed, stalling, wanting to support and dissuade simultaneously. No easy trick.

“Look, you haven’t lost your gusto, but even if you had, why would taking sailing lessons help get it back?” Kate’s stomach churned in the all-too-familiar Pepcid AC alert that Marlene’s schemes often generated.

“Not lessons, Kate. Holiday USA has invited us to spend a day aboard a thirty-six foot motor/sailboat, and yes, we can take the wheel or hoist the jib, while deciding if we’d like to become one of its part-time sailors/owners.”

“Sounds like a scam to me.” They sat in their striped beach chairs planted at the water’s edge, with warm surf washing over their feet. Kate arched her toes in pleasure and took a deep breath of the sharp, salt air. “Whoever heard of timeshares on a sailboat?”

“Scam?” Marlene’s laughter certainly seemed as lusty as ever. “We’re former New Yorkers, too old and too smart to scam, right? All we have to do is listen to an hour-long Holiday USA timeshare presentation. In return, we get to cruise up the Intercoastal and out to the ocean, maybe do some deep sea fishing or sit back and sip a Cosmo. Who knows, an attractive man might be on deck.”

Kate suppressed a giggle: Gusto gone, huh?

“Come on, Kate. The voyage is limited to six passengers…”

“Prospects. We won’t be guests on a private yacht, Marlene. You filled in the Holiday USA promotion form you found on the counter in the dry cleaners.”

“Okay, prospects. But their sales office and pier are located on the beach side of the Intercoastal, so we can walk there. The ship sails at noon. And we get a free lunch onboard.”

The free lunch closed the deal for Kate.

* * * *

They met at 11:30 in Ocean Vista’s ornate, bordering on gaudy, lobby. Marlene’s nautical attire reminded Kate of Carol Channing on Broadway in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. However, knowing they’d be sailing into the wind, she’d arranged her platinum hair in a sleek French twist.

Kate wore boat shoes, khakis, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

She’d moved in to Ocean Vista nine months ago on the same day that her husband, Charlie, had dropped dead still clutching the pen he’d used to close on the condo. She missed Charlie and their decades of pillow talk about his cases as a NYPD Homicide Detective. And she missed her family up in New York, especially her granddaughters.

South Florida’s relentless sunshine still depressed her, but with Marlene two floors below, and Charlie’s beloved Westie, Ballou, as her beach-walking companion, Kate had—ever so cautiously—begun to think of Palmetto Beach as home.

In the February midday sun, as they walked the one long block north along A1A to Neptune Boulevard, Kate took time to both see and smell the flowers: a riot of fuchsia and purple hibiscus and jasmine so sweet its aroma embraced you like a lover.

Senior citizens tended to arrive early. As they approached the Holiday USA berth on the Intercoastal pier, Kate spotted her shipmates queuing near a rope ladder at the aft of the boat.

Good. That meant they wouldn’t be going into the office for a preliminary sales pitch. But why were so few prospects boarding a 36-foot boat?

The white double-ender appeared sleek and yar. Kate had done some sailing off Shelter Island years ago and learned the lingo. While she could handle the wheel and, being the smallest onboard, had been hoisted up to the crow’s nest to adjust a line, she failed knot tying, and when she tried to work the sails, they’d flapped around her face.

Still … she felt a sudden rush of excitement, a shiver of anticipation.

“We can’t be this bloody low on gas. Where the hell did those landlubbers from Ohio motor out to last night?” A crusty old salt, in dirty shorts straining to cover his wide bottom and sporting a stained captain’s hat, shouted down from the bow, addressing another old guy—this one toned, tanned, and impeccably dressed in yachting white—on the dock.

The walking/talking Ralph Lauren ad looked angry, but only for a fleeting moment, before he turned from the captain and flashed thirty thousand dollars worth of dazzlingly white, capped teeth at Kate and Marlene.

“Good afternoon. According to the manifest, you must be Ms. Friedman and Mrs. Kennedy. I’m your Holiday USA host, Clive Weber. Welcome. Let me help you aboard the Shady Lady.”

Weber spoke with a gushing Texas accent, his hand clamped on Kate’s shoulder. She squirmed free, her instant dislike accompanied by an odd feeling of unease.

A handsome, silver-haired Latino stood off to the side, observing. He caught her eye, glanced at Weber, turned back to Kate, and nodded. Had he read her mind?

A couple in matching baby blue jogging suits, whom Clive Weber introduced as the Daltons, were boarding, climbing the rope ladder with great difficulty: the captain pulling, the host pushing.

“Señor Martinez, your wife isn’t with you?” Weber checked his manifest.

“Regretfully, no.” Martinez smiled at Kate and Marlene. “Please call me Juan,” he said, then scampered up the ladder like a teenage athlete.

Clive Weber’s unnecessary boost to her rear landed Kate on deck.

Despite her girth, Marlene, a former Olympic swimmer, navigated the ladder with ease.

And, moments later, they were motoring toward the Deerfield Beach Inlet where they would enter the Atlantic Ocean and raise the Shady Lady’s sails.

It occurred to Kate that all seven onboard, the captain, the host, and the five passengers, were over sixty. Ship of Old Fools? Maybe.

* * * *

Kate, Marlene, and Connie Dalton, a chatty gal with apple cheeks and a sunny smile, helped Clive Weber serve an excellent catered lunch. Everyone ate, except Juan, who mostly smiled and nodded, and made easy small talk.

Connie’s husband, Bob, as plump and pleasant as his wife, cleaned up, stuffing used paper plates in big garbage bags, while the ladies stowed the leftovers in the tiny fridge.

The smell of coffee drifting up from the galley made Kate again wonder why she, a confirmed tea drinker, so loved coffee’s aroma, but not its taste.

Captain Mike—Clive Weber hadn’t mentioned his surname—seemingly over his snit about the diminished fuel in his tank, was pointing out the mansions lining the Intercoastal, regaling his passengers with stories about their famous and infamous past owners.

As Connie applauded, Kate’s feeling of unease surfaced again.

When the Shady Lady reached the inlet, the captain veered north, and Clive Weber stood in the bow and started his sales pitch. “As Holiday USA’s ’specially selected guests,’ y’all are entitled to a senior discount. How about that, folks? All the joys of boat ownership, but none of the worries.” Weber, his drawl thick as oil, pointed to the matching jogging suits. “Now, Bob and Connie, here, might reserve the Shady Lady for Tuesday mornings from 8 to 12, then we’d scrub down the deck and you lovely ladies,” he gestured to Kate and Marlene, “would come aboard that afternoon from 1 to 4. While we’re sailing, just think about owning a piece of this beautiful boat.”

No mention of what a timeshare might cost. That would come at the close. Kate bet Clive Weber was a great closer and that he’d once worked as a telemarketer. Since the FCC’s ban on unsolicited calls, many telemarketers had moved on to other unsavory sales positions. Boat timeshares would have been a natural segue.

The captain steered into the eye of the wind and Clive Weber raised the jib.

Kate settled back on the port cushions and, while the Shady Lady rode the waves with style and grace, watched the navy blue sea seeming to kiss the muted terra cotta horizon.

She did not spot the gun until Juan Martinez pulled it out of his breast pocket and pointed it at Clive Weber. Certainly the .25 caliber pistol had not made even the slightest bulge in his white nylon windbreaker.

“Please change course, immediately,” the soft-spoken Martinez ordered the captain in his slightly accented English. Then he pressed the pistol against Weber’s right temple. “Head southeast to Cuba.”

Connie Dalton screamed. Clive, shaking, dropped the jib line and the sheet flapped wildly in the wind, knocking Bob Dalton to his knees. Kate glanced at Marlene who rose from the cushioned seat on the port side, poised to move. Kate shook her head, warning her former sister-in-law not to try anything foolish.

“No one will be hurt if you do as I say.” Juan Martinez’s voice, icy polite and soft, scared Kate more than the pistol. “We’re going to pick up my cousins. Now change course, Captain, or I will shoot Mr. Weber.” Martinez kicked Bob Dalton. “Get up, Mr. Dalton, and grab the line before we list too far to starboard.”

For a split second everyone seemed frozen in place.

Kate watched in mounting horror, sensing the scene had been choreographed and she wasn’t one of the players. Ship of Fools. Hadn’t they all died? No … maybe that was The Flying Dutchman.

The wind whipped up, bringing bigger waves, tossing the double-ender around in the rough sea. In typical Florida fashion, the weather suddenly had changed and they were in the middle of a wicked storm.

The captain turned the wheel hard to the right. Bob Dalton rose to his feet and reached for, but missed, the jib’s line. The rain came, hammering the boat, and Marlene was flung across the deck. Crawling, Kate snatched the line, lowering the sail. Thank God they hadn’t raised the main.

Out of nowhere, Connie Dalton charged forward, swinging a winch handle. A shot rang out. Though the handle had been aimed at Clive—had Connie gone crazy?—in the shifting, strong win, it slammed into Juan Martinez’s temple and he slid to the deck. Marlene, back on her feet, grabbed Martinez’s gun, then screamed as Clive Weber went overboard.

Only then did Kate think it odd that none of them were wearing life jackets.

“Go radio the Coast Guard, Connie,” Kate shouted over the wind. “Tell them we have a man overboard.”

Captain Mike, struggling with the wheel, said, “The radio’s broken, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Use your cell phone, Marlene.”

“I doubt Ms. Friedman will get through. We’re several miles out and the weather’s bad.” For a captain in danger of losing control of his boat, he sounded almost smug.

What the hell was going on here?

Marlene fumbled in her massive beach bag for the phone, finally finding it, only to realize the captain had been right. Not even a dial tone.

“Damn.” She handed the gun to Kate, threw the phone on the deck seat, kicked off her shoes, and jumped over the starboard rail into the turbulent sea.

Marlene’s ad-lib heroism gave the plot a new twist.

Kate aimed the gun at Bob and Connie. If this entire voyage had been staged, they were part of the act.

Juan sprawled on the deck, holding his bloody head.

“Down the hatch.” Kate always wanted to use those words in some other context than trying to convince a toddler to eat. “You, too, Juan, get up.”

The Daltons and a shaky Juan climbed down the ladder and she locked the cabin.

Know your characters, Kate thought. The authors of this charade hadn’t been aware that Kate had practiced on the firing range with Charlie Kennedy for years. Nor had they known Marlene was a champion swimmer. Or that her big heart wouldn’t allow even slime like Clive Weber to drown without making an effort to save him.

A few minutes passed in silence as the captain fought to keep the Shady Lady stable. An exhausted Marlene heaved herself over the railing. No Clive.

With the gun to his head, and fighting the rough sea, Captain Mike steered the Shady Lady back to Palmetto Beach.

“Look, dead ahead. There’s the lighthouse,” Marlene shouted. They entered the inlet, the rain stopped, the wind abated, and Kate reached the Coast Guard.

* * * *

“Even when you two aren’t playing Miss Marple, trouble just leaps into your laps, doesn’t it?” Palmetto Beach Homicide Detective Nick Carbone frowned.

Carbone, less than a friend, yet more than a colleague in crime solving, and Kate had investigated (though he called her contribution “snooping”) a murder case a few months ago and formed a grudging respect for each other.

Exactly twenty-four hours after Kate and Marlene had disembarked from the Shady Lady, they were sipping chocolate ice cream sodas in Dinah’s, maybe the last coffee shop in America that allowed small, well-behaved pets to accompany their mistresses. Ballou sat happily at Detective Carbone’s feet. Humph. Nick must be sneaking the Westie whipped cream.

“So, Detective, are you going to give us the scoop or what?” Marlene sipped her soda. “After all, we brought the bad guys in.”

“Indeed you did.” Carbone looked over at Kate. “According to Mike Hastings—that’s the captain—the Shady Lady moonlighted several nights a month as a transport ship, smuggling Cubans into the United States. But Clive Weber got greedy, using the Lady to bring in drugs from Bimini. The captain, suspicious about the amount of fuel used when the boat supposedly was in port, spied on Clive. Then, together with his partners, Connie and Bob Dalton, the captain hired an actor, who did a little moonlighting himself as a hit man, to give the performance of his career.”

“Killing Clive,” Kate said.

“Was Clive dead in the water?’ Marlene asked. “Did you find his body?”

“Yes. He washed up on Deerfield Beach an hour ago. A bullet in his brain.”

Kate let out a sad, little gasp. Ballou nuzzled her ankle.

“You two, as older women, were specifically chosen to be their audience, to bear witness to Clive’s murder by a crazed Cuban who, after having killed the Holiday USA host, would—as scripted—jump into the dingy and take off.”

“Older women with gusto,” Marlene said.

Nick Carbone smiled. “Right. And those characters never had a clue your improvisations would bring down their final curtain.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

As Nora Charles, Noreen Wald is the author of Berkley Prime Crime’s South Florida Senior Sleuth Series starring Kate Kennedy as a modern Ms. Marple.

As Noreen Wald, she wrote the Ghostwriter Mystery Series with Jake O’Hara as a New York City ghost, whose assignments are murder.

Noreen served as Executive Vice-President of Mystery Writers of America National Board and was the founding president of its Mid-Atlantic Chapter.

Her nonfiction books are: Foxy Forever, How to be Foxy at Fifty, Sexy at Sixty and Fabulous Forever—St. Martin’s Press, and Contestant: The Success Secrets of a Game Show Veteran, Avon Books.