Death of the Swami Schwartz (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Detective Carbone kept me at the restaurant long after you all went home. Me, Sanjay, and Dr. Gallagher. He kept at me, asking questions over and over about Swami Schwartz and me. You know, personal stuff…like was our relationship more than professional.”
    Kate, dying to know that herself, but well-trained by Charlie, just nodded.
    Tiffani was starting to cry. “Honest to God, Mrs. Kennedy, the way that Detective Carbone kept hammering at me last night, it was like so obvious he believed I killed Swami. After what seemed like hours, he asked Dr. Gallagher to do the autopsy, then ordered me and Mr. Mancini to meet him at the restaurant early this morning. Again with the questions. A few minutes ago, Detective Carbone got a phone call, then he and Mr. Mancini took off, leaving me to help that young cop finish packing up the files. And,” she sobbed, “Carbone asked me to stop by police headquarters at eleven thirty. Do you think I’m going to be arrested?” The girl looked terrified.
    Three things puzzled Kate: Nick Carbone’s seemingly irrational suspicion of Tiffani; why he’d asked Jack Gallagher to perform Swami’s autopsy; and where he’d gone with Danny Mancini this morning, leaving his prime suspect behind to gather up what might be evidence. She forced herself to focus on Tiffani’s question.
    Kate spoke with a lot more conviction than she felt, “Certainly not.”
    “Mrs. Kennedy, will you please come with me to the police station?” Tiffani’s whisper sounded strained. “But we have to stop by the Yoga Institute first. There’s something I need to show you before I speak to Detective Carbone.”
    Need. Kate let the word roll around in her head, deciding when a woman expressed “need” rather than “want,” she expected results. If Kate agreed to accompany Tiffani on her morning rounds, would she have to meet her expectations?
    “Well, well, fancy running into two of my more charming dinner companions from last night. Neither of you gals spiked the coffee with cyanide this morning, now did you?” Dallas Dalton’s twang carried, causing heads to turn. Or maybe her rhinestone cowgirl outfit turned the heads of the diners in the next booth and at the counter.
    “Move over, sugar,” Dallas said, the white fringe on her jacket swaying as she slid in next to Tiffani.
    Ballou yelped, but then rearranged himself at Kate’s feet. Dallas ignored the little dog, not even acknowledging she’d stepped on his paw.
    Kate gave him a sympathetic pat.
    “My gracious, that cornbread looks as good as my mama’s. I think I’ll join you all for some postmortem girl talk.”
    “We have to go soon,” Kate said, but her full cup of coffee and untouched food belied her words.
    Dallas pointed a French-manicured index finger at her. “So, sugar, whodunit?”
    “The name’s Kate.” Dallas made her lose her appetite. “And I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?”
    Could that be a look of respect flashing in Dallas Dalton’s big blue eyes?
    “Yes—right—Kate. And your last name is Kennedy, if I do recall correctly. Just like my favorite president. Such a tragedy that beautiful man got himself shot in the city I was named after.” Dallas flagged one of the waitresses, then gestured toward Kate. “I’ll have exactly what she’s having, sugar.”
    Most of the wait staff at Dinah’s were women in their late sixties. A few of them—married, widowed, or divorced—had worked there part-time for decades to get out of the house and meet people, and now considered their steady customers family who couldn’t get along without their favorite waitress, but the majority of them worked eight-hour shifts, wearing orthopedic oxfords and support hose, to supplement their Social Security checks.
    Madge, the waitress Dallas had addressed, was seventy-two and, indeed, had been at Dinah’s for years and loved her customers, but she needed —that word again—the money. She’d once told Kate, without a hint of