Well, of course she does.
Twin sinks with marble vanities face each other from opposite ends of the room, each lit by two overhead, tulip-shaped lamps. The sinks host diving brass swans, each one flanked by matching faucets. The swans’ beaks are open, apparently prepared to spew water into the basins at the crank of a handle. These are the cygnets, I realize after a moment. Their mother is in between them, along the water-side wall, similarly poised to fill the hot tub.
She’s got quite a job. A six-foot oval encased in a massive marble deck, the tub is as effective an invitation to soak as porcelain can be. Candles of varying heights share space around it with dozens of vials of lotions, creams and oils. Just above the marble deck, the far wall showcases five inlaid diamond-shaped tiles, each featuring a delicately carved mollusk: distinct sand dollars at each end; a starfish, scallop, and moon snail nestled between them.
The Kydd brushes past me, crosses the room, and points into the tub as if it might be the Grand Canyon. “Look at this,” he says, turning back and gesturing for me to join him. “It’s four feet deep.”
If our client weren’t in the room, I’d break the news to the Kydd that we’re working here.
“See these jets?” he continues. “They’re all over the place.” His grin suggests he thinks Louisa might grant him a lifetime easement on her spa.
Louisa smiles at the Kydd’s enthusiasm. “Pity,” she says. “I’ve only used it once.”
“Once?” For some reason, this revelation makes me cross the room to join the Kydd, staring into the enormous marble-encased oval with him. When it comes to bathtubs, mine’s a Model T, but I drive it every day anyhow. If I owned a Cadillac like this one, I might never get out.
Louisa laughs. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ve only lived here a month. I’ll use it again. But I prefer the shower. So did Herb. He did say he’d like to try the hot tub sometime, though.” She pauses and sends a small smile my way. “But he never got around to it.”
Morning sunshine streams through the block-glass wall above the tub and shimmers against everything in its path: the brass hardware, the pale pink marble, the multicolored candles and vials. Even the floor, a pale oak, seems to glisten in the filtered light. Louisa crosses the room and leans against one of the vanities, beaming. She’s pleased with her creation.
“Speaking of the shower,” I say, “you took one when you got home from the club last Sunday?”
“Yes.” She shakes her head, as if clearing it, reminding herself why we’re all standing in her bathroom, and then she points to a frosted-glass enclosure opposite the tub.
The Kydd walks over and opens its door. I follow and we’re both silent for a beat as we look inside. The entire bathroom in my cottage would fit easily into Louisa Rawlings’s shower stall. A bench outlines its perimeter, and a panel of switches faces us from the wall below the showerhead.
“Look,” the Kydd says, flipping a switch. “It’s a steam room.”
No sooner does he utter the words than a circular opening near us coughs out a puff of vapor. As if taking a cue, a half dozen other metallic circles cough in unison, again and again, filling the glassed enclosure with cloud after cloud of rising steam. The Kydd grins like a five-year-old at his first amusement park.
Louisa smiles at us, obviously amused by our fascination with her plumbing. “The steam,” she says to me. “It does wonderful things for the complexion.”
Enough of the Queen’s Spa. Better to exit before our client starts sharing beauty tips. “To the sunroom next?” I ask her.
She nods and heads for the door. “With The New York Times,” she says.
Louisa leaves the Queen’s Spa and I start to follow, but I pause in the doorway to check on the Kydd. He’s still playing with the steam.
“Shut it off,” I tell him.
He actually pouts.
“And make a note,” I add, “to pull the latest warrant cases.”
The corners of his mouth droop farther and I don’t blame him. Warrant cases multiply daily, it seems. No two searches or seizures are alike, and each case offers a new wrinkle on what law enforcement can—and can’t—seize without that magic piece of paper. Warrant research needs to be updated constantly.
We’re hoping we don’t get to the point where we actually need it, of course. We’d like our talks with the Chatham police to remain cordial. We’d like Mitch Walker to perceive us as entirely cooperative, having nothing to hide. But we need to know before we start answering questions where we can legitimately draw the line. Just in case.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the Kydd. And I mean it. “I know that kills what little was left of your weekend.”
He looks almost grief-stricken for a moment, but then the dutiful associate in him takes over. He shrugs. “Weekend? What weekend? I don’t have any plans. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had any plans. But I’m damned sure it was before I set up camp with you and Kimosabe.”
The Kydd looks sad as he closes the steam room door, as if he’s saying good-bye to an old friend. But then he brightens and points to a door across from it. “Look at this,” he says, pushing it open. “A completely separate room for the throne. Can you believe it?”
Again the grin. I turn my back on him to follow Louisa, but then think better of leaving him to his own devices in the Queen’s Spa. “Hey, Tonto,” I call over my shoulder. “Saddle up and ride.”
CHAPTER 12
The crush of tires on oyster shells draws Louisa to the beveled window above her kitchen sink. She lifts the muslin curtain away from the glass and then drops it almost at once. “Must be lunchtime,” she says, turning to face the Kydd and me. “Anastasia’s here.”
Car doors slam and, instantaneously, a high-pitched, eardrum-piercing yelping begins. It takes on a regular rhythm as it nears the house: two short, one long. Yip-yip-wail; yip-yip-wail. “Oh good,” Louisa adds, the corners of her glossy lips turning downward as her eyes roll up. “She brought the beast.”
The front door opens and then slams. Heavy footsteps clomp toward us through the living room, lighter ones following a short distance behind. Louisa doesn’t budge. She stays planted in the kitchen with us, leaning against the sink with her eyes raised to the heavens. It seems she’s not particularly pleased about her Sunday-afternoon callers. She’s in no hurry to greet them.
Anastasia strikes a pose in the kitchen doorway, one arm raised to the full height of the entry, “the beast” poking its diminutive head out from under her flowing black cape. She’s a large woman, not as tall as Louisa, but much broader, bigger-boned. Her straight black hair is parted down the middle, early-Cher-style, and it hangs well past her buttocks. Her pallid complexion is unblemished and she likes eyeliner. Lots of it.
“Jeepers, creepers,” the Kydd mumbles. I glare at him. He has the good sense not to finish his rhyme.
Louisa laughs. “My sentiments exactly,” she says in a low voice. She turns a radiant smile toward the doorway, but her dark eyes don’t participate. “Anastasia,” she croons, “what a treat.”
“Save it,” Anastasia bellows in a full baritone, “for someone who gives a damn.” She barrels into the kitchen and a slight, denim-clad fellow ambles in behind her. He wears narrow glasses and his wispy gray hair is pulled back into a skinny ponytail that hangs to the center of his shoulder blades. He’s the beatnik boyfriend, no doubt; the about-to-be, on-the-verge, any-minutenow, runaway-best-selling-murder-mystery author.
Anastasia sets her pooch free on the kitchen floor. It’s a miniature poodle, shaved bald except for black muffs above its paws and a matching pillbox hat. Jackie O would be flattered, no doubt. It scampers around the room, takes in the scent of each of us, and then scurries to the hat rack in the corner and lifts its leg.