"There's someone I want to see,'' Ainslie said. "A person who knows a lot about old families, including this one. Who maybe can advise me."
8
Her name was legendary. In her time she had been considered the most outstanding crime reporter in the country, her reputation far wider than her Florida readership and regular newsbeat of Miami. Her knowledge about events and people was encyclopedic not only people in crime, but in politics, business, and the social milieu, remembering that crime and those other groups often overlapped. She was now semi-retired, meaning that when she felt like it she wrote a book, which publishers eagerly printed and readers grabbed, though recently she had felt less like writing and more like sitting with her memories and dogs she owned three Pekingese named Able, Baker, and Charlie. Her intellect and memory, though, were sharp as ever.
Her name was Beth Embry, and while she kept her age a secret, even in Who's Who in America, she was believed to be well past seventy. She lived in the Oakmont Tower Apartments in Miami Beach, with an ocean view, and Malcolm Ainslie was one of her many friends. The second phone call Ainslie had made from the Davanal house was to Beth, asking if he could pay her a visit. Now she greeted him at her apartment doorway. "I know why you're here; I saw you on the morning news, arriving at the Davanals'. As usual, you were shafting a reporter."
He protested, "I never shafted you."
"That's because you were scared of me."
"Damn right," he told her. "Still am." They laughed, then he kissed her on the cheek while Able, Baker, and Charlie bounded and barked around them.
Although Beth Embry had never been conventionally beautiful, she had a bright vitality that was evident in every body movement and facial expression. She was tall and lean, still athletic despite her age, and invariably wore jeans and colorful cotton shirts today's was a yellow and white check.
The two of them had met ten years ago when, as a newspaper reporter, Beth began showing up early at the homicides Ainslie was investigating and asking for him personally. At first he was wary, then discovered he open got as much from her in background and ideas as he gave out in information. As time went by, a mutual trust grew, prompting Ainslie to direct a few "scoops" Beth's way, knowing she would conceal their source. Then, once in a while, Ainslie would go to Beth for information and advice, as he was doing now.
"Wait a second," she told him. Gathering the three barking Pekingese into her arms, she took them to a back room and closed the door.
Returning, Beth said, "I read that you went to Elroy Doil's execution. Were you making sure he got his just deserts?"
Ainslie shook his head. "Wasn't my choice. Doil wanted to talk to me."
She raised her eyebrows. "A pre-death confession? Do I smell a story?"
"Maybe someday. But not yet."
"I'm still writing occasionally. Do I get a promise?"
Ainslie considered, then said, "Okay, if I'm involved, I promise you'll be the first to know any outcome. But deep throat."
"Of course. Have I ever let you down?"
"No." Though, as always with Beth Embry, there were maneuvers and trade-offs.
The mention of Doil reminded him that by now Ruby Bowe would have begun her inquiry. Ainslie hoped he could quickly resolve this new case. Meanwhile he asked Beth, "Are we off the record now, about the Davanals?"
She answered, "Non-attributable, okay? Like I said, I'm not writing much the kids on the crime beat are pretty good but once in a while I get antsy, and I especially might about the Davanals."
"You know a lot about them? And okay, non-attrib.''
"The Davanals are part of our history. And Byron Maddox-Davanal, as they made him call himself, was a sad sack. Doesn't surprise me he's been killed; wouldn't have surprised me if he'd killed himself. Do you have a suspect?"
"Not yet. Superficially it looks like an outside job. Why was Byron a sad sack?"
"Because he found out the hard way that 'Man cloth not live by bread alone,' even when it's thickly buttered." Beth chuckled. "Any of that familiar to you?"
"Sure. Except you've a couple of different sources in there started out with Deuteronomy, then finished with Matthew and Luke."
"Hey, I'm impressed! That seminary put its brand on you for life. Any chance you'll flip again and be reborn?" Beth, a churchgoer, rarely failed to needle Ainslie about his past.
"For you," he told her, "I'm turning the other cheek. That's from Matthew and Luke, too. Now tell me about Byron."
"Okay. At first he was the family's great white hope for a new generation of Davanals; that's why they made him change his name when he married Felicia. She's an only child, and unless she conceives, which isn't likely now, the Davanal dynasty will die with her. Well, there was never a shortage of Byron's sperm around town, and presumably he put some in Felicia, but it didn't take."
"I hear he wasn't successful in the family businesses, either."
"He was a disaster. I suppose Felicia told you that, and about his allowance for not working."
"Yes."
"She tells everybody. She had such contempt for him, which made his life even emptier than it was."
"Do you think Felicia might have killed her husband?"
"Do you?"
"At the moment, no."
Beth shook her head decisively. "She wouldn't kill him. First, Felicia's too smart to do anything so stupid. Second, Byron was useful to her."
Ainslie remembered Felicia's words: The arrangement we had suited us both . . . it provided a kind of freedom.
It was not hard to guess what her "freedom" meant.
Beth was looking at him shrewdly. "You've figured it out? With Byron in her life, she never had to worry about one of her many men coming on too strong and wanting to marry her."
"Many men?"
Beth put her head back and laughed. "You couldn't count thern! Felicia eats men. But she tires quickly, then discards them. If any got serious, all she had to say was 'I'm already married.' "
Again, Beth looked searchingly at Ainslie. "Did Felicia come on to you? . . . She did! My God, Malcolm, you're blushing!"
He shook his head. "It was momentary, and probably my imagination."
"It wasn't, my friend, and if she fancies the taste of you, she'll try again. Be warned, though Felicia's honey may be sweet, but she's a queen bee with a sting."
"You mentioned the Davanal dynasty. How far back does it go?"
Beth considered. "To the end of the last century 1898, I'm pretty sure. There was a book written; I remember a lot of it. Silas Davanal and his wife, Maria, came here as immigrants from Upper Silesia; that's between Germany and Poland. He had a little money, not much, and opened a general store. By the end of his life it was Davanal's Department Store, and had made the first fortune. Silas and Maria had a son Wilhelm."
"Who's just barely alive, right?"
"That sounds like Felicia again. Wilhelm's wife died many years ago, but he's still sharp, even at ninety-seven. I've heard there isn't much that goes on in that old house that he misses. You should talk to him."
Senile, Felicia had told him. "Yes, I will."
"Anyway," Beth continued, "with each Davanal generation the family got richer and more powerful, and that includes Theodore and Eugenia both of them tyrants."
"Frankly, they all sound like tyrants."
"Not necessarily. It's just that they're all driven by intense pride."
"Pride about what?"
"Everything. They've always cared hugely about appearances. Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people. And any dirty little secrets are buried so deep that even you, DetectiveSergeant, might have trouble finding them."
"From what you've told me," Ainslie said, "Felicia isn't always impeccable."