Death Storms the Shore (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 4) by Noreen Wald

like her and I don’t trust her. And I’d bet those feelings are mutual.”
    “Unlike the others, S. J. doesn’t appear to have a motive.” Kate shook her head. “Still...her trip to the parking lot certainly provided her with the opportunity.”
    “Maybe she had the knife in her car along with the tape measure.” Marlene jutted her chin toward the west. “Enough about S. J. Corbin. Look right, Kate. The city of Miami awaits us.”
    Miami boasted an impressive skyline. Very tall, very modern office buildings dominated, but traditional church steeples and the old tower clock added contrast and charm. And Kate loved the juxtaposition of the ocean to the left and the sea of glass buildings—many of them tinted green—to the right.
    They drove south on Collins Boulevard. Uncle Weatherwise’s gated, beachfront mansion was in walking distance of several popular nightclubs, upscale sidewalk cafes, and refurbished art deco hotels.
    Less than fifteen years ago, the hotels had been rundown and filled with retirees. As South Beach and its real estate grew trendier and more expensive, the old folks who’d lived there for decades were forced to move west or north or, maybe, to the cemetery.
    Now nubile girls with bare midriffs and well-toned boys, prettier than the girls, skated on the sidewalk.
    They valet-parked at an Indian restaurant three blocks from the mansion. It would cost plenty, and they’d have to eat lunch there, also a small fortune, but there wasn’t any other option.
    “We’re walking by some of the most expensive property in Florida,” Marlene said.
    In America, Kate thought.
    The gate to the pink stucco mansion wasn’t locked. Beds of hibiscus in the same shade of pink lined the driveway to a back door, framed with stained-glass windows. The front entrance would open onto the sand.
    Wondering if Weatherwise had sold the mansion and a new owner had moved in, or if, maybe, one of the weatherman’s servants would answer, Kate knocked on the tall, thick oak door.
    “Coming. You’re early,” a muffled voice called. Then the door swung open, and S. J. Corbin’s startled brown eyes stared at Kate.

Twenty

      
    Monday, July 17, Fifty-Six Years Ago

      
    EXTRA EDITION: DAVID GOODMAN ARRESTED. The Journal-American ’s headline almost leapt off the page.
    Kate, who had been following the society gossip columns, couldn’t wait to get home. She climbed onto a stool at Irv’s counter, ordered a chocolate egg cream, and read every word of the story.
    Not only was Mr. Goodman in a heap of trouble with the FBI, it looked like Mrs. Goodman, whose brother, David Greenglass, had named her husband as the man who’d recruited him to spy for the Soviet Union, might be arrested too.
    Even if Goodmans had been guilty—and it sure read like they were—what kind of man would betray his own family? A traitor trying to save his neck, she figured.
    Kate had better get going; her mother wanted her to go through her old movie magazines and select only twenty to save. Mom had sounded serious, threatening that if Kate didn’t do as requested, she’d throw them all out.
    The clock behind the counter read two thirty and Kate had to be at Sophie’s at three thirty. She ran the two blocks home.

      
    “Katya,” Mr. Provakov said, “please to try a piece of cake with your tea.”
    They’d reached the middle of War and Peace . Kate decided several chapters ago that the scenes set in Moscow, dealing with Natasha’s romantic intrigue and social life, were far better than all those snowy battle scenes. Sophie had disagreed, saying the war reflected accurate Russian history and the romance was pure fiction.
    Kate preferred fiction; in fact, she’d also decided Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind , her former favorite novel, had been heavily influenced by Tolstoy’s War and Peace. The triangle of Natasha, Andre, and Pierre, much like Scarlett, Rhett, and Ashley. And Napoleon’s march much like Sherman’s.
    As her