Shaddlelee Lane turned out to be just south of downtown, in an old residential enclave sandwiched between McGregor Boulevard and the river. The lane, paralleling the river, was dense with old-growth trees and lined with gracious homes. Most weren’t large, but their lots were, great sweeps of tamed jungle that buffered them from their neighbors’ windows and brought back an air of a slower time.
Louis drove slowly, looking for a FOR SALE sign. He didn’t see one, but saw a wrought iron gate with a large B on it. There was a small weathered tile plaque on one of the stone pillars that said CASA COLIBRI. The gate was open and at the end of the long driveway, Louis could see a large home with a black BMW parked in front.
“What the hell,” he murmured, and swung the car in. He pulled up next to the black car and killed the engine.
He got out. He saw no one, but the Beemer’s vanity plate said B2. He thought about calling out Brenner’s name, but the quiet was so intimidating he decided against it. He looked around.
The grounds were a riot of tropical vegetation-thickets of purple bougainvillea, gaudy crotons, hibiscus trees with their pink ballerina-skirt blossoms, orange trees stooped with fruit, and palms of every size and shape. It looked like Eden after everyone had left.
The house itself was three stories, Mediterranean in style, with wrought iron balconies, arched doorways and fanciful turrets. The white stucco was peeling and many of the windows were shuttered. It was obvious that someone had once taken great care to build it-it was there in the details, the Spanish tile borders, the leaded windows, the coral fountain topped with a hummingbird. But like the grounds, there was a forsaken feel about the house.
The sound of footsteps on the crushed shell drive made him turn.
“It’s about time,” the man said firmly.
He was tall, in his mid-thirties, thinning brown hair around a large tanned face. Stylish Bolle sunglasses and a suit that looked too expensive for a real estate appraiser. Brian Brenner, Louis decided.
“Mr. Brenner?”
“I thought Janice was coming,” Brenner said.
“I’m not the appraiser,” Louis said. “I’m a private investigator.”
Brenner stared at him through the iridescent sunglasses.
“I called your office,” Louis said, “but they said you were going out of town and I had to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Spencer Duvall.”
Not a twitch in Brenner’s face.
“You have time to talk now?”
Brenner consulted his gold Patek Philippe. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have to take care of this.” He flapped an impatient hand up at the house.
“Well, it looks like your appraiser is running a little late,” Louis said.
Brenner adjusted his sunglasses. “You’re a PI? I’ve never seen you before. Where did Susan find you?”
Okay, he would let him think he was working for Susan Outlaw. Lawyers ran in packs, even if they were on opposite sides.
“I’ve only been in town a couple months.”
“Who did you say you were?”
“Kincaid. Louis.” He was glad that Brenner didn’t seem to recognize his name.
“All right,” Brenner said, “but we’ll have to talk while I walk. I’ve got to check out the inside. We’ve had some break-ins here since it’s been vacant.”
Louis waited while Brenner unlocked the heavy wood front door. They stepped into the dim, cool interior.
The small, circular foyer had an iron staircase spiraling upward. Beyond, Louis could see a living room with large arched windows, shuttered against the light. The place smelled musty and wet. Louis thought of his cottage with its leaky roof.
Brenner had taken off his sunglasses and was scanning the walls. “Jesus,” he said softly. “I’d forgotten what a mess this place was.”
“Nice old house,” Louis said, trying to prick Brenner’s impatience with some small talk.
Brenner didn’t say anything.
“Why are you selling it?”
Brenner was picking at some crumbling plaster and he looked over at Louis. “You’re kidding, right?”
Louis shrugged. “I like old things.”
“The land is worth about two-point-five in this market. The house is a tear down.”
Brenner walked away, heading to the living room. Louis followed.
“Look at that,” Brenner said. “Damn kids.”
Someone had spray-painted an obscenity on the wall.
Brenner’s gaze came back to Louis. “What did you want to know about Spencer Duvall?”
“He had an appointment to see you,” Louis said.
Brenner was staring at the coral rock fireplace, dusty with soot and cobwebs. “Yes, but then he was murdered.”
“Were you handling his divorce?”
Brenner turned. “Who said Spencer was getting a divorce?”
Louis cocked an eyebrow at him.
Brenner sighed. “Okay, Spencer was coming in to draw up the papers.”
“Did his wife know?”
Brenner let one beat go by. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t take this,” Brenner said, pulling out a Kleenex. “I’m allergic to mold. Let’s go outside.”
Brenner unlocked a French door. It creaked open and they stepped back out into the sunshine. Brenner paused on the flagstone patio to blow his nose. A broad, overgrown lawn sloped gently away from the house. Beyond, Louis could see a dock with a small boathouse on the river.
“I guess I better go see if the seawall is still there,” Brenner said, starting down the lawn.
Louis followed. “Why didn’t Duvall tell his wife he was initiating divorce proceedings?” he asked.
“You’d have to know Candace to understand,” Brenner said as he walked. “She was hell to live with. Spencer was going to tell her, but he wanted to get his financial ducks in order first. He didn’t want to put up with her moods any longer than he had to.”
“They knew each other since college,” Louis said. “I find it hard to believe she didn’t know her husband was dumping her.”
“Spencer was an attorney. He knew how to keep a secret.”
“Like another woman?”
Brenner stopped and looked at Louis. “Spencer?” He smiled slightly. “No, there was no other woman in Spencer’s life.”
“You were good friends?”
“Not particularly. We crossed paths socially, but nothing more really.” Brenner started toward the river.
“So how can you be so sure?”
Brenner stopped again. With his big head and sunglasses, he looked like a fly. “Spencer wasn’t the type, believe me.”
They were standing near a swimming pool, half-filled with still, green water. Brenner’s eyes drifted to the cabana. The broken windows of the cabana stared back forlornly.
“Kids,” Louis said.
“What?” Brenner said, looking at him.
“Kids,” Louis repeated, nodding toward the broken windows.
“Yeah,” Brenner muttered.
The faint sound of a car horn carried out to them from up by the house. Louis and Brenner both looked back. A moment later, a blond woman in a green suit appeared at the open French door. She was holding a hand over her eyes, looking their way.
“I have to go,” Brenner said.
He didn’t wait for Louis to answer. He hurried back up the path to where the appraiser waited. They disappeared into the house.
Louis stood there, squinting in the bright sun. Well, at least he knew for sure about the divorce. Now he just had to find out if Candace Duvall did.
At the Sanibel-Captiva toll booth, Louis stopped to show his resident badge and then drove on over the causeway. He turned off Periwinkle Way, looking for the Duvall home. Bayview Lane turned out to be a secluded street, buffered on one side by mangroves and lined with waterfront homes on the other.
He slowed the Mustang in front of an open gate. He had considered calling ahead, but he had finally decided to just show up. He wanted to meet Candace Duvall cold, with no time for her to prepare neat little answers.
He turned into the drive, stopping the Mustang and letting out a low whistle. Before him loomed a huge three-story house. It gleamed white in the sun, aggressively modern, with big empty windows. All the native sea grapes had been cleared, leaving a patch of Astro Turf-like lawn and two new royal palms, propped up with tripods of two-by-fours.