“I called Vinny about bringing Labastide home to Immokalee,” Mel said.
Louis was grateful that Mel had said something. “What did he say?” he asked, without turning.
“Vinny got a pretty good price from a friend of his who owns a funeral home. Think Margery will be okay with four grand?”
Louis turned. “How much was the exhumation and autopsy?”
“Seventeen thousand.”
“Well, she said she liked the kid,” Louis said. “I’ll guess we’ll find out how much.”
Louis came back to the sofa and grabbed the social register. He started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Mel asked.
“To find Tink and Dickie,” Louis said.
“Do you want me to come along?” Mel asked. “We could stop for a drink on the way back.”
Louis hesitated. “I think I want to go alone.”
Mel shook his head. “Rocky, you’ve got to stop digging yourself deeper into this shithole funk.” When Louis didn’t say anything, Mel went on. “When you decide to put down the shovel, I’ll be here for you.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Richard and Tricia Lyons lived in an oceanfront mon-strosity of a house. It was not one of those pretty Mediterranean Mizners that actually had some character. This was a new pastiche palace with Greek columns, gaudy chandeliers, and a grand arched entryway hung with faux-Versailles mirrors.
Carrying the humidor in the Saks shopping bag and led by a butler who wrongly assumed he was a pool guy named Marine Mike, Louis took the long walk through the canyons of the house. He knew very little about interior decorating, but there seemed to be little continuity in decor from room to room.
A white baby-grand piano basked in a rainbow of light from the cathedral-sized stained-glass window. A twenty-foot aquarium took up one entire wall, stocked with tropical fish and lobsters. An indoor Jacuzzi sat smack in the middle of a room filled with garden furniture. There was a twelve-foot marble statue of a Greek-gowned woman in one corner. The statue’s toes were painted bright red.
Louis followed the butler outdoors to a jungle of palms and bushes with pink saucer-sized hibiscus blossoms. Beyond was a large kidney-shaped pool, its water the deep blue of the Electric Popsicle cocktail Louis had tried once down in Key West.
“Hello.”
The voice was airy and unsure. Louis looked around and, seeing no one, ventured out from under the greenery and into the sun. A woman stood on the flagstone patio, a tawny-colored Afghan dog at her side. With its long, combed layers of hair, sagging face, and red-rimmed eyes, the dog had the look of an aging rock star after a long night.
Sadly, the woman resembled her pet. Wearing only a white swimsuit, she was rail-thin, with loose, deeply tanned skin cut with so many tiny lines she looked shrink-wrapped. Her hair could have been a wig created from the dog’s hair, a long pageboy that wasn’t moving in the breeze.
The woman sucked on a cigarette in a gold holder. “Hello,” she said again.
“Hello,” Louis said.
“You’re not Marine Mike,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” Louis said. “My name is Louis Kincaid. I’m a private investigator working for-”
“Reggie,” she said.
“Yes.”
The woman blinked and glanced toward the house. In profile, her long fake lashes protruded like fishhooks. Above them were streaks of green shadow. She was wearing a large teardrop ruby necklace.
The woman’s aqueous blue eyes came back to him. “I should offer you a drink,” she said. “I don’t know where Gerald is. Did he tell you where he went? Should I call him?”
“I don’t need a drink, ma’am,” Louis said. “Thank you anyway. May I ask-”
She moved away from him, taking the long way around the lagoon to a small table in the shade. She picked up a glass, then, apparently seeing it was empty, reached for her terry-cloth robe instead. Her hands shook as she tried to find the holes for the sleeves.
He walked around the pool to her. “May I ask if you’re Mrs. Lyons?”
She turned so quickly she seemed to lose her balance. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t like people coming up behind me. I’m sorry.”
“I apologize.”
“No, it’s I who should apologize. I should have introduced myself to you, and then you wouldn’t have had to pester me for the information, would you?”
He was quiet, beginning to wonder if this woman was completely lucid.
She turned back to the table, picked up a silver cocktail shaker, and refilled her glass with a cranberry-colored liquid. “These are very good, you know,” she said. “But they have the naughtiest name.”
There were two empty glasses on a silver tray, and she picked one up. He was going to get a drink whether he wanted one or not and decided not to argue.
“They’re called Sex on the Beach,” she said, pushing the glass at him. “I had one at a party last New Year’s, and I just fell in love.”
He accepted the glass.
“Take a sip,” she said, touching his hand. “Go on. Seize the moment, as they say.”
He took a drink. As she watched him, her eyes lit up with delight. For a second, he wondered if she was going to break into giddy applause.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The dog was suddenly between them, circling his mistress and licking the sweat off her bare legs. She murmured an apology to the animal, whose name was apparently Barkley, then set her glass on the ground. Louis watched in amazement as the dog lapped the glass dry. Its toenails, he realized, were painted the same red as the statue he had seen on his way in.
“Sit, please. Sit,” she said.
For a second, he thought she meant the dog. “Me?” Louis asked.
She stared at him, her fishhook lashes fluttering as she gave a little laugh. It sounded like the tinkle of wind chimes. “Of course, you,” she said, gesturing toward a chair.
He didn’t move. “Mrs. Lyons, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about a-”
“Tink. Please,” she said. “I’m Tink to my friends. Been Tink for forty years now, ever since I was ten.”
Christ, even Mel could have seen this woman was not fifty. Given the leathered skin, the bottle-shaped breasts, and the road map of purple on her legs, she was easily sixty-five, even if it was an expensively preserved sixty-five.
Louis set his drink on the table and reached into the shopping bag. “I’d like to ask you about something,” he said. He withdrew the box and held it out to her. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “That’s Dickie’s humidor. Where did you get it?”
Louis hesitated, not sure how much to tell her. If the humidor had been a gift from this woman to Durand for his services, why did she seem surprised that it was missing from her home?
“You didn’t give it to anyone?” Louis asked.
Tink placed a hand over heart, breathless. “Goodness, no,” she said. “Dickie would kill me if I gave his humidor away. I would never. In fact, I’m not even allowed in his room.”
Louis glanced at the house. He’d love to get inside Dickie’s “room,” but if his wife wasn’t allowed, there was no shot for him.
“What else does he keep in his room?” Louis asked.
Tink suddenly turned, looking around for something. She seemed confused, whispering things Louis couldn’t understand.
“Mrs. Lyons, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Is that my phone? Do you hear my phone?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m sure it’s ringing,” she said, starting toward the house. “Harriet must be in the laundry. She can’t hear the phone when she’s in there.”
The dog hurried after her. So did Louis, gently reaching for her arm to stop her. When she faced him, her eyes were wide and brimming with tears.
“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked.
He let go of her arm and took a step back. The right thing to do would have been to reassure her that he couldn’t arrest her or anyone else. But he didn’t care about making her feel better. He wanted answers.