The Little Death

Chapter Twenty-two

Richard and Tricia Lyons lived in an oceanfront mon-strosity of a house. It was not one of those pretty Mediterranean Mizners that actually had some character. This was a new pastiche palace with Greek columns, gaudy chandeliers, and a grand arched entryway hung with faux-Versailles mirrors.

Carrying the humidor in the Saks shopping bag and led by a butler who wrongly assumed he was a pool guy named Marine Mike, Louis took the long walk through the canyons of the house. He knew very little about interior decorating, but there seemed to be little continuity in decor from room to room.

A white baby-grand piano basked in a rainbow of light from the cathedral-sized stained-glass window. A twenty-foot aquarium took up one entire wall, stocked with tropical fish and lobsters. An indoor Jacuzzi sat smack in the middle of a room filled with garden furniture. There was a twelve-foot marble statue of a Greek-gowned woman in one corner. The statue’s toes were painted bright red.

Louis followed the butler outdoors to a jungle of palms and bushes with pink saucer-sized hibiscus blossoms. Beyond was a large kidney-shaped pool, its water the deep blue of the Electric Popsicle cocktail Louis had tried once down in Key West.

“Hello.”

The voice was airy and unsure. Louis looked around and, seeing no one, ventured out from under the greenery and into the sun. A woman stood on the flagstone patio, a tawny-colored Afghan dog at her side. With its long, combed layers of hair, sagging face, and red-rimmed eyes, the dog had the look of an aging rock star after a long night.

Sadly, the woman resembled her pet. Wearing only a white swimsuit, she was rail-thin, with loose, deeply tanned skin cut with so many tiny lines she looked shrink-wrapped. Her hair could have been a wig created from the dog’s hair, a long pageboy that wasn’t moving in the breeze.

The woman sucked on a cigarette in a gold holder. “Hello,” she said again.

“Hello,” Louis said.

“You’re not Marine Mike,” she said.

“No, ma’am,” Louis said. “My name is Louis Kincaid. I’m a private investigator working for-”

“Reggie,” she said.

“Yes.”

The woman blinked and glanced toward the house. In profile, her long fake lashes protruded like fishhooks. Above them were streaks of green shadow. She was wearing a large teardrop ruby necklace.

The woman’s aqueous blue eyes came back to him. “I should offer you a drink,” she said. “I don’t know where Gerald is. Did he tell you where he went? Should I call him?”

“I don’t need a drink, ma’am,” Louis said. “Thank you anyway. May I ask-”

She moved away from him, taking the long way around the lagoon to a small table in the shade. She picked up a glass, then, apparently seeing it was empty, reached for her terry-cloth robe instead. Her hands shook as she tried to find the holes for the sleeves.

He walked around the pool to her. “May I ask if you’re Mrs. Lyons?”

She turned so quickly she seemed to lose her balance. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t like people coming up behind me. I’m sorry.”

“I apologize.”

“No, it’s I who should apologize. I should have introduced myself to you, and then you wouldn’t have had to pester me for the information, would you?”

He was quiet, beginning to wonder if this woman was completely lucid.

She turned back to the table, picked up a silver cocktail shaker, and refilled her glass with a cranberry-colored liquid. “These are very good, you know,” she said. “But they have the naughtiest name.”

There were two empty glasses on a silver tray, and she picked one up. He was going to get a drink whether he wanted one or not and decided not to argue.

“They’re called Sex on the Beach,” she said, pushing the glass at him. “I had one at a party last New Year’s, and I just fell in love.”

He accepted the glass.

“Take a sip,” she said, touching his hand. “Go on. Seize the moment, as they say.”

He took a drink. As she watched him, her eyes lit up with delight. For a second, he wondered if she was going to break into giddy applause.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The dog was suddenly between them, circling his mistress and licking the sweat off her bare legs. She murmured an apology to the animal, whose name was apparently Barkley, then set her glass on the ground. Louis watched in amazement as the dog lapped the glass dry. Its toenails, he realized, were painted the same red as the statue he had seen on his way in.

“Sit, please. Sit,” she said.

For a second, he thought she meant the dog. “Me?” Louis asked.

She stared at him, her fishhook lashes fluttering as she gave a little laugh. It sounded like the tinkle of wind chimes. “Of course, you,” she said, gesturing toward a chair.

He didn’t move. “Mrs. Lyons, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about a-”

“Tink. Please,” she said. “I’m Tink to my friends. Been Tink for forty years now, ever since I was ten.”

Christ, even Mel could have seen this woman was not fifty. Given the leathered skin, the bottle-shaped breasts, and the road map of purple on her legs, she was easily sixty-five, even if it was an expensively preserved sixty-five.

Louis set his drink on the table and reached into the shopping bag. “I’d like to ask you about something,” he said. He withdrew the box and held it out to her. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “That’s Dickie’s humidor. Where did you get it?”

Louis hesitated, not sure how much to tell her. If the humidor had been a gift from this woman to Durand for his services, why did she seem surprised that it was missing from her home?

“You didn’t give it to anyone?” Louis asked.

Tink placed a hand over heart, breathless. “Goodness, no,” she said. “Dickie would kill me if I gave his humidor away. I would never. In fact, I’m not even allowed in his room.”

Louis glanced at the house. He’d love to get inside Dickie’s “room,” but if his wife wasn’t allowed, there was no shot for him.

“What else does he keep in his room?” Louis asked.

Tink suddenly turned, looking around for something. She seemed confused, whispering things Louis couldn’t understand.

“Mrs. Lyons, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Is that my phone? Do you hear my phone?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m sure it’s ringing,” she said, starting toward the house. “Harriet must be in the laundry. She can’t hear the phone when she’s in there.”

The dog hurried after her. So did Louis, gently reaching for her arm to stop her. When she faced him, her eyes were wide and brimming with tears.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked.

He let go of her arm and took a step back. The right thing to do would have been to reassure her that he couldn’t arrest her or anyone else. But he didn’t care about making her feel better. He wanted answers.

“Why would I arrest you?”

She clasped the lapels of her robe and looked to the house, as if she was afraid they might be interrupted by someone.

“Mrs. Lyons, is your husband home?”

“No,” she said softly. “He’s out of town.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “He’s hunting. He hunts those big awful pigs in the Everglades. They go every year.”

“Who goes?” Louis asked. “Who does your husband hunt with?”

Again she looked to the house. Louis followed her gaze. A maid stood near the French doors, watching them.

“Harriet is watching us,” Tink whispered. “She’ll tell Dickie you were here. He won’t like that.”

“That’s okay,” Louis said. “I’ll deal with your husband. Now, tell me, who does he hunt with?”

“Well, there’s Bus Hamilton and George McMillan and-”

“Does he ever hunt with Tucker Osborn?”

Tink looked up, her eyes suddenly clear and bright blue, as if she’d just realized she was being interrogated and had said too much.

“You need to go now,” she said. “You need to go and never come back. I haven’t done anything wrong. I was only lonely. There’s nothing illegal about being lonely. Now, go. Or I’ll call Chief Hewitt to come and remove you.”

Louis wanted to pursue her “loneliness,” but he didn’t need a confrontation with Swann’s boss, nor did he need to be exiled from the island at this stage of the investigation. He backed away from Tink and bent down to slip the humidor back into the Saks bag.

Tink reached for it. “That’s Dickie’s,” she said. “He’ll want it back.”

“Not yet,” Louis said, pushing her hand aside. “It’s evidence in a murder case.”

“Whose murder?”

“Mark Durand,” Louis said.

Tink stared at him, her faded pink lips agape.

“You remember good old Mark, don’t you, Tink? I heard you two were real good friends.”

“How dare you insinuate that I knew that despicable man,” she said.

Hell, he had come this far. What did he have to lose?

“Oh, you knew him,” Louis said. “Problem was, Dickie found out about you two. And he didn’t like that very much, did he?”

Tink Lyons did her best to puff herself up with indignation, but there was a real look of fear in her eyes.

“Get out,” she said.

Louis picked up the Saks bag, and with a small bow, he turned and started back through the jungle. He was almost back to the house when a spot of fire red caught his eye.

It was a good three feet tall, sitting on a table in the shade. The exact same red orchid he had seen in the Osborn house.

With a glance back toward the pool, he broke off one of the flowered sprigs and stuck it in his pocket.

He felt the weight of someone’s stare and spun. It was just the Afghan. It was sitting three feet away, its sleepy eyes fixed on him.

Louis retraced his steps through the house, listening to the click-click of the dog’s nails as it followed him. There was no sign of the butler. After a few false turns, Louis finally found the front door and let himself out. The Afghan came out with him and watched him every step of the way.

After leaving Tink Lyons’s home, he headed straight to Clean amp; Green in West Palm Beach. He showed the owner, Chuck Green, the red blossom he had taken from Tink’s patio. Green was surprised to see the orchid.

“You recognize it?” Louis asked.

“It’s a vandaceous hybrid called Renanthera diabolus,” Green said.

“Is it expensive?”

Green nodded. “They’re expensive because they’re really rare. They used to grow wild in the Everglades, but the damn poachers nearly made them extinct. So, the state put them on an endangered list. Now, only a handful of growers are allowed to propagate them from seeds. I get good money for them.”

“You have them here?”

Again he nodded, this time with pride. “I’m the only one in the county who grows them. They take a lot of patience and love. You have to wait a long time for them to bloom.”

Louis thought suddenly of the red flowering plant he had seen hanging over Rosa’s front door. He couldn’t remember if it was an orchid or not. “Mr. Green, could Emilio Labastide have had one of these?”

Green thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, he was really interested in orchids. It’s possible I might have given him a keiki.”

“Keiki?”

“That’s a Hawaiian word for ‘baby.’ That’s what we call orchid cuttings.” He held up the sprig. “Where’d you get this?”

“From a home over in Palm Beach,” Louis said. “Do you sell these orchids to anyone there?”

“Nope,” Green said. Seeing Louis’s disappointment, Green smiled. “But I do supply them to a flower shop on Worth Avenue. It’s called Fleur de Lee. Talk to Bianca Lee, the owner. She’s a regular buyer of my devil orchids.”

Louis was writing in his notebook and looked up. “Devil orchid?”

“Yeah,” Green said. “That’s its common name. Renanthera diabolus. Devil orchid.” He held out the sprig to Louis. “Look closely. The flower looks just like the devil’s head.”

On the drive back to Palm Beach, Louis had tried to make sense of it-three luxury items seemingly unconnected that were undoubtedly parts of a big puzzle. What the hell did an old humidor, an antique sword, and a rare orchid have in common? And maybe it was just a coincidence that the orchid had the same name as the place where Mark Durand had been murdered. But it was a damned intriguing one.

Fleur de Lee was a tiny shop not far from the antique military store. Inside, Louis took off his sunglasses and stood perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, he’d break something. The place was stuffed with plants and flowers, including orchids of every size and color.

Except red.

As he waited for the owner, he pulled the sprig out of his pocket and stared hard at one of the tiny blossoms. Green was right. Its center looked exactly like a devil’s face.

“Can I help you?”

Louis turned. The woman who had come out of the back was small and dark-haired, in her forties, and exotically attractive. She wore a green smock over dark slacks and a sweater and was carrying shears.

When she saw him, she stopped cold. Louis had gotten used to people staring at him here. But the look on Bianca Lee’s face was different. It was just a flash, but it was there before the mask went up. It reminded him of the cheating husband he had caught last month coming out of the Days Inn in Fort Myers.

Busted. But for what? Selling flowers?

Louis palmed the orchid sprig. As he introduced himself, Bianca Lee nodded. “You’re the one who’s working for Reggie Kent,” she said with one of those patented Bizarro World smiles. “He seemed like such a nice man, but you can never tell about people, can you? Imagine, cutting off a man’s head.”

“A man is innocent until proven guilty,” Louis said.

“So they say,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m interested in orchids,” Louis said.

“Really? Cut flowers or a plant? I have some lovely phalaenopsis that are quite reasonable.”

“Do you have a devil orchid?” Louis asked.

Bianca Lee’s smooth olive face went a shade lighter. She carefully set the shears down before she looked back up at Louis. “Devil orchid,” she said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, I don’t know the fancy Latin name,” Louis said. He uncurled his hand. “But it looks like this.”

Bianca took the sprig and gave Louis a wide smile. “Oh, yes, Renanthera diabolus. I didn’t know it had another name.”

“Do you carry them?”

She nodded. “Yes, but we don’t have any right now. I could probably order one for you. But it’s frightfully expensive. I’m sure you would rather have-”

“Nope, I’m really interested in devil orchids.”

Bianca stared at him, then held out the sprig. “Maybe you could check back later.” Her smile was gone. There was ice in her voice.

“Maybe you could tell me who you sell these to,” Louis said as he took the flower.

“Why would you need to know that?”

“I have my reasons.”

Bianca shrugged. “Well, I have dozens of clients on the island. But I would never give out their names.”

“Flower sales are confidential?”

“Privacy is everything here, Mr. Kincaid.”

There was something about the way she said his name. He was close to snapping. He’d had it with these people.

“Look, lady,” Louis said, “I can be back here in an hour with a county deputy and a search warrant for your records. Or we can do this nice and easy.”

She just stared at him.

“How about if I name a few names and you just nod?” Louis said. “You know, like in that movie with Deep Throat?”

She didn’t move. Louis could almost read her mind: The nice fellows at the pink police station would protect her. If she could just get to the phone.

“Okay, first name,” Louis said. “Tucker Osborn.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Let’s try again,” Louis said. “Richard Lyons.”

Still nothing. The woman was good.

Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe the orchid meant nothing. Maybe he was wasting precious time and needed to be concentrating on the humidor. Maybe it was time to go back to basics and see if the sword’s blade matched the wound on Mark Durand’s neck. It was possible that Dr. Steffel had something by now.

“Thanks for your help,” he said, and left the shop.

Outside, he paused to put on his sunglasses. He was about to toss the orchid sprig but put it in his pocket instead.

He was almost to South County Road when a horn beeped behind him. It was a red BMW 325, not the newest model but shined to a gleam. Swann was behind the wheel. He pulled to the curb, and the window whirred down.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. Get in.”

“Where we going?”

Swann couldn’t hide his eager smile. “We’ve got a third body.”