Read Online Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) by Noreen Wald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Noreen Wald
Tags: amateur sleuth books
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order, even in the sand—Kate and Sophie walked to the water’s edge.
A good-looking young lifeguard waved at them. Well, at Sophie. In her two-piece yellow gingham bathing suit, Kate looked flat-chested. Looked like a child.
The jetty to their left was covered with seaweed, the waves breaking at their feet, the smell of salt tingling her nose. All her favorite memories from summers past. Kate should be happy, but something felt wrong.
Kate ran into the ocean, not even reacting to the cold jolt that swept over her body.
Sophie dove into a huge wave, popped back up, and, using a strong Esther Williams-style breaststroke, swam into the deep water.
“Hey,” Kate yelled, “my mother doesn’t want us in over our heads.”
Not to mention that Kate felt terror when she couldn’t touch bottom.
“Okay, let’s swim sideways, away from the jetty.”
“Great backstroke,” Sophie said. And Kate couldn’t believe how much her mood improved.
Sitting in the damp sand, watching the boys watching the girls, Kate said, “My father works for Sinclair Oil in a skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, near Tiffany’s.” She hadn’t planned to say any of that; the words just tumbled out. “Some job in management. His address is 666. Dad says it’s the sign of the devil.”
“Yes, it’s in the Bible.” Sophie laughed. “My father would consider the address appropriate for an oil company.”
Figuring in for a dime, in for a dollar, Kate asked, “What does your father do with all those charts and graphs?”
Sophie frowned. “I’ve never asked Poppa what he does.”
“And he doesn’t talk about it?” Kate found that hard to believe. “My father bores us to death at dinner, rambling on and on about Sinclair.”
“Not really.” A stream of wet sand ran through Sophie’s fingers. “Whatever the project is, it’s been going on forever. Something to do with tides and winds. Something to do with the weather.”
Fourteen
The Present
An exhausted Kate, dying to get out of her clothes and into her version of pajamas—one of Charlie’s oversized t-shirts and sweatpants—paced. Where the devil was Detective Parker?
The clock in the front hall—her late husband’s favorite Kennedy family heirloom and one of the few treasures from Kate’s beloved Tudor in Rockville Centre—chimed nine.
Damn Parker. She added discourteous to the detective’s growing list of negatives.
If Miss Mitford had gone home—doubtful; the sentinel probably slept in some cubbyhole behind die front desk—Kate would have to buzz Parker into Ocean Vista. Unless, of course, he was interviewing another suspect first.
When had she accepted that she was a suspect?
She’d give him ’til ten, then pull her phone, turn off her cell, and disconnect her intercom. He could just reschedule tomorrow. Parker deserved no less.
Tomorrow. The mess in the living room nagged her. She’d finish the hurricane cleanup in the morning. Kate thrived on order. Charlie used to tease that June Cleaver and Frank Gilbreth, the efficiency expert in Cheaper by the Dozen , were her role models. She laughed as she headed for the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Oh, Charlie, did you ever know how right you were?”
Trying to decide between high-test or decaf Lipton, Kate jumped when someone rapped hard on the front door. Ballou, who’d retired for the night, barked. Kate shut off the whistling kettle and hurried back to the hall, the Westie at her heels. How could the detective have gotten into the building without being announced or buzzed up?
Maybe her caller wasn’t Parker. She used the peephole for the first time in the fifteen months that she’d lived here. Drat. She couldn’t see a bloody thing.
“Who is it?” She sounded strident.
“Lucy Diamond. Open the damn door.” Lucy’s voice, pitched several decibels higher than Kate’s, bordered on hysteria.
Kate opened the door. Her uninvited guest in a bright green sweatsuit strode into the
A good-looking young lifeguard waved at them. Well, at Sophie. In her two-piece yellow gingham bathing suit, Kate looked flat-chested. Looked like a child.
The jetty to their left was covered with seaweed, the waves breaking at their feet, the smell of salt tingling her nose. All her favorite memories from summers past. Kate should be happy, but something felt wrong.
Kate ran into the ocean, not even reacting to the cold jolt that swept over her body.
Sophie dove into a huge wave, popped back up, and, using a strong Esther Williams-style breaststroke, swam into the deep water.
“Hey,” Kate yelled, “my mother doesn’t want us in over our heads.”
Not to mention that Kate felt terror when she couldn’t touch bottom.
“Okay, let’s swim sideways, away from the jetty.”
“Great backstroke,” Sophie said. And Kate couldn’t believe how much her mood improved.
Sitting in the damp sand, watching the boys watching the girls, Kate said, “My father works for Sinclair Oil in a skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, near Tiffany’s.” She hadn’t planned to say any of that; the words just tumbled out. “Some job in management. His address is 666. Dad says it’s the sign of the devil.”
“Yes, it’s in the Bible.” Sophie laughed. “My father would consider the address appropriate for an oil company.”
Figuring in for a dime, in for a dollar, Kate asked, “What does your father do with all those charts and graphs?”
Sophie frowned. “I’ve never asked Poppa what he does.”
“And he doesn’t talk about it?” Kate found that hard to believe. “My father bores us to death at dinner, rambling on and on about Sinclair.”
“Not really.” A stream of wet sand ran through Sophie’s fingers. “Whatever the project is, it’s been going on forever. Something to do with tides and winds. Something to do with the weather.”
Fourteen
The Present
An exhausted Kate, dying to get out of her clothes and into her version of pajamas—one of Charlie’s oversized t-shirts and sweatpants—paced. Where the devil was Detective Parker?
The clock in the front hall—her late husband’s favorite Kennedy family heirloom and one of the few treasures from Kate’s beloved Tudor in Rockville Centre—chimed nine.
Damn Parker. She added discourteous to the detective’s growing list of negatives.
If Miss Mitford had gone home—doubtful; the sentinel probably slept in some cubbyhole behind die front desk—Kate would have to buzz Parker into Ocean Vista. Unless, of course, he was interviewing another suspect first.
When had she accepted that she was a suspect?
She’d give him ’til ten, then pull her phone, turn off her cell, and disconnect her intercom. He could just reschedule tomorrow. Parker deserved no less.
Tomorrow. The mess in the living room nagged her. She’d finish the hurricane cleanup in the morning. Kate thrived on order. Charlie used to tease that June Cleaver and Frank Gilbreth, the efficiency expert in Cheaper by the Dozen , were her role models. She laughed as she headed for the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Oh, Charlie, did you ever know how right you were?”
Trying to decide between high-test or decaf Lipton, Kate jumped when someone rapped hard on the front door. Ballou, who’d retired for the night, barked. Kate shut off the whistling kettle and hurried back to the hall, the Westie at her heels. How could the detective have gotten into the building without being announced or buzzed up?
Maybe her caller wasn’t Parker. She used the peephole for the first time in the fifteen months that she’d lived here. Drat. She couldn’t see a bloody thing.
“Who is it?” She sounded strident.
“Lucy Diamond. Open the damn door.” Lucy’s voice, pitched several decibels higher than Kate’s, bordered on hysteria.
Kate opened the door. Her uninvited guest in a bright green sweatsuit strode into the
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