Margery brushed the dogs from her lap, swept the newspapers off the coffee table, and opened the red scrapbook so Louis could see it.
“Now, where’s my cheaters?” she muttered, looking around. “Ah! There you are.” She snatched up a pair of pink glasses and perched them on her long, thin nose.
“I left home when I was eighteen and went to Manhattan,” she said, flipping the pages. “I got work as a cigarette girl at the Trocadero, and then-” She pointed a long red fingernail. “Voilà! That’s me!”
It was a large black-and-white photograph, creased with age, a full-length portrait of a young woman posed seductively on an ornate cushion. An elaborate peacock-plumed headdress framed her short, wavy hair and lovely face. Other than the headdress and a coy smile, she wore very little else, just some strategically draped pearls and scarves over her chest and long legs.
“You’ve heard of the Ziegfeld girls?” Margery asked.
“Sure.”
“I was one. For ten fabulous months,” Margery said. “I was eighteen, with long legs-that’s my nickname, did I tell you? Legs, that’s what they still call me. Everyone here has a nickname-Buffy, Rusty, Bunny, Hap, Bobo-although Bobo hates it when people call him that.”
Nicknames? For one second, Louis thought of asking her about Sam.
But Margery was still speeding down memory lane. “I wasn’t a star, of course, but I could fake a little dancing, so I got a spot in the chorus. In a jungle number, I got to ride a live ostrich. One night, the damn thing panicked and carried me right out onto West Forty-first Street.”
She laughed. “Lou used to hang around the stage door of the Amsterdam, and finally I gave in and went to dinner with him. A week later, we were married.”
She flipped a page of the scrapbook and pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired man in a bow tie. “That’s Lou. My sheik.”
She sighed and sat back, pulling one of the dogs to her breast. “We lived like royalty for a year. Did I mention that I posed for Guy Pène duBois? You know who he is, dear, right?”
Louis shook his head, but Margery was already off and running again. “Well, then the Crash came, of course, and everyone was jumping out of buildings. Lou had most of his money in gold-God, he was so smart-so we went to live in Paris until it all blew over.”
She stopped abruptly. “Lou died in 1935. A heart attack. Of course, I never remarried. I was goofy for that man.”
Her eyes teared, and she pulled the other pugs close. They began to lick her face.
“How did you get to Palm Beach?” Louis asked.
Margery drifted back. “Well, things were getting a little dreary in Paris, so I went back to New York, but I was all grummy, so I came down here to stay with friends, and, well, I just never left.”
She stroked one of the dogs. “I wanted to start my life over. That’s what people do here. They come to Palm Beach to reinvent themselves. It’s just Vegas with better clothes.”
The phone started ringing again. Louis couldn’t take it any longer. “Should I get that for you?” he asked.
She frowned.
“The phone. It’s been ringing for a while now.”
She cocked her head like a dog hearing a whistle, then leaned closer. “I think Franklin is going deaf. I’d get a new man, but Franklin’s been with me forever, and it’s really hard to find someone who speaks English these days. It’s so hard to understand those Spanish accents and all.”
“Don’t you have an answering machine?” Louis said.
She waved her hand in the air. “It’s bad for the image. I don’t need to hear from anyone. The world comes to me.”
The phone finally stopped. Margery poured out two more glasses of shampoo.
“Now, what exactly is it you want to know?” she asked.
Maybe it was the champagne, but Louis decided there was no point in beating around the bush anymore. If he did, he’d be too shit-faced to remember anything.
“Reggie told me that Mark Durand was sleeping around,” Louis said. “With women. Rich women.”
Margery’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her turban.
“Reggie said you know everything that goes on around here,” Louis said. “I need names.”
“My, my, my, my, my,” she said. “I thought Mark Durand was a dew dropper.”
Louis assumed she meant gay. “Mark told Reggie he was sleeping with women who paid him or gave him gifts. If I’m going to help Reggie, it’s important I find someone who might have a reason to kill Durand.”
“Like a jealous husband? Quel lurid!” Margery said.
“Can you help me?” Louis pressed. “Have you heard anything?”
“My dear,” Margery said, “the kind of information you’re asking for does not come lightly, not even from someone like me.”
“I can appreciate that.”
Margery rose from the chair, again dislodging the dogs. Three of them scampered from the room, as if they’d heard a silent dinner bell. The fourth kept its place next to Louis’s leg, tongue out and panting.
Margery had moved to one of the arches and was staring out at the gray ocean. Her silk caftan fluttered in the breeze. Louis wondered if he’d blown his chance. How could he have expected this woman to turn on her friends to save a guy like Reggie Kent?
“It’s not as if affairs and, God knows, even one-night stands don’t happen here,” Margery said as she took off her glasses and turned to look at him. “It’s just that they don’t happen as you might think.”
“What do you mean?”
She floated back, standing over him with hands on hips. “Well, everyone sleeps around, dear. Well, almost everyone. There are a few people who don’t, but most of them have cheesy little provisions in their prenups that keep them faithful, if not dreadfully miserable. But for the rest of us…”
Margery paused, her brows knitting in deep thought. “To put it bluntly,” she said, “you can screw upward, and you can screw sideways, but you don’t screw down.”
“So, you’re saying someone like Mark Durand would never get a second look?”
“Oh, he’d get the looks,” she said. “He was a succulent specimen. But I just cannot imagine any of my friends passing him around like he was a sexual gimcrack.”
She downed the remaining champagne and looked at Louis with a granite gaze. “And besides, if this sordid little game of stud-boy poker was going on, certainly I would have heard about it.”
“Reggie Kent didn’t know, either, until Durand told him,” Louis said.
Margery held his eyes for a moment, then slipped back into the chair and reached for the bottle of champagne. She poured herself another glass, then grabbed Louis’s wrist and filled his glass.
She crossed her legs and leaned close to him. A cloud of flowery perfume circled his head, but he didn’t pull back. Her voice was almost a whisper, and he wondered why. The only other person in the house was Franklin, and he was apparently going deaf.
“Are you sure that Mark Durand is the only dead boy?”
“Excuse me?” Louis asked.
“I had a thought,” Margery said. “I had a lawn boy once who was a living doll. Tall, golden, and sinewy, like Fernando Lamas in that dreadful 3-D movie about the slave who inherits a cotton plantation and has to tame the woman he loves, all the while fighting off the carpetbaggers with his sword.”
Louis suppressed a sigh.
“Anyway,” Margery said. “One day, Emilio simply stopped showing up.”
“Your lawn boy?”
Margery nodded as she took another drink. “And I was absolutely shocked that he would do that to me. I mean, he was such a nice boy. Very hardworking and serious. I mean, he barely spoke English, but he was always so courteous and sweet to me. I really liked that young man…”
“Mrs. Laroche, what does this have to do with Mark Durand?”
She stared at him. “Emilio disappeared! Vanished! Poof! Well, I am thinking that maybe something bad happened to him, too.”