the Mustang’s broken taillight fixed yet.
Worse, Mel wasn’t along to help. He had begged off the breakfast meeting with Margery Leigh Cooper Laroche because of a blinding headache. Louis was worried, because the headaches, a symptom of Mel’s eye problems, seemed to be coming more frequently.
Margery’s home was “on the third El” off South Ocean Boulevard, Reggie had said. Louis spotted a curb sign: El Bravo Way. He slowed. The next one was El Brillo Way.
Another block, and there was El Vedado. Three Els. He swung a right.
Reggie claimed he didn’t know the house number. “I’ve never had reason to mail anything to her,” he said, adding that it was “the big pink house on the right. You can’t miss it.”
It was a three-story monster of a Spanish villa. And as Louis leaned forward to peer through the sweep of the wipers, he realized the property extended the width of the island from the ocean to the Intracoastal.
Louis turned into the broad circular drive, killed the engine, and jogged through the rain to the massive door under the portico. There was no doorbell, just a tiny security camera tucked into a corner above the door. He stared up at it and finally, feeling ridiculous, gave a small wave.
A few moments later, with a loud click, the door swung open. A small, stoop-shouldered old man in black stood aside to let Louis in. “Mrs. Laroche is waiting for you, sir,” he said in a hoarse, British-accented whisper.
Louis followed the shuffling fellow through a drafty entrance hall of high arches and marble and down a long corridor of polished tiles and mirrors. It was very warm and moist, like there was no air-conditioning. Huge palms in blue ceramic pots sat motionless in the still air. The place looked like an ancient Spanish castle, and Louis’s mind clicked back to the
Palm Beach Life
magazine he had thumbed through last night back at the hotel when he couldn’t sleep. There was an article on an architect named Addison Mizner, who had single-handedly left his imprint on Palm Beach back in the twenties—everything from Worth Avenue’s little alleyways to oceanfront mansions.
Sam was suddenly in his head, along with her brush-off at the ballet. And Joe was there with her, the sting of her words still in his ears. What did it say about him that he had to read an article about a dead architect three times before he fell asleep?
“Madame is in the loggia,” the old fellow said, gesturing to an archway.
Loggia?
The first thing that registered was the bracing sweep of rain-scented air. Two of the room’s walls were open archways with views of the gray ocean. From the high concave ceiling, painted sky blue, two paddle fans moved in lazy circles. The room was furnished in rattan, its blue cushions gently worn and dotted with limp yellow throw pillows and one needlepoint pillow with a dog’s face on the sofa. A glass coffee table was heaped with art books, glossy magazines, and newspapers, and two table lamps, with bases shaped like squatting monkeys, held out against the gloom. Off in the corner, a wrought-iron table was set with blue and white china, sparkling glasses, and a bouquet of white calla lilies.
“You’re right on time!”
Louis turned. Margery Cooper Laroche floated in on a swirl of rainbow silk. Her bony face was framed in a hot-pink turban. Big white hoops dangled from her ears. Four pug dogs circled her like chicks, snorting and barking.
“I love a man who’s punctual,” she said. “So many people today forget about manners.” She frowned. “Where’s the big bald fellow, Marvin?”
“Mel,” Louis said. “He’s a bit under the weather.”
She waved toward the open window. “Yes, vile, isn’t it?
Quel sale!
But at least it’s nice and cool out here. You don’t mind being out here, do you?”
Before Louis could answer, she went on, “I don’t use air-conditioning. Bad for the sinuses, and don’t even get me started on what it does to the skin, dear. I mean,
Worse, Mel wasn’t along to help. He had begged off the breakfast meeting with Margery Leigh Cooper Laroche because of a blinding headache. Louis was worried, because the headaches, a symptom of Mel’s eye problems, seemed to be coming more frequently.
Margery’s home was “on the third El” off South Ocean Boulevard, Reggie had said. Louis spotted a curb sign: El Bravo Way. He slowed. The next one was El Brillo Way.
Another block, and there was El Vedado. Three Els. He swung a right.
Reggie claimed he didn’t know the house number. “I’ve never had reason to mail anything to her,” he said, adding that it was “the big pink house on the right. You can’t miss it.”
It was a three-story monster of a Spanish villa. And as Louis leaned forward to peer through the sweep of the wipers, he realized the property extended the width of the island from the ocean to the Intracoastal.
Louis turned into the broad circular drive, killed the engine, and jogged through the rain to the massive door under the portico. There was no doorbell, just a tiny security camera tucked into a corner above the door. He stared up at it and finally, feeling ridiculous, gave a small wave.
A few moments later, with a loud click, the door swung open. A small, stoop-shouldered old man in black stood aside to let Louis in. “Mrs. Laroche is waiting for you, sir,” he said in a hoarse, British-accented whisper.
Louis followed the shuffling fellow through a drafty entrance hall of high arches and marble and down a long corridor of polished tiles and mirrors. It was very warm and moist, like there was no air-conditioning. Huge palms in blue ceramic pots sat motionless in the still air. The place looked like an ancient Spanish castle, and Louis’s mind clicked back to the
Palm Beach Life
magazine he had thumbed through last night back at the hotel when he couldn’t sleep. There was an article on an architect named Addison Mizner, who had single-handedly left his imprint on Palm Beach back in the twenties—everything from Worth Avenue’s little alleyways to oceanfront mansions.
Sam was suddenly in his head, along with her brush-off at the ballet. And Joe was there with her, the sting of her words still in his ears. What did it say about him that he had to read an article about a dead architect three times before he fell asleep?
“Madame is in the loggia,” the old fellow said, gesturing to an archway.
Loggia?
The first thing that registered was the bracing sweep of rain-scented air. Two of the room’s walls were open archways with views of the gray ocean. From the high concave ceiling, painted sky blue, two paddle fans moved in lazy circles. The room was furnished in rattan, its blue cushions gently worn and dotted with limp yellow throw pillows and one needlepoint pillow with a dog’s face on the sofa. A glass coffee table was heaped with art books, glossy magazines, and newspapers, and two table lamps, with bases shaped like squatting monkeys, held out against the gloom. Off in the corner, a wrought-iron table was set with blue and white china, sparkling glasses, and a bouquet of white calla lilies.
“You’re right on time!”
Louis turned. Margery Cooper Laroche floated in on a swirl of rainbow silk. Her bony face was framed in a hot-pink turban. Big white hoops dangled from her ears. Four pug dogs circled her like chicks, snorting and barking.
“I love a man who’s punctual,” she said. “So many people today forget about manners.” She frowned. “Where’s the big bald fellow, Marvin?”
“Mel,” Louis said. “He’s a bit under the weather.”
She waved toward the open window. “Yes, vile, isn’t it?
Quel sale!
But at least it’s nice and cool out here. You don’t mind being out here, do you?”
Before Louis could answer, she went on, “I don’t use air-conditioning. Bad for the sinuses, and don’t even get me started on what it does to the skin, dear. I mean,
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