The Little Death (24 page)
Louis found Mel at Ta-boo, sitting alone in the back, bent over a plate of food that looked like something from Vinny’s autopsy table—paper-thin slices of red meat drizzled with a nasty-looking yellowish sauce.
Louis stopped at the table and looked down. “What is that?”
“Tuna carpaccio salad,” Mel said.
“How much was it?”
“For crissakes, chill out about the money, would you?” Mel said. “We just put fifty grand in the bank.”
Yuba, the bartender, suddenly appeared. She looked
a little like an abstract work of art, with her raven-black hair tied with a white ribbon, smooth brown skin against a snow-white blouse, lips and nails the same flame red as the orchid in Osborn’s house.
Louis stepped aside to let her fill Mel’s water glass, discreetly appreciating the curve of her hips and the faint, sweet swirl of what had to be some exotic Indian perfume. When she asked him if he wanted a drink, he felt like he had been caught leering and could barely manage a “No, thanks.” When she was gone, he turned back to Mel.
Mel had been given the assignment of chasing down background on the Archer ranch hands. Louis wondered if he had reached his confidential source at the Miami PD or even tried. From the looks of his deepening tan, maybe he had just wandered around the island all day. Lately, he hadn’t been quite the same dogged investigator Louis was used to working with. Maybe they needed a long night at a quiet bar somewhere to talk about that.
Mel popped the last sliver of tuna into his mouth and talked while he chewed. “Did you know there is an antique weapons store right here on the island?” he asked.
“Antique weapons?” Louis asked. “Like swords and shit?”
“Swords, helmets, firearms, everything. The kind of stuff rich guys collect.”
“Did you go in?”
Mel wiped his lips and discarded the napkin. “No, they were closed for lunch. But I got to thinking about what Reggie said about Durand getting that watch from one of his lady friends, and I started to wonder if maybe that sword Barberry took away was a gift. It would be
nice for Reggie if we could connect that sword to some wealthy woman.”
“Or her husband,” Louis said.
“You know something I don’t?”
“Tucker Osborn has a whole room full of that military stuff. It’s like he thinks he’s Sir Lancelot.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” Mel said.
Louis looked at his watch. It was almost three-thirty. The store probably closed soon, and he wanted to get there before they locked up. It seemed especially cruel to waste an entire night waiting for the place to reopen with Reggie Kent in jail. Louis hadn’t mentioned it to Mel, but he was worried about Kent’s safety. Really worried.
“Come on,” Louis said. “Let’s go now.”
“Cool your jets, Rocky,” Mel said. “I saved us some trouble. Antique appraisers can’t evaluate anything unless they see it.” He held up a manila envelope. “I walked over to Swann’s office, and he got us a good photo of the sword.”
Louis pulled out the photograph. It was in color, vividly detailing every line of the intricate scrollwork on the hilt.
“Good job,” Louis said. “Let’s go.”
“I got to hit the john,” Mel said. “You go ahead, and I’ll meet you outside.”
Louis grabbed the lunch receipt so he could record it later and left Ta-boo. The wind was picking up, bringing a damp chill off the ocean and stirring up a cluster of storm clouds.
He waited, looking again at the picture, then peering into Ta-boo’s large open window, wondering what was taking Mel so long. He spotted him standing at the
end of the bar, talking to Yuba, heads tipped close, Mel’s hand covering hers.
What the… ?
Then Mel gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, patted her hand, and started to the door.
Damn.
Was this what was keeping Mel busy on those days when he’d stayed in the hotel room feigning a headache? Was she the reason for the Ta-boo takeout and afternoon naps? Yuba had to be at least twenty years younger than Mel. What the hell did she see in him?
Mel emerged from the restaurant. “You ready?”
Louis just stared at him.
“Something wrong?” Mel asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Well, let’s go.”
Louis looked to the window and then back to Mel. “You and Yuba… you got something going?”
Mel seemed to freeze. Louis stayed quiet, waiting for an answer. This was none of his business, but he wanted to know.
Mel finally sighed. “Yeah, we do. So what? You think someone like her can’t see something in a guy like me?”
“Of course she can,” Louis said. “But I thought—”
“You think she’s some gold digger, looking to land some half-dead old fart for a husband.”
Louis started to reply but closed his mouth. He had no defense.
Mel shook his head in disgust. “Yuba works on the island because she makes good money,” he said. “She’s saving her money so she can go to school. She’s not looking
to be someone’s rich widow. Because you and I both know that no matter how pretty she is, there isn’t one man on this island who’s ever going to put a wedding ring on her lovely brown finger.”
Louis felt like shit.
Mel shrugged. “And like I told you before, when your eyes go, other senses are sharpened. So, believe it or not, I still have something to offer to the ladies. Now, the subject of my sex life is closed. That okay with you, or do you need additional information?”
Louis shook his head. “Spare me, please. Let’s go see the swordsman. If you’ll excuse the pun.”
Grande Armée Militaria was a small store tucked in a courtyard off Worth Avenue. Inside, it had the feel of a high-end jewelry store: creamy white walls, plush royal blue carpeting, and the usual mollifying Muzak that mysteriously made people speak in whispers.
An elderly, long-faced man behind a glass counter gave them a smile as they came in. Tall, with silver hair, he wore the uniform of the island: light-colored dress shirt, dress slacks, and navy blazer.
He was helping a woman who was examining a carved ivory chess set. Louis gave him a nod, then followed Mel toward the rear of the store. They paused in front of a wall of plumed military helmets and a row of what looked like Greek or Roman battle shields.
“My name is Chauncey Gillis. May I help you?”
Louis turned. The man had the soothing voice of an airline pilot and smelled like cedar and cherries, probably from the pipe in his breast pocket.
“My name is Kincaid,” Louis said. “This is Mel
Landeta. We’re private investigators working for Reggie Kent.”
“Ah, yes. I heard Mr. Kent had hired someone to help him,” Gillis said. “May I ask how things are going for him?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share anything with you,” Louis said. “But there might be something you can tell us to help him out a little.”
Gillis’s smile faded. “Well, I don’t know…”
Louis pulled out the photograph of the sword. “Do you recognize this sword?”
Gillis took the photograph and walked back to the counter to get his glasses. He also picked up a magnifying glass and held it over the picture.
“This is a German prison officer’s sword,” he said when he looked up. “This is very rare, from the Clemen Solingen firm.”
“You’re sure?” Louis asked.
“Oh, yes, I’d know this anywhere.” He pointed to the photo. “See the eagle’s head? Its beak forms the hilt. And of course, here’s the swastika in the gold. Lovely, just lovely.”
“But it’s a real sword, right?” Louis asked. “You could kill someone with it?”
“Of course,” Gillis said. “Its beauty doesn’t detract from the fact that it was manufactured with mayhem in mind. The balance is perfect for swinging. Definitely a working weapon.”
Louis stepped to the counter. Apparently, Gillis hadn’t heard that a sword had been taken from Reggie’s home, or he would be more intrigued by the photo.
“Is it expensive?” Louis asked.
“Around five thousand,” Gillis said.
“Is it rare?”
“Extremely,” Gillis said. “This sword is museum worthy, a very important addition to any collection. I’ve only seen one pass through my store, and I’ve been here almost twenty years now.”
“Do you remember who you sold it to?” Louis asked.
Gillis went silent. Louis could almost see the gears of his brain working.
“You sold it to Tucker Osborn,” Louis said.
Gillis’s face reddened. “I don’t like to talk about my customers.”
“I just came from Osborn’s home,” Louis said. “He told me to talk to you.”
The bluff seemed to thaw Gillis some. “Well, if Mr. Osborn said it was all right.”
“He sent me here. Said to talk to Mr. Gillis and only Mr. Gillis. When did you sell him the sword?”
“It was about five years ago,” Gillis said. “Mr. Osborn has a magnificent collection of military paraphernalia.”
“You’re absolutely sure that this sword is the same one you sold Mr. Osborn?” Louis asked.
“I would stake my reputation on it,” Gillis said.
Louis slid the picture back into the envelope. Gillis’s identification of Tucker Osborn as the sword’s owner was going to be crucial later, if Reggie was actually put on trial and if the sword turned out to be the murder weapon. And even more sweet was the fact that, as a jealous husband, Osborn could be assumed to have had motive. Nothing ever needed to be proven, but this was enough to raise some serious reasonable doubt.
Gillis suddenly bolted from behind the counter and hurried to Mel, who was holding a silver dome-shaped helmet.
“You got this in a seven and three-quarters?” Mel asked.
“Give me that, please,” Gillis said, taking the helmet from Mel.
Gillis used a handkerchief to wipe the metal free of prints and carefully placed the helmet back on the blue velvet display stand.
Mel tossed Louis a grin as he came toward him. Gillis followed, still in a huff as he tucked his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. Then, as if something had suddenly sparked inside his brain, he looked up at Louis. His eyes held a flicker of apprehension.
“It just occurred to me,” he said. “Do they think that Mr. Osborn’s sword was used to behead that poor man who lived with Mr. Kent?”
Louis was sure Barberry didn’t want to release the fact that a sword had been taken from the suspect’s house, but hell, the information was probably already out there in whispered rumors. He might as well give it a stronger voice and let the grapevine do what it did best. Maybe he could stir up a reaction from the senator and her bastard husband.
“No one is supposed to know that, Mr. Gillis,” Louis said. “I trust we can keep your confidence?”
“Oh, goodness, yes,” Gillis said. “Discretion is my middle name, sir.”
“Good,” Louis said. “We appreciate it.”
Louis turned to leave, but Gillis caught his arm. “May I ask if Mr. Osborn is a suspect?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share any theories with you,” Louis said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Wait,” Gillis said. “I just remembered something else. Do you have a photograph of Mr. Kent’s deceased friend?”
“Not with us, no,” Louis said. “Why?”
“Please excuse me,” Gillis said. “I’ll be right back.”
Gillis disappeared behind a red velvet drape and returned with a copy of the
Shiny Sheet
. He had it folded to display an article on the murder of Durand. Gillis pointed to Durand’s picture.
“I wanted to be sure before I said anything,” Gillis said.
“Sure about what?” Louis asked.
“A few months ago, I had a young man come in and ask about the value of an antique sword,” Gillis said. “He didn’t have the sword with him, but he tried to describe it to me. Of course, I told him I would have to see it to offer an appraisal.”
“Did he ever bring it in?” Louis asked.
“No,” Gillis said. “And to be honest, I completely forgot about it. Until now. But I am almost positive the gentleman I spoke with was this man. This paper is old, but we keep them for wrapping things in shipping.” He tapped the picture of Durand in the newspaper.
“You’re sure?”
“I would stake my reputation on it,” Gillis said.
“Did he mention where he got the sword?” Mel asked.
“No,” Gillis said. “But I know that had he mentioned Mr. Osborn, I would remember that.”
Louis glanced at Mel, still a little stunned at the day’s events. First, Margery spills the name of a senator, then it
turns out her husband not only collects swords but once owned the same sword found in the victim’s house.
“Thank you, Mr. Gillis,” Louis said. “Again, we’d appreciate it if you keep all this under your hat.”
“Or your helmet,” Mel added.
Gillis gave a tight smile. Louis was sure the minute they walked out the door, Gillis would be on the phone to anyone who would listen. Hell, Margery would probably know it all before she uncorked her evening bottle of shampoo.
They left the store and started walking. Louis was hungry, but by Palm Beach standards, it was far too early to eat dinner. No one sat down before dark.
“I had a thought,” Mel said.
“Shoot.”
“Reggie said Durand was sleeping with women. Women, plural,” Mel went on. “Maybe they all gave him gifts. Maybe there’s more than the watch and the sword.”
Louis stopped walking, his brain tripping back to Durand’s bedroom and the shelves of knickknacks. What had been there?
“We need to go back to Kent’s place,” Louis said.
“What for?”
“A treasure hunt,” Louis said.
