“Get back to DC very often?”
“I flew up for the funeral.” She had paid her respects to Pitsy and Jarvis, Mitch’s parents, and joined them for shiva.
“How about before that?” Taggart said.
“The day I moved.”
“How’d you feel when you found out your husband was having an affair?”
“Which time?”
“How many were there?”
“I don’t know for sure. Three or four, at least.”
“How do you know?”
Joyce said, “You married, Detective?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ever have an affair?”
“We’re not talking about me,” Taggart said, getting defensive.
“When a guy has an affair things about him change. I knew what Mitch was doing.”
“Did you know Ms. Shore?”
“She worked in Mitch’s office,” Joyce said. “I saw her occasionally. We weren’t friends if that’s what you mean.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“He rented her an apartment. The bill came to the house. Dumb, huh?”
“Were you angry?”
“No, I was relieved. I’d had enough. I said, you want her go right ahead. I’m leaving. You know when your marriage isn’t working, don’t you?”
“Do you own a gun?”
“I don’t believe in guns.”
“Did you kill your husband?”
She looked him in the eye and said, “No.”
“You know who did?”
Joyce shook her head.
She escorted him to the door, sure he was going to ask another question like Columbo always did, Peter Falk looking scruffy and disheveled. But Taggart wasn’t Columbo. He walked out. She closed the door and stood on the balcony, watched him come out of the building and get in a car and drive north on South Ocean Boulevard.
36
Hess was wearing the new yellow golf shirt, khakis, sunglasses and the Breakers cap. He had parked on the side of the road and stood at the gate, studying the house and grounds of the estate. According to the description in the brochure it was Mission-style, 12,150 square feet, eight bedrooms, movie theater, bowling alley, private beach and beach house across South Ocean Boulevard, circular drive made out of stone to match the color of the tile roof.
A white Cadillac approached, the gate opened. The driver waved. The Cadillac drove in, parking on the circular drive. Hess pulled in behind her.
She stepped out and came toward him, a blonde Jew, fifties, Dachau thin, heavy make-up, an excessive amount of jewelry.
“Mr. Landau, I’m Lenore Deutsch.”
She had a New York accent and offered a cold bejeweled hand. Hess shook it.
“I understand you’re from Atlanta. What part? Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Sandy Springs. Am I right?” She smiled.
“How did you know?” Hess said. He could see the dark roots of her hair under the dyed blonde, and evidence of plastic surgery, skin tight across her face, and lips that curled up like a duck’s.
“I assumed you were from Fulton County. I sold an oceanfront property to the Watt family not too long ago. Do you by any chance know Mr. Josh Watt? He’s a major developer.”
Hess was already tired of listening to her.
“You’re without question an astute and savvy buyer, Mr. Landau. There is only so much ocean frontage. And Palm Beach, as a one-of-a-kind enclave, will never lose its luster.” She paused. “Now would you like to tour the estate?”
Her onslaught of words was exhausting. “What happened to Mrs. Cantor?”
“Ms.,” the blonde Jew said. “She’s divorced, went back to her maiden name. Mitch, her ex, was murdered. In Georgetown for God’s sake, our nation’s capital. Can you believe it? Horrible, a real tragedy. What’s happening to the world?”
Hess waited for an opening but she kept talking.
“Joyce, God bless her, has taken a leave of absence. Needs some time off to get her head on straight. Who wouldn’t? Poor thing.”
“I would like to say hello. If that is possible.”
“No one knows where she is.”
“Joyce came highly recommended.”
“Who referred her, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“A friend in New York.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you? I’m sure you have your reasons.” She smiled. “I can assure you, Mr. Landau, you’re in good hands. I was realtor of the year in 1970. I’ve been selling property in Palm Beach since the early fifties. I know the island better than anyone.”
Modesty wasn’t one of her attributes.
Hess endured her for another hour while they walked through the house empty of furniture, the woman explaining architectural details: beamed fourteen-foot ceilings, leaded glass, marble bathrooms, teakwood paneling, her voice sounding distant to him at times as he withdrew and thought about killing her. Throwing her over the upstairs railing onto the French limestone foyer thirty feet below. See if that would silence her.
When the tour was complete Hess told the woman he was impressed, however he wanted to see some other estates for comparison before he made his final decision. He was sure he would make a purchase within a few days, a week at the most.
They got off the Turnpike, Harry paid the toll and took Southern Boulevard all the way to Palm Beach, going over the bridge and going left on South Ocean Boulevard, Cordell wide-eyed looking at the oceanfront mansions set back behind sculpted hedges and sea grape. Scattered palm trees giving a lazy relaxed feel.
“Harry, you see that?” Cordell pointing at a ten-thousand-square-foot faux Tuscan villa with a circular brick driveway behind an iron gate that made Harry’s Huntington Woods house look like a shack.
“Like it?” Harry said.
“No, why would I want to live in a place like that?” Cordell grinned at the thought. “Where all these people get their money at?”
“Maybe they sell heroin,” Harry said. “I understand you can do pretty well.”
“Oh, I see you got your sense of humor back.”
They came up on Worth Avenue, went left to South County Road, passing shoppers, passing Mercedes- Benzes, Rolls-Royces, passing glitzy storefronts.
“Where’s Joyce at?”
“An estate. I think it’s right up here.”
They passed Royal Palm Way, Cordell looking down the row of evenly spaced palm trees with their long straight trunks and high plumes.
“What’s the plan?”
