When they asked Reggie if he could tell the jail to release his house keys to their care, Reggie agreed. Then he surprised them by insisting that they move into his house. Someone should enjoy the view, he said, until he got out of jail.
They packed up their suitcases and checked out of the Palm Beach Inn. There was something indecent about living in an oceanfront home owned by a man who was in jail. Even with Reggie’s blessing, it still felt a little like freeloading. Still, as they unlocked the front door, Louis had to admit it was a relief to get out of the cramped hotel room.
Reggie’s house, released by the police days ago, was spotless. It had been a disaster the day Reggie was arrested, and Louis wondered who had cleaned it up. He didn’t like the idea of anyone being in there alone.
“This place smells like lemons,” Mel said as he set his suitcase down.
Louis moved deeper into the living room. Every surface gleamed; every pillow was in place. He was thinking Margery had sent her cleaning crew over when he saw a handwritten note on the coffee table: Mr. Reggie. I clean up after polise. You now owe me $300. You pay when you get out jail? Eppie.
“Reggie’s maid was here,” Louis said.
Louis made a mental note to ask Margery if she wanted to pay Eppie and picked up his duffel. He was reluctant to settle into Durand’s room before they had a chance to examine every item in it. Gifts were not always things displayed on shelves. There could be clothing, jewelry, credit cards, or even cash, things Barberry’s men didn’t deem important to proving that Reggie was a murderer.
To Louis’s surprise, there were three bedrooms wedged inside Reggie’s small home. He chose to settle in the middle one, a twelve-by-twelve square painted blue and decorated with a Haitian painting of cotton pickers under a bloodred palm tree. There was barely room for a twin bed and a small rattan desk. A single jalousie window opened into the branches of a bottlebrush tree, heavy with fuzzy red flowers.
He tossed his duffel onto the bed and left the room. He could hear the clink of plates from the kitchen and figured Mel was rummaging for something to eat since they’d skipped breakfast.
Louis stopped at the door to Durand’s bedroom. Warm from the morning sun, the room was in perfect condition. The bed was made, the splashy green and yellow spread squared at the corners and dotted with throw pillows. The terra-cotta floor shone like it had been shellacked. The painting had been hung back in its place above the bed. A cool breeze from the open window gave the room a pleasant, beachy smell.
“You want some eggs?” Mel shouted.
“No, thanks.”
Louis decided to start with a search for the Patek Philippe watch, since it was the one thing they could be sure was a gift to Durand. The police report had said there was no jewelry found on Durand’s body. But Reggie had said Durand had the watch on when he left Testa’s.
There was a green leather box on the dresser. Louis flipped it open and rummaged through the contents-cuff links, shirt studs, collar stays, a tarnished ring, two joints wrapped in foil, and a cheap Timex.
There was nothing of note in any of the drawers. Louis checked the nightstand drawer and gave the closet a once-over. Nothing. The Patek Philippe was not in this room. Where the hell was it?
He looked to the glass étagère. There was no sense in worrying about fingerprints, since he was sure Eppie had wiped away any evidence. But maybe he could figure out if something looked expensive enough to be a gift from an appreciative woman.
The gold beaded apple looked expensive, but there were no markings on it that offered any clues. The New York City snow globe was a cheap plastic thing, with a faded $4.99 sticker on the bottom. The green speckled bowl could be anything from a cheap carnival prize to a priceless piece of European dinnerware. The Eiffel Tower didn’t look expensive, but Louis had to admit he probably couldn’t tell Baccarat from glass.
The gold pen set was a Mont Blanc. No engraving and certainly something that would make a nice gift from a woman but not in the same league as the watch.
The last item was a wooden box. The wood was a light color, maybe rosewood, and looked old. The corners, hinges, and tiny lock were a matte-finish silver. Not so noticeable on the front was a small silver plate engraved with the initials RQL.
Louis opened the lid, releasing a pungent scent of a rich liqueur and aged tobacco. The silk-lined box had some odd dials on the inside of the top and was filled with a neat row of plump cigars.
“Do I smell cigars?” Mel asked from behind him.
“Yup.”
Mel peered into the box, then plucked one of the cigars from it. He held it close to his eyes and then drew it sensuously under his nose.
“I have been blessed with physical pleasure more times on this trip than I deserve,” Mel said. “But now… now I have truly gone to heaven.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Louis asked.
“These are Gurkha Grand Reserve cigars,” Mel said. “Clearly the choice of discriminating-and filthy-rich-smokers everywhere.”
“How much do they cost?”
“They make only about twenty boxes of these every year, and they run almost ten thousand dollars.”
“Per box?” Louis asked.
“Per box,” Mel said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Zippo. “Each one is infused with legendary Louis the Thirteenth cognac by Rémy Martin. You like Rémy Martin, don’t you?”
“I love Rémy but not when it’s been filtered through tobacco leaves,” Louis said. “And give me that back. You’re not smoking up the evidence.”
“There’s more in there,” Mel said. “And besides, Mark Durand sure doesn’t need them anymore.”
Louis grabbed at the cigar, but Mel moved away from him and sparked his Zippo. Louis debated whether to fight with him over the damn thing and decided it didn’t matter. There may have been twenty cigars originally, and who knew how many had been smoked?
“At least go outside,” Louis said.
Mel obliged, and Louis turned back to the humidor, looking again at the engraved initials: rql. Given the personalization and the fact that the plate looked as old as the box, it was a logical conclusion that RQL had been the original owner. Was the thing as old as it looked, and if so, had the plate been added years after? Or had the box been made to look like an antique?
He closed the lid and turned it over. There was a second plate, also silver but shinier, newer:
To Dickie, from Tink.
Happy Anniversary,
6-14-1979.
Well, “Dickie” could certainly be a nickname for “Richard,” which matched the R. So, the owner could still be alive, and even better, he might be married to a young, adulterous wife who, for whatever reason, chose to give her boy toy an expensive present.
But why would Mark Durand want a cigar humidor? Reggie said Durand hated the smell of smoke so much that he made Reggie go out on the patio to smoke his Gauloises.
“Did you find the Patek Philippe?”
Mel was standing next to him, radiating an eye-burning stink, despite the fact that the cigar was stubbed out and in his pocket.
“No,” Louis said. “But I did find something interesting. There are names on the bottom of this thing. Let’s see if we can figure out who they are.”
“Who you going to call?”
“No one,” Louis said. “I have a Social Register Margery gave me. Anyone who can afford these cigars will be in there.”
Mel followed him back to the living room. Louis dug into his duffel for the register and the Saks bag of Shiny Sheets Margery had given him. “Here, look through these for anyone named Dickie or Tink.”
“Tink? Good Lord,” Mel said as he settled on the sofa with the newspapers. Between bites of scrambled eggs, Mel examined the newspapers with a magnifying glass.