Thicker Than Water (5 page)

“Miss Silvestri, can we talk about the night Spencer Duvall was killed?” Louis asked, letting the curtain fall.

She looked at him beseechingly. “I already told the police . . .”

“I know. But sometimes things can be missed.” Or at least he hoped so, in this case.

“You were here when Jack Cade came in for his appointment that morning?” Louis asked.

She nodded, her eyes darkening. “It was just before lunch. It was so strange seeing him. I mean, I hadn't seen that man in twenty years. He looked so different. His hair was longer. And his face had changed so much.”

“Did you hear anything that was said?”

“Spencer's door was ajar so—” She paused. Louis was amazed to see her blush. Then he realized it was the first time she had called Duvall by his first name.

She pulled in a deep breath. “Jack Cade was furious. I heard him say he was going to sue Spencer for legal malpractice.”

“How did Mr. Duvall react?”

“I couldn't really hear what Spencer told him because Spencer didn't raise his voice at all. Which was unusual because he could bellow back on occasion. But Spencer was quiet.”

“Then what happened?”

“Cade got louder, so I went in and asked Spencer if he wanted me to call security.”

“Did you?”

“I didn't have to. Jack Cade started to leave.” She paused, tears springing to her eyes. “But he stopped and looked back at Spencer and said, ‘I'll get you, Duvall, one way or the other.' Then he was gone.”

She snuffed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the small round table.

“What happened after Cade left?”

“Nothing really. We all went back to work.”

“No one else came to see him?”

“He had one appointment after Jack Cade left, but he told me to cancel it. Spencer was in here with his door closed the rest of the day. We were preparing for the Osborne case and I figured that's why Spencer didn't come out. I stayed late to finish typing the brief.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Just before nine. I remember because I was thinking that I was going to miss
Matlock.”

“Was there anyone else in the office?”

“No, everyone was gone.”

“Did Mr. Duvall say anything to you before you left?”

“He said he was staying over and asked me to order him a sandwich from Moe's across the street.”

“Staying over?”

“Spencer kept an apartment here in town. He often stayed there when he worked late because he hated driving home to Sanibel.”

“So you got him a sandwich?”

She nodded slowly. “Corned beef on rye with thousand island dressing and a cream soda, same as always. Then I left.”

She paused. “No, wait. That isn't right. After I brought the sandwich back, Spencer asked me to go down and get the Cade file.”

Louis had been looking around the room and he turned. “He asked to see Jack Cade's old file?”

Ellie nodded. “We store the old files downstairs. I went down and got it.” She nodded to the desk. “Last time I saw the Redweld, it was right there.”

“Redweld?”

“Redweld. That's what we call them. It's a brand name for the file folder.”

“You told the police this?”

She nodded. “I guess they took it, with all the other files and stuff that was in here.”

Louis had a million other questions, but he knew Ellie Silvestri couldn't answer them. He had to get his hands on the police file, and he knew the only way he was going to do that was to go through Mobley.

Ellie was staring at the desk, arms wrapped around herself. Louis knew she was seeing Duvall's shattered head lying on top of the file.

“Miss Silvestri,” he said gently, “did Mr. Duvall tell you why he needed the old file?”

She shook her head slowly. “That was the last time I saw Spencer. I mean, besides the funeral. But the casket was closed.”

Suddenly, she looked tired, every bit her sixty-some years. He had one more question. He touched her arm and she looked back at him.

“Why do you think Mr. Duvall asked you to get him that old file?” Louis asked.

“I told you, he didn't say.”

“I know. I was asking your opinion.”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I've been asking myself that same question. Spencer knew Cade would get nowhere with a suit because of the statute of limitations. He had nothing to worry about from that old case.” She paused, shaking her head.

“What is it?” Louis said.

“But he
was
worried,” she said. “Maybe worried isn't the right word. I mean, he was fine that morning, then after Jack Cade left he stayed in here all day and I didn't even see him until I brought him the sandwich. He was upset about something.”

“What do you think it was?” Louis asked.

“I thought it was because Cade threatened him. But I don't know. When he asked me to go get that old file, it was more like he was just . . .”

“What?” Louis prodded gently.

She looked at him. “Sad,” she said.

Her eyes drifted to the closed door. “I'd better get back out front,” she said.

He followed her back past Lyle Bernhardt's door and out into the outer office. Ellie paused behind her desk. Louis realized she was looking at him oddly.

“You're working for Jack Cade, aren't you,” she said.

Louis hesitated.

“Everybody thinks he did it,” she said.

There was something in her voice and Louis had to ask, “Do you?”

“I think Jack Cade killed that girl twenty years ago. But Spencer kept Jack Cade out of the electric chair.” Her brows knitted. “Why would you kill the man who saved your life?”

Louis was silent for a moment. “Miss Silvestri, you probably knew Spencer Duvall better than anyone on earth. If you were me, who would you talk to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who else would want Spencer Duvall dead?”

Ellie trained her green eyes on Louis. “Candace?”

Louis tried not to let his disappointment show. The old thing had seen too many episodes of
Matlock.
“What makes you suspect Mr. Duvall's wife?”

“She wasn't very good to him,” Ellie said, her mouth pulling into a thin line. “Personally, I think she's crazy.”

Oh great
. Overly protective secretary secretly in love with powerful boss and hates his wife. Episode 502.

“Spencer was going to divorce her,” Ellie said.

Louis couldn't hide his surprise. “He told you this?”

“Well, no, but I knew something was wrong between them,” Ellie said. “He had been staying at the apartment more and more.” She paused. “She was here that morning.”

“The day Spencer was shot?”

Ellie nodded. “I was shocked to see her. She never came down here unless she had to. She never even called. Not like she used to when they were first married. He married her right after college, you know. I thought it was strange to get divorced after all that time.”

Louis shook his head. “But you have no proof your boss was getting a divorce.”

Ellie was staring at the desk. “Wait,” she said. “I made an appointment for him. It was with another lawyer here in town, a man named Brian Brenner. He handles a lot of divorces.”

“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.”

“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.

Louis stared at the place in disbelief. He had been expecting something else, maybe a nice old beach place with the same pleasantly seedy elegance of Duvall's office. This place was a monstrosity, madly out of proportion with the homes around it. Zero-lot-line McMansions crowding out picturesque bungalows. And they called it progress.

So much for sand in the shoes, Louis thought as he pulled in the drive.

He parked next to a canary yellow Mercedes convertible. The vanity tag read
CANDY
1. A second car was parked nearby, a modest older-model blue Toyota.

At the massive bronze doors, Louis found an intercom and rang. He waited, his eyes wandering up to the small camera above. A woman's accented voice came back.

“Deliveries around the side, please.”

“I'm here to see Mrs. Duvall,” Louis said. He looked directly up into the camera lens. “My name is Louis Kincaid.”

There was a pause. “Mrs. Duvall is expecting you?”

“No. But I'm here on behalf of Mr. Duvall's lawyer, Brian Brenner.” Another lie. It was becoming frighteningly easy.

It was at least a minute before the door opened. A small bronze-skinned woman in a white uniform motioned him in.

“Wait here, please.”

The woman disappeared, her Aerosoles squeaking on the marble like sneakers on a gym floor. It gave Louis a chance to look around.

He was standing in a soaring circular foyer, right in the center of an elaborate mosaic of stars made of onyx, lapis and some kind of gold stone. A twin staircase curved up around him, a sinuous U of glass and chrome. Under it, the foyer opened onto what he guessed was the living room, a cathedral of blinding white light dotted with sleek pale blue furniture. Through the huge windows beyond, he could see a turquoise rectangle—the pool. And beyond that, a shimmer of blue that was San Carlos Bay.

He turned at the sound of squeaking soles.

“Mrs. Duvall says to wait for her in the living area.”

Ah. Living
area.

Louis followed the maid into the white light.

The maid left him alone again. He looked around, debating whether to actually sit in one of the unforgiving silk chairs. He decided to remain standing. His eyes wandered over the room's severely elegant furniture and down to the white carpet with its little gold star design. This wasn't a place people lived in; it was some designer's wet dream. Everything was perfect. The perfect pleats of the white sheers. The perfect fingerprint-free glass tables. The perfect slant of the white orchids in their crystal vase.

He was trying to reconcile all this with Duvall's cozy old office when a waft of cold air caused him to turn. Candace Duvall was standing at the foyer.

He knew Candace Duvall was in her mid-forties but she was trying real hard not to look like it. She had a tumble of heavily frosted blond curls around a small, deeply tanned face with big eyes and a pug nose. Her body was just thin enough to be called lush instead of plump, and ill-concealed in a loosely belted robe. The robe was white silk dotted with little gold stars. He wondered if she always coordinated her clothes with her carpet.

“Luisa didn't tell me your name,” she said.

“Louis Kincaid.”

She was leaning against a pillar, a languid pose. More Mae West than mourning wife.

“You work with Brian?”

Brian? Well, Brenner had said they were social acquaintances.

“I've never seen you before,” she said.

“I'm new,” he said.

She came slowly into the room. From her pocket, she extracted a cigarette and a blue Bic. She lit the cigarette and drew quickly on it.

“You don't look like a lawyer,” she said, her eyes locked on his. They were brown and puppy-like. Her face had the shiny taut look of a recent peel. Coupled with the eyes, it made her look like one of those little Pekinese dogs.

“What are lawyers supposed to look like?” he asked.

“You know, Brooks Brothers. Or Savile Row, in Spencer's case.”

Savile Row? That didn't square with sand in the shoes either.

Suddenly, Candace moved toward him, stopping just inches away. Louis resisted the urge to move back. Her smell—a potent brew of flowers, cigarettes and something musty he couldn't quite place—filled his nostrils.

She took a step back. “You don't smell like a lawyer either,” she said.

“Lawyers have a smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, their own unique human perfume,” she said. “My first boyfriend, he smelled like sawdust and Necco wafers. Not unpleasant, really.”

She went to a sofa and sat down, crossing her well-muscled, tanned legs. “Spence, he smelled like shoe polish.” She drew heavily on the cigarette as she stared up at him.

He suddenly could remember the smell of the shoe polish he used to shine his shoes with when he was a cop. Okay, he'd play along.

“Roll-on or paste?” he asked.

“What?”

“Shoe polish. Roll-on or paste? The roll-on stuff smells like burnt tires. The paste smells more like turpentine.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. She leaned forward to tap her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. The robe opened to a clear view of her tanned left breast and a large brown nipple. Louis didn't look away. She leaned back, still smiling slightly.