“What’s that?” Swann asked.
“Our link,” Louis said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The first thing Margery did was to fling open the doors of a huge black lacquer armoire that held her vast store of prized liquor. They all helped themselves to their choice of “joy juice,” as Margery called it.
Swann grabbed a bottle of Pasión Azteca tequila. Mel took his time and chose a Lustau amontillado. When Louis couldn’t find any Courvoisier, he settled on a fat crystal bottle of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin. Margery stayed with the Hendrick’s gin she had been cuddling up with most of the afternoon.
The second item on the agenda was food. Louis suggested they call out for pizzas, but Margery snorted and sent Franklin off in the Rolls. He returned with everything from the dinner menu of Ta-boo.
Now they were spread out in the loggia amid a wasteland of half-eaten steak tartar, cold poached salmon, Maine lobster, and portobello mushroom salad.
Everyone was drunk and, as Margery called it, “grummy.” A pink-streaked sky was visible through the archways, but no one was looking. The phone was ringing, but no one was listening. The pug dogs were gnawing on leftover sirloin tips, but no one cared.
On the drive over, Louis had shared his theory with Mel and Swann about the devil orchid, which he believed was a symbol of something between the women. Swann had offered another tantalizing detail. He remembered that the red flowering plant outside Rosa’s apartment was an orchid.
Louis was hoping that Margery could tell them how Bianca Lee-the only person on Palm Beach who sold the devil orchid-figured into the equation. Was she supplying more than just orchids?
But Margery had been less than helpful. To her, Bianca Lee simply owned a lovely shop on “Worthless Avenue” and did the flower arrangements for the best parties and all of the charity balls.
“Margery, are you sure you’re not forgetting anything?” Louis asked.
“I told you, Louis,” she said. “She’s like, well, like a chiropractor or a policeman. You don’t even notice them until you really need them.”
Louis glanced at Mel. They both looked at Swann. He hadn’t said a word in the last twenty minutes and was slumped on the sofa, slit-eyed, one of the pugs curled by his side. Louis wondered if he had even heard Margery’s comment. Did he even understand that just like Franklin-that “utter ghost of a man”-Swann was invisible to people like Margery?
“Let’s get back to Carolyn,” Louis said.
Margery let out a dramatic sigh.
“You’re sure Carolyn and Tink aren’t friends?”
“Yes, I am sure,” Margery said testily. “As I told you already, Carolyn doesn’t mingle much. Her whole world is her political career.”
“What about Tucker?” Louis asked.
“The Osborns are old money.” Margery sniffed. “Tucker has never worked a day in his life. He’s a charter member of the lucky sperm club.”
Swann suddenly rose. “I need some air,” he said.
Louis watched him stagger out through the archway. He turned back to Margery. “Osborn told me he and his wife were separated,” he said. “Do you know why?”
Margery shook her head as she sipped her gin. “Years ago, there were rumors they were getting a divorce, but once she became a senator, well, that was out of the question. They have one of those make-believe marriages. He makes believe he’s a good husband, and Carolyn makes like she believes it.”
“Tell us about Tink Lyons,” Mel said.
“Poor, sad Tink, banging around in that big, ghastly house,” Margery said.
Louis waited for her to go on, but she fell silent again. He knew she was worried to death about Reggie. Her lawyer, Harvey, hadn’t been able even to get Reggie moved to solitary to protect him. Their only hope was Barberry.
“What is their marriage like?” Mel asked.
Margery shrugged. “What can I say? The man is a pig. He made wads of money building ugly houses, and now he puts on these rock-and-roll concerts and monster-truck rallies over in West Palm Beach. The first time I saw him-good Lord, it must have been fifteen years ago-Tink brought him to a party right after they got married. He was strictly the full Cleveland.”
“What?” Louis asked.
“He was wearing a brown polyester suit and this awful tie and brown shoes.”
“We call it the full Barberry,” Mel said.
“Why’d she marry him?” Louis pressed.
“Well, you have to understand something about Tink. Her family is old Philly Main Line but brittle stock. So when they all died off, she was alone.” Margery heaved a big sigh. “She was forty-plus when they got married. I suspect Dickie was the first man ever to look at her twice.”
Margery stared into her tumbler. “Poor Tink. I think she’s a bit wobbly in the noggin.”
Louis was quiet. If Tink Lyons was the doormat Margery was suggesting, it was hard to imagine her having secret trysts. But like Mel said, if the drought was long enough and the need for affection great enough, a person could do anything.
“Did Dickie Lyons hang out with Tucker?” Mel asked.
Margery shook her head. “There’s a pecking order on the island, Marvin,” she said. “At the top are the core people, the old guard. Then you have the A-listers like Tucker’s family, who’ve lived here forever, get into the right clubs, and show up on the Fanjuls’ Christmas-card list. Below that, there’s a whole smattering of celebrities, dubious royalty, and Trump, of course. Then there’s your basic parvenus and arrivistes-tolerated but still NOCDs.”
“Come again?” Mel asked.
“Not Our Class, Dear. Tucker Osborn would never associate with someone like Lyons.”
Louis’s head was fogged with alcohol. He needed some fresh air. And he was worried about Swann. He rose and went out onto the patio. Swann was nowhere to be seen. The sun was almost gone, leaving a reflecting wash of pale pink over the ocean. Louis rubbed his face, and when he looked back toward the water, he spotted Swann down on the beach.
Louis went down the stone steps and across the lawn. At the road, he had to wait for a gap in the slow but steady stream of cars clogging South Ocean Boulevard. Bentleys, Rollses, Jags, and sleek Italian exotics. He was wondering who had died when he remembered that Margery had said there was a big event at Mar-a-Lago just down the road. Whenever Trump wasn’t in town, he rented the place out to whoever could fork over big bucks, NOCD or not.
Louis crossed the road and went down onto the sand. Swann saw him coming.
“Hey, Louis.”
“You okay?”
“I feel like I need to puke.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not allowed. If you even fart too loud in this town, you get a ticket.”
“Andrew, you’re the one who gives out the tickets.”
“Not right now.”
Swann walked to the water’s edge, squatted, and splashed water on his face. When he stood up, his pink polo shirt was soaked, and his hair was spiked up.
“You’re not much of a drinker, are you?” Louis asked.
Swann looked at him. “I’ve had my moments,” he said. “When I was twenty-four, I drove my car off a fishing wharf and almost killed myself.”
“Were you drunk?”
Swann nodded. “Blood alcohol of one-point-nine.”
“Jesus.”
“It gets worse,” Swann said. “The car was a Florida state cruiser, I was on the job, and it was intentional.”
Louis took a step back, looking at Swann with new respect. Not that driving a ten-thousand-dollar cruiser into the ocean merited a reward, but it was so ballsy that it deserved some level of guy admiration.
“They fire you?” Louis asked.
Swann nodded. “My father, the esteemed Major Marshall Weston Swann, did it himself, in front of six other commanders. Guess he just decided that enough was enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“The car was the last of a whole bunch of fuckups. I didn’t show up in court half the time, slept with a woman I arrested, failed a drug test-”