“I need the name, Margery,” Louis said.
She ignored him. “See, there are always young women coming here to find rich men,” she said. “Every season, they swoop in like swallows, all these pretty-baby vamps with their fake blond hair and silicone boobs. It’s quite a ridiculous spectacle, really, these horny old coots chasing after them and then ditching their wives for younger models. Quel triste.”
Louis slumped back on the sofa.
“You see, status is everything to women here,” Margery said. “Where you sit at a ball, how big your jewels are, if you live north or south of Sloan’s Curve, whether you get into the B and T or not. Women here will do anything to preserve their place, to avoid becoming substrata.”
“Sub what?” Mel said.
“Not quite A-list,” Swann interjected from his ottoman.
Margery nodded vigorously. “I mean, look what happened to Bunny Norris. Her husband, Hap, took up with that Samantha woman and gave Bunny the icy mitt. Well, Bunny had no choice but to endure a sordid divorce, take her money, and hightail back it to Newport.”
Samantha?
Margery was prattling on. It took Louis a moment to catch up. Something about Samantha being “basically Boca” but that everyone accepted her as Hap’s new wife only because he was “core people” and they adored him.
“And that weasel who’s always on her arm,” Margery said. “She tells people he’s one of Hap’s lawyers, but, well, really. How many lawyers ‘live in’ for days at a time?”
Margery sipped her drink. “Trash,” she whispered. “You can dress it up in Dior, but it’s still trash.”
Louis was silent. He could feel Mel’s eyes on him, waiting for him to press Margery further. He ran a hand over his face and leaned forward so he was only a few feet from Margery.
“I’ll ask you again. Why would a woman bother with a man like Labastide?” he asked.
Margery’s gray eyes held his. “It’s the old double standard, ducky. The men can just set their little honeys up in a suite at The Breakers and hide it by charging it to the company. The women… well, they have to be creative.”
She dropped dramatically back against the chaise cushions, sending the dogs into a frenzy of snorting and shuffling. “Are you sure you boys wouldn’t like a little shampoo?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Louis said quietly.
He rose and walked over to Mel. They stood, staring out at the ocean.
“Time to take off the gloves, Rocky,” Mel said.
Louis was silent, his mind on Sam.
“Louis?”
He looked at Mel.
“You want me to do it?” Mel asked.
“No, I’ll do it,” Louis said.
Louis went back to the sofa, but he didn’t sit down. He picked up a manila folder from the table and stood over Margery.
“Margery, you knew Mark Durand, right?”
Margery stared up at him. “Not well. Reggie brought him to dinner once. He drank a little too-”
Louis pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph and tossed it onto the table.
Margery’s eyes widened.
He tossed a second crime-scene photograph onto the table. “This is Emilio. What they found of him, at least. He was tortured with a whip and then beheaded. He has a sister who’s been looking for him.”
Margery’s face had gone gray. She sat motionless, looking at the top photograph. Then she leaned over and picked it up. She stared at it for a long time.
Then she slowly set it, facedown, on the table. When she looked up, her eyes were brimming. “I think I need a drink,” she said.
She brushed the dogs from her lap, rose, and walked stiffly to the door.
“Franklin!” she yelled. “Bring me the Hendrick’s!”
She came back to the lounge and sat on its edge, her long, bony hands clasped in her lap. The four dogs sat at her feet, looking up at her.
She pulled in a deep breath. “The woman is Carolyn Osborn.”
Louis heard a gasp and looked over at Swann. His mouth was hanging open as his eyes swiveled from Margery to Louis.
“Senator Carolyn Osborn,” he said.
Franklin appeared and placed a silver tray on the table in front of Margery. She pulled a bottle from the ice bucket and picked up one of the glasses.
“Now, does anyone need a drink?” she asked.
Chapter Nineteen
The Osborn home was at the westernmost end of Worth Avenue. Margery had told him the home was one of the “significant” mansions on the island, set down in a neighborhood once known as Sue City, named after an heiress to the Listerine fortune whose family had once owned the entire strip of land on lower Worth Avenue.
Louis parked in the broad brick drive, his eyes taking in the four-car garage on the left side of the sprawling house. There was a blue Toyota Camry by the closed garage doors.
A maid let him into a bright entrance hall of white marble and pillars, where the only stab of color came from a flame-red orchid sitting on a mirrored table. As they passed through a high-ceilinged salon filled with antiques and sunlight, Louis’s eyes were drawn to a twenty-foot white Christmas tree, decorated in silver and white like a department-store display and packed beneath with gifts in matching silver wrappings. His thoughts flashed briefly to Rosa Díaz’s tiny tree with the three ornaments. No presents under that one that he could remember.
He was taken to a study of dark paneling and shadows, the windows hidden by plantation shutters, a sharp contrast to the blinding-white decor of the rest of the house. The maid told him to wait and stopped to switch on a lamp before she left.
As his eyes adjusted, the room’s rich details emerged. A fancy carved desk on a zebra-skin rug. A full suit of medieval armor. A painted infantry drum. A glass display box filled with colorful medals. A spiked German helmet. Two cabinets in the dark corner filled with guns and knives…
Good God.
Louis moved closer to the desk. Above it hung a gleaming sword.
“Can I help you?”
Louis turned. The man at the door was tall, wearing gray dress slacks, a dark sports coat, and a white shirt.
“I’m waiting for Senator Osborn,” Louis said.
“I’m Tucker Osborn,” the man said. “And you are?”
“Louis Kincaid.”
Louis came forward, holding out his hand. The man was around sixty, still vital and handsome, with searing blue eyes and a thick shock of dark hair with a feather of gray at the temples. He shook Louis’s hand with an overly firm grip.
“You’re that detective,” Osborn said.
“Yes, I’m working for Reggie Kent,” Louis said.
The fact that the name brought no reaction made Louis believe that to Tucker Osborn, a man like Kent wasn’t even worth a blip on his mental radar. Substrata, as Margery would say.
“What is your business with my wife?” Osborn asked.
“I’m told she might know something,” Louis said.
“About what? That Durand joker?”
Louis thought it was odd that Osborn had mentioned Durand with no prompting. But then, it was also damn odd that Osborn had an antique sword in his study.
“Actually, I need to ask your wife about a different man,” Louis said. “His name is Emilio Labastide. He disappeared five years ago, October 31, 1984, to be exact.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Osborn’s face.
“I think I should talk to your wife, Mr. Osborn,” Louis said.
“Out of the question.”
“Suit yourself,” Louis said. “But this is what’s going to happen. I know that your wife had some kind of contact with Labastide. And I am, oh, maybe two steps ahead of the police. But once the fine fellows over at the sheriff’s department find out what I have, they will be knocking on your door. And they won’t be as quiet about it as I might be.”
Louis had seen Osborn’s face twitch at the word contact. He gave him a few more moments to think. “Now, can I talk to your wife?”