West Palm: The Complete Novel (16 page)

F
rom the time he read Sherlock Holmes in childhood, Smoker knew he was going to be a consulting detective. But since there was no such profession, the closest he could get was the West Palm Beach Police Department, his subsequent work as a PI, and the annual meetings of the Palm Beach Irregulars. This evening's gathering was in the Palm Room of the Atlantis Country Club.

The suggestion that members and their guests come in Victorian or Edwardian dress had been loosely interpreted, particularly by Dottie, whose only concession was to come at all. Her plunging V-neck red wrap dress was definitely not of the period, though it had its virtues.

A few of the more enthusiastic ladies at the Irregulars dinner wore black gowns, long lace gloves with open fingers, and puffy hairdos with a topknot. One of them even wore a Victorian mourning veil. Smoker wore the same costume each year, for which Dottie gave him a rash of shit: in three-piece suit, derby hat, and false mustache, he was Inspector Lestrade, the Scotland Yard detective who always got it wrong.

This was the first time Dottie had agreed to accompany him, in exchange for which he promised to accompany her to
Menopause the Musical
where, it was rumored, any man in the audience was mercilessly mocked.

They made their way to the long banquet table. Place cards told them where to sit. “I already feel trapped,” she muttered.

An officer of the society was seated to her right, wearing a white brocade vest, high wing collar, and cravat. He introduced himself to her as the Tantalus.

“What's a Tantalus?” She smiled with the full Dottie-on glow of a woman who's going to make the evening go, no matter what.

The Tantalus rummaged beneath the table and brought out a trough-shaped wooden case holding three cut-glass decanters. “
This
is the Tantalus from 221B Baker Street. It has a lock, so though servants can see the alcohol they can't get at it. Whereas we . . .” He opened the first decanter, and poured them each a shot. “In my opinion, this is the best single malt you can get in America. But only just good enough for you, dear lady,” he added, gazing at her cleavage.

She clinked her glass against his and Smoker's.

They were joined by a bearded member who came each year as the Crooked Man, wearing a turban and leaning on a stick, with his frock coat padded to deform him like the long-suffering character in the story, as he was eager to explain to Dottie.

Another round was poured to include the Crooked Man, and they raised their glasses again.

“Here comes the Gasogene,” said the Crooked Man in Dottie's ear. “The Gasogene was the Victorian precursor to the seltzer bottle.”

The portly Gasogene made his way down the table bearing two glass bowls, one atop the other, protected by wire mesh. “Drinks, please.”

They held out their drinks, into which he squirted soda water.

Dottie waved her glass at the decorated sash across the Gasogene's chest. “I like your medals.”

“I like yours too,” he answered with a wink toward Dottie's plunging neckline, and resumed his stately progress. When he reached his place at the head of the table, he called the meeting to order. “A toast to the Master!”

Everyone raised their glasses and drank.

Waiters and waitresses came around with cheap champagne. Toasts were offered to Watson, to Mrs. Hudson, to The Woman, and to Mycroft.

“I get it,” said Dottie. “It's a drinking club.”

“That's an official secret,” whispered the Tantalus.

Dinner was served and eaten in a haze of booze. After the plates were removed, the well-lubricated Gasogene introduced, “Our honored speaker for the evening, Dr. Arthur Applebaum, the celebrated cardiovascular surgeon practicing right here in our fair state, the heart attack capital of the nation.”

“If you want someone dicking around in your heart,” called out the Tantalus, “Applebaum's your man.”

“Hear, hear!”

The celebrated surgeon launched on a lengthy analysis of
The Speckled Band,
during which champagne continued flowing
.

“. . . I can tell you without fear of contradiction, the swamp adder that bit Julia Stoner and her villainous stepfather, Grimesby Roylott, was actually two different snakes, the first being a saw-scaled viper and the second a cobra.”

The questions following the learned lecture were savage, contemptuous, and personally insulting to Dr. Applebaum.

The inebriated Crooked Man reached over and took Dottie's hand.

She turned to him sweetly. “Yes?”

“The villainous Grimesby Roylott's fatal mistake was that he wasn't anointed.”

“What did you say?” asked Smoker.

“Sorry, Lestrade, what part did you miss?”

“Repeat what you just said.”

“I'm not certain I should do that without my solicitor present, Lestrade.”

“Stop horsing around. You said something important.”

“Everything I say is important. That's why I grace these meetings.”

Smoker rose and beckoned with a look that told the reluctant Crooked Man it was wise for him to follow.

Outside in the parking lot, Smoker repeated his question.

“Before I answer that, Lestrade, I have to know the purpose of your question.”

“A murder inquiry.”

“Ah, what story are we in?”

“The Tattooed Lady.”

“I don't know that one, old boy. I think you're straying outside the Canon.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a pouch of Red Man tobacco. “Care for some?”

“No thanks.”

The Crooked Man put a plug in his cheek. “I began the filthy habit as a boy . . .”

He seemed to lose himself in thought, then spat out a brown gob of tobacco juice. “What were we talking about?”

“Snakes. Anointed.”

“The Holiness Church of True Believers,” said the Crooked Man. “I worshipped there all through my innocent childhood.”

“What did you mean about Grimesby Roylott's fatal mistake?”

“You'll find it in the New Testament. Mark and Luke.
In my name, they shall take up serpents and it shall not hurt them.
”

“Snakes won't hurt you if you study the Bible?”

The Crooked Man shook his head and spat out another gob of tobacco juice. “You have to work yourself up into a state of grace before you can handle poisonous snakes. Then the Holy Ghost comes to anoint the church, and it's safe. Not completely safe, of course, which is why it's not legal anymore. But the church rolls on. Or slithers. Perhaps that's the more appropriate term.”

“If it isn't legal anymore, where do they hold services?”

“I'm guessing in the preacher's house.”

Smoker took out his cell phone and scrolled down to Ingersoll's number.

“Not now, Smoker. I'm bowling in the league tournament.”

Smoker could hear the balls rolling down the lanes and the tenpins being struck. “Got a pen? The Holiness Church of True Believers.” He looked toward the Crooked Man. “Where is this place?”

“In the Panhandle. Popham Springs, not far from the Alabama border.”

“A town called Popham Springs,” said Smoker. “Near the Alabama border. The services probably won't be in a church, at least not the services we're interested in. The services we're interested in involve poisonous snakes and people working themselves up into what they call an anointed state.”

“Slow down, will you?” Smoker heard more tenpins flying. “Holiness Church of True Believers . . . Popham Springs . . . You think that's where our perp got into snakes?”

“Just send someone there with his picture,” said Smoker with all the confidence single-malt whiskey and champagne could give.

“I'll get on to the Fugitive Task Force.”

Ingersoll returned to his tournament, and Smoker guided the Crooked Man back into the Palm Room, into one of those momentary silences that sometimes falls on a gathering.

The voice to break the silence was Dottie's. “What's the big deal what kind of snake it was? None of it's real anyway.”

Everybody turned and glowered at her.

The Rules of the Game had been violated.

Now they turned and scowled at Smoker, who knew he no longer had any chance of being elected Gasogene, or Tantalus, or even Buttons-cum-Commissionaire, not if he attended every meeting for the rest of his life.

“What did I say?” demanded Dottie in the cab ride home. “Doesn't everyone know they're just stories? They act as if they believe Sherlock Holmes actually lived.”

Smoker put his hand on hers. “You're my Irene Adler.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“The only woman Holmes ever loved.”

Z
ach moved behind the line of trees that had been planted to block out the chain-link fence separating Martin's Marine boatyard from Seafarers Landing's multistory garages. Having been caught once by the security cameras he wasn't going to be caught again.

As he crept along toward the third garage, he heard Aunt Emmy softly singing the old song,
Oh, lovely appearance of death
 . . .

It was overcast, and night had fallen early. Patiently he waited in the darkness between the trees and the blank side of the garage, until he heard the motor of a vehicle approaching.

An SUV with a luggage rack on top came into the courtyard, positioned itself before the garage, and the driver activated his remote. The heavy wrought-iron gate rose, permitting the SUV to enter.

While the driver steered up the initial slope—squinting to avoid the beams hanging from the ceiling, beams that were perilously low for a Suburban with a luggage rack—Zach raced through in the SUV's wake.

The gate lowered behind him. He was in, and the driver was proceeding forward with his own logistic problems.

Zach's logistic problems remained the surveillance cameras, but the garage held only one, and he easily evaded its eye. He didn't recall seeing any in the elevators, but to be safe he entered the airless well that held the fire stairs.

As he climbed around and around, Aunt Emmy sang to him about the body's liberation:

Its languishing pain is at rest,

Its aching and aching are o'er;

The quiet immovable breast

Is pained by affliction no more.

The higher he got in the stairwell, the softer Aunt Emmy sang, and the greater grew his exaltation.

He continued to the top, realized that he had climbed too far, and descended one flight to the floor where the real estate lady had shown him the three-bedroom with a view.

The heart it no longer receives

Of trouble and torturing pain;

It ceases to flutter and beat,

It never shall flutter again.

His heart was fluttering in his chest as if its valves had come loose.

And now he had to slow his steps, moving past the dangling key boxes indicating apartments for sale.

Elegant as Seafarers Landing was, it had been apparent to him during his last excursion here that the construction left much to be desired. The quality of the hardware and the gaps around the doors were just two examples.

But where was the door she'd pointed to with the red-and-green elf on it, saying, “
That's where I live . . .
”

It wasn't there.

There was no elf.

Had she moved away?

Slowly he walked from door to door, listening intently, but he heard no sound.

She wasn't there.

He stood and listened to the silence, filled with relief.

He was glad she was gone, glad he didn't have to hurt her.

He'd done his part, he'd come this far, Aunt Emmy couldn't say he hadn't. Aunt Emmy couldn't blame him. Now he could forget the real estate lady.

The real estate lady put on her favorite CD,
The Very Best of Maria Callas,
and sat down at her dressing table with her bowl of color, applicator brush, and hair clips. She felt that Callas's heartbroken laments corresponded to her own laments—over the broken promises of men, the defunct real estate market, and the fact that she couldn't even pay someone else to touch up her roots. So now she was touching them up herself.

Natural Black wasn't the most natural-looking color, but for some scientific reason it allowed her to wear clothes she couldn't have gotten away with before. Like gold and yellow.

“Sing it, Maria,” she said, turning up the volume, which she could do conscience-free, even though the walls were thin as cardboard, because there was no one in the apartment above, below, or on either side of her.

The volume was such that she didn't hear the plastic library card being inserted between the door frame and the door.

The lock released with a pop, also unheard, and quietly he entered.

Her eyes met his in the mirror, and she began to scream.

She screamed as loud as she could.

But Maria Callas screamed just as loud.

The two women screamed and screamed.

Until finally there was silence, and the only sound in the apartment was the dripping of Courtney's blood, and the only voice was Aunt Emmy's, telling Zach how to decorate the beautiful body.

PART FOUR

Helping the Dead

L
ydia Hernandez, one of the ever diminishing number of housekeepers at Seafarers Landing, worried about her hair. Her figure was okay, maybe a bit on the chubby side, but she knew it was passable from the looks the maintenance guys gave her ass. No, her problem was her hair, and she was checking out its latest color and style in the mirror as she dusted the plastic flowers on the sideboard across from the elevators. Did Golden Blonde go with her dark skin? Did curls work with her round baby face?

There were mirrors at the end of each hallway to keep her constantly aware of her hair and its problems. She sometimes wished there weren't so many mirrors, but the people who furnished the place must've felt that ladies wanted to check themselves coming and going. So Lydia had to check herself coming and going.

She pushed her cleaning cart along the corridor, and dimly saw herself in the mirror at the far end. Despite these mirrors continually reflecting her worrisome hair, she was lucky to have such an easy job, dusting plastic flowers and polishing the inside of the elevator. Besides, she liked the people still living in the building. If they left, there'd be no need for dusting and polishing, and no need for Lydia Hernandez.

Thanks God there were still a few residents on each floor. On this floor was the nice real estate lady who sometimes commented on Lydia's latest hairstyle and color, understanding that it was Lydia's primary concern.

The real estate lady's door was partly open. Was she on her way out, or had she forgotten to close it when she went in? The air coming out of the apartment was colder even than the air in the hallway, which was strange. Because of some glitch in the air-conditioning system, the halls were always freezing. But why would Miss Courtney's apartment be freezing?

Lydia rang the bell.

There was no answer.

She pushed the door farther open. “Miss Courtney, are you there? It's me, Lydia.”

She recognized Miss Courtney's perfume, but the smell was so strong it was as if the apartment had been washed in it. A bottle must've dropped on the floor and broken.

“Miss Courtney,” she called again.

She cautiously entered, and walked past the kitchen into the living room.

“Miss Courtney . . .” She made her way into the bedroom.

And then she saw Miss Courtney, and would continue to see Miss Courtney that way in her nightmares for many years.

As she told the Lantana policewomen who arrived to secure the scene, she knew right away there was too much cold and too much perfume.

By the time the detective in charge of the case had returned to headquarters to write up a search warrant, confer with a state attorney to make sure the documentation was complete, and find a judge to sign the warrant, it was afternoon. When the crime scene teams finally got into the apartment to do their work, the perfume in which the body had been drenched was beginning to dissipate.

Inspector Singh from the Medical Examiner's Office was the last to arrive. “Why is it so fucking cold in here?” he asked, putting on his latex gloves.

“The perp was trying to refrigerate her,” explained Detective Mooney. “He left the door open so she'd be found while she was still in prime condition.”

Singh looked at the corpse laid out on the bed, and thought, Our killer is getting more baroque.

Singh's wife was a seashell fanatic. When she returned from the beach after a day of crouching in the sand she would soak her latest finds, and Singh would dutifully listen to her play-by-play description, until he knew the names of the shells as well as she did. The next day she'd return half her new treasures to the beach, either because they didn't prove up to standard or she had too many better examples of the same type.

Courtney was obviously a seashell collector too, and now her collection had been used to decorate her corpse.

The overall design was a heart, with angel wings, cockles, conches, whelks, and scallops curving around her breasts and down to her crotch. Inside the larger heart were kitten's paws, moon snails, tritons, murex, and two small junonias. The killer had backed a big cowrie into Courtney's vagina so the shiny mouth of the shell stuck out like a second vagina being born from the first. Her long black hair was spread in rays around her face and studded with multicolored coquinas, oyster drills, augurs, and transparent jingle shells.

The photographer, who'd seen his share of corpses, was impressed. “It took somebody hours to grade those things in size and shape and get them to balance on her without falling.”

“It's a fucking art installation,” said Detective Mooney, kneeling in front of the curio cabinet that had held the seashells. On the bottom shelf were shell-collecting books, one of which was open at a chapter headed “Sailors' Valentines.” Mooney presumed these valentines were made by sailors with a hell of a lot of time on their hands. Each one, mounted behind glass in an octagonal frame, consisted of tiny shells in an intricate flower arrangement with a heart-shaped seashell at the center. “She's his valentine,” he concluded.

“The last one was his bride,” said Singh. “He gave that one rice and a veil.”

“You've seen this wacko's work before?”

“In an alley in West Palm.”

“Blood on the sheets,” observed Mooney, “but the pillow's black. What's that?”

Singh examined both the pillow and Courtney's hair and said, “Hair dye. She must've been coloring her hair when her sailor arrived.”

The body itself had been thoroughly washed. Even the gash across Courtney's neck had been purified with perfume. Burned-down candles stood on the twin bedside tables, hinting at some mad attempt at prayer.

“It's a rape, right?” asked the photographer recording each step of Singh's examination.

“The pathologist will tell us, but I don't think so. He didn't rape the last one, and it doesn't look like he raped this one either. He's not into sex. He's into ceremony.”