P. Parrish - The Little Death

Mel rose slowly and headed to the kitchen. Swann watched him, then turned back to Louis.

“So, the women paid these men for sex?” Swann asked.

Louis nodded. “Hernandez said they found eight grand in Wyeth’s apartment. There’s no proof it was drug money. Do you remember seeing anything in Durand’s file about a bank account?”

“Yeah,” Swann said. “But he had only about a hundred bucks in it. Maybe he stashed it somewhere around here.”

Louis had been thinking the same thing. But Barberry’s men had tossed the whole house and he himself had searched Durand’s room pretty thoroughly and found no money.

“What about Labastide?” Swann asked. “Rosa sure doesn’t have any money.”

“Yeah, but she told you that Emilio had a girlfriend back in Mexico. Maybe he was sending cash home.”

Mel came back, carrying a martini glass filled with orange juice. He set it in front of Louis.

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

“Call it a peace offering. Enjoy it because there’s no more vodka. But I promise I will go buy some tomorrow, dear.”

Louis smiled and took a drink of the screwdriver. “I don’t suppose there is any food in the house?”

“There’s some French Muenster cheese in there,” Mel said.

“I refuse to put something in my mouth that smells like a dirty jockstrap.”

“I swear, Rocky, sometimes you’re just-”

“Can I interrupt?” Swann asked.

Louis looked at Swann. He was holding the photograph of Rosa and her brother and looking like a man who needed to think about anything but facing his boss tomorrow morning.

“What is it?” Louis said.

“I’ve got one more question,” Swann said. “Maybe we can link the men. But these two women have nothing in common. They aren’t even friends. How the hell did they come to share the same lover?”

Louis glanced at Mel. Swann’s question was one they had not yet asked themselves and at the moment, it seemed a glaringly stupid thing to miss.

He rose and went to the bulletin board. He looked at the photographs of Tink Lyons and Carolyn Osborn. One woman older and neurotic; the other attractive and successful. What were they missing?

He remembered something Margery had told him, about how easy it was for men to manage their affairs but how hard it was for the women to do the same.

Louis reached into his pocket and pulled out the orchid sprig. It was wilted, now the color of dried blood.

“What’s that?” Swann asked.

“Our link,” Louis said.

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.”