Randy White - Black Widow

Flamboyant? Compared to Sir James, the staff was dressed flamboyantly in their white shirts, white slacks, and plaid headpieces, carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, serving with fixed, Third World smiles on their faces.

I took the binoculars and studied the guests more carefully. I saw horn-rimmed glasses and John Lennon glasses, a few wild scarves, and. .. a Nehru jacket? Yes-a Nehru jacket. A man with spiked hair wore his shirttails outside his slacks despite a beige blazer. Ages from late twenties into the sixties or seventies. People with money, but not obsessively health-oriented. Several smoked cigarettes. They drank red wine and martinis-not the sickening sweet punches most tropical resorts serve-while patiently waiting to get what I realized was the house specialty. The drink was a mix of fruits, vegetable greens, and something else-flower petals?-liquefied in a blender. It took the bartender several minutes to produce a champagne-sized glassful, so the drinks were served sparingly. Guests put aside everything else, though, when the specialty drink was offered.

Artistic sensibilities-Montbard was probably right about the guests. Now, though, I was paying more attention to the staff. There was something familiar about two employees near the kitchen entrance at the rear of the dining room.

I continued to use the binoculars as I listened to Sir James say, "Rumors that Madame Toussaint practices obeah adds to her mystique. Same’s true of her ambiguous sexuality. I’ve heard that she was once a man. I’ve also heard that her personal kit includes the complete assortment-male and female. Some orchids are that way, you know.”

I said, “You lost me.”

“There are species of orchids that are sexually self-sufficient. Quite literally, the flower’s blossom twists and turns until it fertilizes itself. What would Freud make of Madame Toussaint’s fascination for orchids? Care to speculate? Why… the old girl looks like an orchid in that hooded white gown.”

He added, “Is it any wonder that locals fear the Maji Blanc sneaking into their bed at night?… or into their dreams? By God, Ford, just the thought of that woman in my bed has earned me a stiff whiskey!”

The man was still enjoying himself.

I wasn’t.

Beyond the pool was a forested incline where the fence turned sharply uphill. The area between was landscaped with birds of paradise, Japanese bamboo, sections of medieval rock wall. White Christmas lights spiraled through the forest canopy-a fairyland effect-while hidden LEDs panned from tree to tree, spotlighting orchids that were framed on wood, like paintings.

Montbard, standing ahead of me, said, “It appears the electrical system is computer controlled. The low-voltage system, anyway. Emergency lights, fire alarms, and surveillance cameras all linked. I don’t see any sign of a generator, so it may be battery backup only. Just a guess. I’m not an expert, of course.”

He’d seen all that from this distance? I said, “Of course,” not sure what to believe.

“Not many cameras either, have you noticed? I think the old girl has more faith in her reputation as a witch when it comes to protecting her precious orchids from poachers. Amazing collection. I’ve seen varieties I’d love to have in my orchid house. For instance, that dark-petaled beauty near the fire pit? She developed it herself-highly coveted, especially by Japanese collectors.”

An unattended fire smoldered in a nearby commons area-maybe there’d been a ceremony before the cocktail party. My eyes shifted to the fire’s smoke, noting the direction of the wind, as Montbard said, “She named the spa after that orchid. Or vice versa. I believe it’s a variety of Masdevallia. If I had the chance, I’d nick it in a flash. Next visit, eh?”

The tiny LED lights shifted among dozens of blooms. The black orchid was spotlighted for fifteen seconds before the next orchid was illuminated. Hundreds more orchids decorated the patio and open dining room.

The dining room-I had the binoculars zoomed tight on the place, watching the two staff members who stood shoulder to shoulder, talking intensely, gulping drinks, while their colleagues hustled trays. The men wore the white uniform, but they weren’t waiters. They held a more elevated position. Guests approached them occasionally and exchanged greetings. Mostly female guests, I noticed.

The way they moved, their attitude, suggested it was Ritchie, Shay’s fashion model islander, and Clovis, the slick Peter Lorre look-alike. But the one I thought was Ritchie wasn’t wearing his signature bandanna, and Clovis looked bigger, fitter than I remembered.

It wasn’t until the men moved into the light that I realized I was mistaken.

I touched Montbard’s shoulder, and handed him the binoculars. “Do those two remind you of anyone?”

“Hmm. Yes… I see the similarities. Late twenties… rather nasty-looking young chaps. Same cocksure swagger. On some islands, those types are referred to as beach boys. Gigolos in many cases, not all.”

“How’s Senegal going to react if the man who seduced her works here?” I was thinking about Beryl-the same could happen to her.

“We’ve already discussed it. I told her to pretend as if she’s never seen the man before in her life. I’d be very surprised if he didn’t do the same. If spa management, or an employee, behave in any other way, it’s the same as admitting they’re the blackmailers. It won’t happen.”

I wasn’t so sure. I still hadn’t told Montbard that his exquisite actress wasn’t an actress. Not a professional actress, anyway. It was unlikely Beryl would pretend she didn’t recognize Ritchie and Clovis if they worked here.

Like the Englishman, I wore a battered old Rolex-a basic Submariner, stainless steel, no date-that I’d been given when I was nineteen. The radium-coated numerals of a Rolex have never been adequate for low light, and I had to put my eye to the crystal: 10:07 p.m.

Getting late. I was about to remind Montbard that it was time to go, when a startling sound descended from the stars-a forlorn howling. A predacious howl, like ice on the spine. The note echoed through the tree canopy, then was absorbed by rain-forest gloom.

“Dogs,” I whispered.

“Worse than dogs,” Sir James replied, still using the binoculars. “They’re bloody young vipers if they’re anything like the others.”

He was talking about gigolos, I realized. I also realized that Isabelle Toussaint was leaving the party, suddenly in a hurry.

"SHE’S HEADING HOME,” I told Montbard. “We can follow her, but we have to start down the mountain no later than ten-thirty. That only gives us twenty minutes.” When he didn’t reply, I added, “Agreed?”

The man was toying with his Freemason’s ring again. “You run along, old sweat. I have business to attend to here. Now that the Maji Blanc is leaving, I may take the opportunity to pop down to the lodge and have a look around.”

“What?”

“It’s not as mad as you think. A well-dressed Englishman is accepted without suspicion at most social functions, no matter the circumstance. Fortunately, we are also dependably forgettable. To the uninitiated, we all sound alike, you know.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, I’ve heard it’s true.”

“I’m not talking about your accent-”

“I know, I know.” There was a sly smile in his voice. “Shadow the woman in white. Stay close. You suggested we create an emergency? I have something in mind.”

Now he was standing and taking off his shooting jacket. He folded it, put it into his bag, then surprised me by taking out a stiletto, which he fitted behind the shoulder holster that held his Walther PPK.

I said, “You plan on stabbing someone?” as he reached into his bag again. I watched him produce a white dinner jacket, which he slipped into as if standing in front of a mirror.