Thicker Than Water

Chapter Eight

When Louis called Brian Brenner’s office, his secretary told him that Brenner had already left for the day and wasn’t expected back in the office for several days. Louis quickly concocted a lie that he was an old college friend in town only for a day. The secretary obligingly offered up the information that Brian had gone to the family home on Shaddlelee Lane to meet a real estate appraiser and that Louis could still catch him there if he hurried.

Shaddlelee Lane turned out to be just south of downtown, in an old residential enclave sandwiched between McGregor Boulevard and the river. The lane, paralleling the river, was dense with old-growth trees and lined with gracious homes. Most weren’t large, but their lots were, great sweeps of tamed jungle that buffered them from their neighbors’ windows and brought back an air of a slower time.

Louis drove slowly, looking for a FOR SALE sign. He didn’t see one, but saw a wrought iron gate with a large B on it. There was a small weathered tile plaque on one of the stone pillars that said CASA COLIBRI. The gate was open and at the end of the long driveway, Louis could see a large home with a black BMW parked in front.

“What the hell,” he murmured, and swung the car in. He pulled up next to the black car and killed the engine.

He got out. He saw no one, but the Beemer’s vanity plate said B2. He thought about calling out Brenner’s name, but the quiet was so intimidating he decided against it. He looked around.

The grounds were a riot of tropical vegetation-thickets of purple bougainvillea, gaudy crotons, hibiscus trees with their pink ballerina-skirt blossoms, orange trees stooped with fruit, and palms of every size and shape. It looked like Eden after everyone had left.

The house itself was three stories, Mediterranean in style, with wrought iron balconies, arched doorways and fanciful turrets. The white stucco was peeling and many of the windows were shuttered. It was obvious that someone had once taken great care to build it-it was there in the details, the Spanish tile borders, the leaded windows, the coral fountain topped with a hummingbird. But like the grounds, there was a forsaken feel about the house.

The sound of footsteps on the crushed shell drive made him turn.

“It’s about time,” the man said firmly.

He was tall, in his mid-thirties, thinning brown hair around a large tanned face. Stylish Bolle sunglasses and a suit that looked too expensive for a real estate appraiser. Brian Brenner, Louis decided.

“Mr. Brenner?”

“I thought Janice was coming,” Brenner said.

“I’m not the appraiser,” Louis said. “I’m a private investigator.”

Brenner stared at him through the iridescent sunglasses.

“I called your office,” Louis said, “but they said you were going out of town and I had to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Spencer Duvall.”

Not a twitch in Brenner’s face.

“You have time to talk now?”

Brenner consulted his gold Patek Philippe. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have to take care of this.” He flapped an impatient hand up at the house.

“Well, it looks like your appraiser is running a little late,” Louis said.

Brenner adjusted his sunglasses. “You’re a PI? I’ve never seen you before. Where did Susan find you?”

Okay, he would let him think he was working for Susan Outlaw. Lawyers ran in packs, even if they were on opposite sides.

“I’ve only been in town a couple months.”

“Who did you say you were?”

“Kincaid. Louis.” He was glad that Brenner didn’t seem to recognize his name.

“All right,” Brenner said, “but we’ll have to talk while I walk. I’ve got to check out the inside. We’ve had some break-ins here since it’s been vacant.”

Louis waited while Brenner unlocked the heavy wood front door. They stepped into the dim, cool interior.

The small, circular foyer had an iron staircase spiraling upward. Beyond, Louis could see a living room with large arched windows, shuttered against the light. The place smelled musty and wet. Louis thought of his cottage with its leaky roof.

Brenner had taken off his sunglasses and was scanning the walls. “Jesus,” he said softly. “I’d forgotten what a mess this place was.”

“Nice old house,” Louis said, trying to prick Brenner’s impatience with some small talk.

Brenner didn’t say anything.

“Why are you selling it?”

Brenner was picking at some crumbling plaster and he looked over at Louis. “You’re kidding, right?”

Louis shrugged. “I like old things.”

“The land is worth about two-point-five in this market. The house is a tear down.”

Brenner walked away, heading to the living room. Louis followed.

“Look at that,” Brenner said. “Damn kids.”

Someone had spray-painted an obscenity on the wall.

Brenner’s gaze came back to Louis. “What did you want to know about Spencer Duvall?”

“He had an appointment to see you,” Louis said.

Brenner was staring at the coral rock fireplace, dusty with soot and cobwebs. “Yes, but then he was murdered.”

“Were you handling his divorce?”

Brenner turned. “Who said Spencer was getting a divorce?”

Louis cocked an eyebrow at him.

Brenner sighed. “Okay, Spencer was coming in to draw up the papers.”

“Did his wife know?”

Brenner let one beat go by. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t take this,” Brenner said, pulling out a Kleenex. “I’m allergic to mold. Let’s go outside.”

Brenner unlocked a French door. It creaked open and they stepped back out into the sunshine. Brenner paused on the flagstone patio to blow his nose. A broad, overgrown lawn sloped gently away from the house. Beyond, Louis could see a dock with a small boathouse on the river.

“I guess I better go see if the seawall is still there,” Brenner said, starting down the lawn.

Louis followed. “Why didn’t Duvall tell his wife he was initiating divorce proceedings?” he asked.

“You’d have to know Candace to understand,” Brenner said as he walked. “She was hell to live with. Spencer was going to tell her, but he wanted to get his financial ducks in order first. He didn’t want to put up with her moods any longer than he had to.”

“They knew each other since college,” Louis said. “I find it hard to believe she didn’t know her husband was dumping her.”

“Spencer was an attorney. He knew how to keep a secret.”

“Like another woman?”

Brenner stopped and looked at Louis. “Spencer?” He smiled slightly. “No, there was no other woman in Spencer’s life.”

“You were good friends?”

“Not particularly. We crossed paths socially, but nothing more really.” Brenner started toward the river.

“So how can you be so sure?”

Brenner stopped again. With his big head and sunglasses, he looked like a fly. “Spencer wasn’t the type, believe me.”

They were standing near a swimming pool, half-filled with still, green water. Brenner’s eyes drifted to the cabana. The broken windows of the cabana stared back forlornly.

“Kids,” Louis said.

“What?” Brenner said, looking at him.

“Kids,” Louis repeated, nodding toward the broken windows.

“Yeah,” Brenner muttered.

The faint sound of a car horn carried out to them from up by the house. Louis and Brenner both looked back. A moment later, a blond woman in a green suit appeared at the open French door. She was holding a hand over her eyes, looking their way.

“I have to go,” Brenner said.

He didn’t wait for Louis to answer. He hurried back up the path to where the appraiser waited. They disappeared into the house.

Louis stood there, squinting in the bright sun. Well, at least he knew for sure about the divorce. Now he just had to find out if Candace Duvall did.

At the Sanibel-Captiva toll booth, Louis stopped to show his resident badge and then drove on over the causeway. He turned off Periwinkle Way, looking for the Duvall home. Bayview Lane turned out to be a secluded street, buffered on one side by mangroves and lined with waterfront homes on the other.

He slowed the Mustang in front of an open gate. He had considered calling ahead, but he had finally decided to just show up. He wanted to meet Candace Duvall cold, with no time for her to prepare neat little answers.

He turned into the drive, stopping the Mustang and letting out a low whistle. Before him loomed a huge three-story house. It gleamed white in the sun, aggressively modern, with big empty windows. All the native sea grapes had been cleared, leaving a patch of Astro Turf-like lawn and two new royal palms, propped up with tripods of two-by-fours.

Louis stared at the place in disbelief. He had been expecting something else, maybe a nice old beach place with the same pleasantly seedy elegance of Duvall’s office. This place was a monstrosity, madly out of proportion with the homes around it. Zero-lot-line McMansions crowding out picturesque bungalows. And they called it progress.

So much for sand in the shoes, Louis thought as he pulled in the drive.

He parked next to a canary yellow Mercedes convertible. The vanity tag read CANDY 1. A second car was parked nearby, a modest older-model blue Toyota.

At the massive bronze doors, Louis found an intercom and rang. He waited, his eyes wandering up to the small camera above. A woman’s accented voice came back.

“Deliveries around the side, please.”

“I’m here to see Mrs. Duvall,” Louis said. He looked directly up into the camera lens. “My name is Louis Kincaid.”

There was a pause. “Mrs. Duvall is expecting you?”

“No. But I’m here on behalf of Mr. Duvall’s lawyer, Brian Brenner.” Another lie. It was becoming frighteningly easy.

It was at least a minute before the door opened. A small bronze-skinned woman in a white uniform motioned him in.

“Wait here, please.”

The woman disappeared, her Aerosoles squeaking on the marble like sneakers on a gym floor. It gave Louis a chance to look around.

He was standing in a soaring circular foyer, right in the center of an elaborate mosaic of stars made of onyx, lapis and some kind of gold stone. A twin staircase curved up around him, a sinuous U of glass and chrome. Under it, the foyer opened onto what he guessed was the living room, a cathedral of blinding white light dotted with sleek pale blue furniture. Through the huge windows beyond, he could see a turquoise rectangle-the pool. And beyond that, a shimmer of blue that was San Carlos Bay.

He turned at the sound of squeaking soles.

“Mrs. Duvall says to wait for her in the living area.”

Ah. Living area.

Louis followed the maid into the white light.

The maid left him alone again. He looked around, debating whether to actually sit in one of the unforgiving silk chairs. He decided to remain standing. His eyes wandered over the room’s severely elegant furniture and down to the white carpet with its little gold star design. This wasn’t a place people lived in; it was some designer’s wet dream. Everything was perfect. The perfect pleats of the white sheers. The perfect fingerprint-free glass tables. The perfect slant of the white orchids in their crystal vase.

He was trying to reconcile all this with Duvall’s cozy old office when a waft of cold air caused him to turn. Candace Duvall was standing at the foyer.

He knew Candace Duvall was in her mid-forties but she was trying real hard not to look like it. She had a tumble of heavily frosted blond curls around a small, deeply tanned face with big eyes and a pug nose. Her body was just thin enough to be called lush instead of plump, and ill-concealed in a loosely belted robe. The robe was white silk dotted with little gold stars. He wondered if she always coordinated her clothes with her carpet.

“Luisa didn’t tell me your name,” she said.

“Louis Kincaid.”

She was leaning against a pillar, a languid pose. More Mae West than mourning wife.

“You work with Brian?”

Brian? Well, Brenner had said they were social acquaintances.

“I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

“I’m new,” he said.

She came slowly into the room. From her pocket, she extracted a cigarette and a blue Bic. She lit the cigarette and drew quickly on it.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” she said, her eyes locked on his. They were brown and puppy-like. Her face had the shiny taut look of a recent peel. Coupled with the eyes, it made her look like one of those little Pekinese dogs.

“What are lawyers supposed to look like?” he asked.

“You know, Brooks Brothers. Or Savile Row, in Spencer’s case.”

Savile Row? That didn’t square with sand in the shoes either.

Suddenly, Candace moved toward him, stopping just inches away. Louis resisted the urge to move back. Her smell-a potent brew of flowers, cigarettes and something musty he couldn’t quite place-filled his nostrils.

She took a step back. “You don’t smell like a lawyer either,” she said.

“Lawyers have a smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, their own unique human perfume,” she said. “My first boyfriend, he smelled like sawdust and Necco wafers. Not unpleasant, really.”

She went to a sofa and sat down, crossing her well-muscled, tanned legs. “Spence, he smelled like shoe polish.” She drew heavily on the cigarette as she stared up at him.

He suddenly could remember the smell of the shoe polish he used to shine his shoes with when he was a cop. Okay, he’d play along.

“Roll-on or paste?” he asked.

“What?”

“Shoe polish. Roll-on or paste? The roll-on stuff smells like burnt tires. The paste smells more like turpentine.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. She leaned forward to tap her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. The robe opened to a clear view of her tanned left breast and a large brown nipple. Louis didn’t look away. She leaned back, still smiling slightly.

“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” she said.

“No.”

“You don’t work with Brian either, do you?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Working for who?”

“Jack Cade.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then leaned forward and snuffed her cigarette out. When she sat back again, her eyes weren’t so puppy-like anymore. “You work for the man who killed my husband and you come to my home expecting me to talk to you? What, are you nuts or just stupid?”

Okay. Fun and games were obviously over.

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of some things, Mrs. Duvall,” he said. “I’d like to just ask you a few questions-”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Did you know your husband was divorcing you?”

He waited, watching Candace Duvall’s face. Damn. Nothing. No surprise, no flinch, no nothing. If the woman knew anything, she was a hell of an actress.

A flash of color caught Louis’s eye and he looked to the large windows over Candace Duvall’s shoulder. Someone had come onto the patio. A young man in a red Speedo. Tall, tanned, lithe as an Olympic swimmer, with flowing dark hair. He stood at the pool for a moment, then dove in, slicing the water as cleanly as a dolphin.

“I think you should go.”

Louis looked back at Candace Duvall. There wasn’t a trace of warmth left in those brown eyes now.

“Mrs. Duvall-”

She jumped to her feet. “Luisa!” she bellowed.

“Hey, calm down-”

“I gave my statement to the police,” she said. “I don’t have to talk to you. Now get out. Luisa!”

Louis put up his hands. “All right, I’m going.”

The maid appeared.

“Show this man out,” Candace said. “If he won’t go, call the police.”

Louis went quickly to the door, the little maid at his heels.

“You better go,” she whispered, opening the bronze door.

Louis put up a hand to prop the door open over the maid’s head. He glanced back at the foyer. Candace Duvall had disappeared.

“Who else is staying here?” he asked the maid.

“What?” she said.

“Who was that guy out at the pool?”

The maid frowned. “There is no one else here.” She pushed on the door.

“Is that your car?” Louis pointed at the blue Toyota.

The maid looked like he had asked her if that was her hearse. “No! Is not mine. Now, please leave! Or I will-”

“Okay, okay.”

The door closed. Louis stood for a moment on the tiled portico. With a glance up at the security camera, he went back to his Mustang. He got in, sitting there without starting the engine. He looked back at the huge white house.

He hadn’t expected the place to be draped with black cloth or anything. But Spencer Duvall had been killed just before filing for divorce and his widow wasn’t exactly putting out grief vibes.

Hell, what kind of vibes had Candace Duvall been putting out? She hadn’t been flirting; he knew when a woman was coming on to him, and she certainly wasn’t. But there had been something clearly sexual about her.

The guy out at the pool. Did Candace have a lover?

Louis stared up at the white house, his mind and senses working. Her look, her hair, her smell-damn, that was it-her smell. Shit, he knew that smell. Candace Duvall had just been clearly, unquestionably, royally, laid.

Louis pulled out a notebook and jotted down the license number of the blue Toyota, noting it was from Dade, not Lee County. He started the Mustang and threw it into reverse. But then he paused.

Something was bugging him. His senses were clicking back, trying to recall what he had seen. What he had smelled.

The slender figure in the red bathing suit came into his head again.

Oh geez. .

Candace Duvall had a lover all right. But it wasn’t a man.