P. Parrish - Thicker Than Water

“They could have just been meeting for lunch,” Louis said.

Ellie looked dubious. “No, I knew Spencer. Something was wrong at home.”

“Did Mr. Duvall keep the appointment with the other lawyer?” Louis asked.

“No, it was for the following week. I’d look it up for you, but the police took Spencer’s appointment book.”

Louis heard voices and turned to see Bernhardt coming down the hall, leading his client out. Bernhardt’s eyes darted between Louis and Ellie.

“I need to see you. Now,” he said to Ellie. Bernhardt went back down the hall to his office. Ellie let out a big sigh.

“Are you going to get in trouble for this?” Louis asked.

“I don’t care,” she said with a shrug. “I could never work for a man like Lyle. Maybe I’ll retire. My daughter lives over in Clewiston and says she has a room ready for me.” She paused, her green eyes hopeful. “I’ve never been there. Have you?”

Louis shook his head.

“Clewiston,” she said softly. “I think I’d miss the water.” She started toward Bernhardt’s door.

“Thank you,” Louis said.

“For what?”

“For helping me. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.”

She hesitated. “Do you believe Jack Cade killed Spencer?”

“I believe a man has a right to be believed until the evidence proves he shouldn’t be.”

She gave him a small smile. “That sounds like something Spencer would say.”

When Louis called Brian Brenner’s office, his secretary told him that Brenner had already left for the day and wasn’t expected back in the office for several days. Louis quickly concocted a lie that he was an old college friend in town only for a day. The secretary obligingly offered up the information that Brian had gone to the family home on Shaddlelee Lane to meet a real estate appraiser and that Louis could still catch him there if he hurried.

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.”