“I didn’t get a call from anybody anytime last night.”
“Michael, that’s a lie,” I said.
He turned his head away.
“Why are you lying?”
“I’m not lying.”
“A woman called you last night, the dockmaster’ll swear to it. Now who was she?”
“Nobody.”
“Michael, the dockmaster heard you saying you’d be right there. Where was right there, can you tell me that?”
“No place. The dockmaster heard wrong. Are you talking about Mr. Wicherly?”
“Yes.”
“He’s deaf. He’s a deaf old man. How would he know what—”
“He’s not deaf, Michael, he hears perfectly well. Where was right there?”
He hesitated.
“Michael?”
“The house,” he said.
“Your father’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Who called you, Michael?”
He hesitated again.
“Michael, who...?”
“Maureen. Maureen called me.”
“What did she want?”
“She said she wanted to see me.”
“What about?”
“She said to come over.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to talk.”
“Did she tell you your father was out?”
“She said there was... she said... the three of them were there.”
“Maureen and your sisters?”
“The little girls.”
“And she wanted you to come over?”
“Yes. She said she was... she was... she’d be waiting for me.”
“All right, Michael, what happened when you got there? What did you talk about? You told Detective Ehrenberg you went into the kitchen—”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try to remember. Did she tell you why she wanted to see you?”
“She was scared.”
“Why?”
“Of... she didn’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
“But she told you she was scared?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did Maureen say something to anger you?”
“No, we... we always... we always got along fine. We... no.”
“You just suddenly reached up for the knife and began chasing her through the house, is that it?”
“In the bedroom, I...”
“Yes, what happened in the bedroom?”
“I took her in my arms,” he said. “I kissed her on the mouth.”
“Yes, then what?”
“I didn’t want the police to know I’d... I didn’t want them to know I’d kissed... my father’s wife. She was my father’s wife, I’d kissed her.”
“And you didn’t want the police to know that?”
“No, I... they’d tell my father.”
“Is that why you stabbed her?”
“No.” He shook his head. “That was afterwards.”
“Michael, I’m not following you.”
“After she was dead.”
“You kissed her after she was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you didn’t want the police to know?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you kiss Emily, too?”
“No, just my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Maureen.”
It was a little past five when I parked outside the flower shop. Ehrenberg hadn’t given me the name of the place, but there was only one on South Bayview, and I had to assume this was the one Catherine Brenet owned and operated. I was aware of the fact that Susan and I were supposed to attend a gallery opening sometime between five and seven, but it seemed to me more important to talk to Mrs. Brenet before Ehrenberg got to her.
The shop was in a row of stores on the same side of the street as the Royal Palms Hotel. Turreted and balconied, shuttered and terraced, the hotel created for the entire street an aura of graciousness, reminiscent of what Calusa must have been like in the 1920s. All was quiet in the late afternoon sunlight. I could visualize horses and buggies coming down a palm-shaded esplanade, could imagine luxurious gardens stretching clear to the bay. The sidewalk in front of the flower shop was a miniature garden in itself. A potted umbrella tree stood side by side with a dragon tree and a corn plant, all arranged around a flower cart massed with purple, white and pink gloxinias, mums in yellow and lavender, spinning wheels with bright yellow centers and white petals. The plate glass window of the shop was lettered with the words LE FLEUR DE LIS over a heraldic crest showing a pair of stylized three-petaled irises. The name of the shop, coupled with the knowledge that it was owned by Jamie’s mistress, whose name in turn was Catherine Brenet, somehow conspired to create the expectation of a French poule licking her lips seductively and asking, “Desirez, monsieur?”
There was only one person in the shop, a somewhat dumpy, middle-aged woman, blonde hair pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head, wearing oversized glasses with tortoise-shell frames, soil-stained green smock, the handles of a pruning shears sticking out of her pocket, scuffed sandals. She was holding an asparagus fern she had probably just brought in from the sidewalk outside; it was past closing time. She turned to look at me. Behind her was a display-cooler riotously packed with red long-stemmed roses and bright purple tulips, baby’s breath and orchids, marguerite daisies and irises that echoed again the words LE FLEUR DE LIS elongated at the woman’s feet in sunlit silhouette on the floor of the shop. To her left and right on shelves and hanging from the ceiling were kangaroo vines and snakeskin plants, cactus and Boston ivy, spider plants, flame violets, angel-wing begonias. A calico-cat flowerpot stood empty beside an arrangement of dried flowers.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Mrs. Brenet.”
“I’m Mrs. Brenet,” she said. The blonde eyebrows arched a trifle, the brown eyes widened expectantly in the plump face.
“Catherine Brenet?” I said. I could not believe this was the woman Jamie had described as “startlingly beautiful.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m Catherine Brenet.”
“How do you do?” I said. “I’m Matthew Hope.” I paused. “Jamie Purchase’s attorney.”
“Yes?” she said. She put down the asparagus fern, and made a small puzzled gesture with head and hands.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about last night,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” The look of bewilderment was turning to something else.
“Mrs. Brenet, I’m Jamie’s attorney. I’m sure you know what happened last night—”
“Yes?” Again the single word as a question. But the eyebrows were no longer arched. They were puckering into a frown above the thick-rimmed glasses.
“Jamie says he was with you last night between—”
“With me?” she said.
“Yes, between eleven and—”
“Me? Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”
“You are Catherine Brenet?”
“Yes.”
“And you do know Jamie Purchase?”
“Yes. But I don’t know what you mean about last night.”
“His wife and children were—”
“Yes, I heard that on the radio. But when you say Dr. Purchase—”
“Mrs. Brenet, he told us that—”
“Was with me—”
“Between eleven and—”
“I don’t understand.”
We both stopped talking at the same time. She looked at me, waiting for an explanation. I looked at her, waiting for the same thing.
“Mr. Hope,” she said at last, “my husband and I knew the Purchases only casually. I was, of course, distressed to learn of the terrible tragedy that had—”