I sat. “I have a hunch you should keep your voice down, when you’re using my name.”
She cocked her head. “Why’s that?”
“This place is restricted, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you had me avoid the clubhouse?”
She removed her sunglasses; the big brown eyes were earnest and her expression was almost contrite. “It is. I’m sorry. You must think I’m awful, even belonging to a place like this.”
I shrugged. “A lot of people belong to places like this.”
She shook her head. “You’d think people would change their attitudes…because of this terrible war-the way the Jewish are being mistreated by those horrible people.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but that’s not exactly your fault. You know, frankly, Nancy, I never felt very Jewish before this war came along. Back on Maxwell Street, I was a
Her pretty face crinkled.
“Yeah. My mother was Catholic and died when I was little, and my father was an old union guy who didn’t believe in anybody’s God. I wasn’t raised in either faith. Anyway, on Friday nights, the Jewish families needed some non-Jew to do their chores after sundown.”
Her smile was sad. “So to the Jews you’re a ‘goy.’”
“And to the Irish Catholics, I’m just another heathen.”
Now there was embarrassment in her smile, and lipstick on her soda straw. “I feel like the heathen, inviting you here….”
I shrugged again. “Hey, obviously, a private club like this is a good place for you to get away from the reporters and other pests.”
“It is. Do I seem simply ghastly, sitting in the sun, sipping a Coke, when my husband is rotting away in a filthy cell?”
“No. You’re under a lot of pressure, and I don’t blame you for relaxing a little. On the other hand, you’re paying me three hundred dollars a day, so I’m inclined to cut you a little slack.”
Her smile was so genuine, it underscored the phoniness of the heavy lipstick. “I like you, Nate. And I think Freddie likes you, too.”
“It’s not important he likes me. What’s important is we get him sprung. Which is why I wanted to see you today….”
Two days had passed since Arthur’s murder, and in those two days I’d run up against a stone wall. A number of stone walls.
“There are people I need to talk to who are simply unapproachable,” I said, then laughed, once. “They’re probably all members of the Porcupine Club.”
Her brow was knit. “Such as?”
“Well, the Duke of Damn Windsor, for starters. I actually went up to Governor’s House and managed to talk to the Duke’s majordomo…”
“Leslie Heape?”
“That’s the one. He said that under no circumstances would the Royal Governor see me or speak to me. The reason he gave was that the Duke was keeping his distance from the case.”
Her big eyes got bigger. “Keeping his distance! Why, he’s the one who brought in those two Miami detectives!”
“I know. And when I pointed that out to Heape, I got shown the door in a hurry.”
She placed her Coke on the table. “Who else is giving you a hard time?”
I dipped into the jacket of my white linen suit for my little black notebook; I thumbed to a specific page. “On the night of his murder, your father dined at Westbourne not only with Harold Christie, but also a Charles Hubbard, as well as a Dulcibel Henneage.”
She was nodding. “I don’t know Mr. Hubbard very well-he was just an acquaintance, and neighbor, of Daddy’s.”
“He lives near Westbourne?”
“Oh yes. Those Hubbard’s Cottages where those two women Freddie dropped off live? He owns those, and lives there himself, but not in a cottage. I believe he’s from London-Daddy said Mr. Hubbard made his money in ‘dimestores.’”
I sighed. “Well, he’s not responding to messages I left at his Bay Street office, or with his housekeeper. This Mrs. Henneage I’ve left messages for, also-with her housekeeper, and with one of her kids, apparently. She doesn’t respond, either.”
She made a
“I thought, before I went around banging on doors, showing up uninvited on rich people’s doorsteps, I should see if you could pave the way, at all….”
“Mr. Hubbard shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, frowning. “But I’ve got a feeling Effie will be another matter entirely….”
“Effie?”
“Mrs. Henneage. That’s her nickname-Effie. You see, Nate, Effie is a married woman.”
“Well, I gathered that from the ‘Mrs.’”
“I mean, she’s not a widow or anything.”
“I’m not following you, Nancy.”
She spoke slowly, patiently, as if to a child; a backward child. “She’s married to an officer stationed in England; she has two children here with her, and a nurse, who’s probably the one you spoke to on the phone.”
“So?”
“So-Effie is widely rumored to be…friendly with a certain unmarried man of some local prominence.”
“Hubbard, you mean?”
“No! Christie. Harold Christie. Oh! Look who’s here! You’re late-I was starting to worry!”
My mouth had dropped open like a trapdoor at this latest Harold Christie revelation, but it would’ve been that way anyway, because the party approaching our table was one of the most stunning examples of womanhood this ex-Marine ever had the privilege of feasting his lecherous eyes upon.
She looked a little like Lana Turner, facially, and had other things in common with that famous sweater girl, including ice-blond hair that cascaded to soft, smooth shoulders; but unlike Miss Turner, this lady was a tall one, taller even than Nancy de Marigny. I would say five ten, easy, and lanky, slim-hipped, almost too bosomy for her frame, but as faults go, that was easily overlooked. So to speak.
Her skin was pale, improbably pale for the tropics, and the effect of her white one-piece bathing suit, white open-toed sandals, was that she looked like a seductive ghost. The only hint of something darker was the shadow of her pubic triangle beneath the suit. Her eyes were almost exactly the light blue of the Bahamian sky, rather small but seeming larger thanks to the framing of thick brown eyebrows and long, apparently authentic lashes. Her lips had a puffy, bruised look, and were painted blood-red, under a tip-tilting nose; apple-cheeked, but not at all wholesome-looking, she had a white terry robe like Nancy’s over one arm and white-framed sunglasses in the opposite hand.
You had to look close to tell, but she was not the twenty-some-year-old she seemed at first glance; gentle crow’s-feet, extra smile lines, the way her eyes sat deep in their sockets…I put her at thirty-five.
“I simply must get out of this sun,” she said. Her voice was thin but not unattractive, a brittle, British wind chime of a voice.
Nancy was beaming, half-standing. “Di! You look fabulous in that new suit. Schiaparelli?”
“Travella.” Her smile was surprisingly wide, her teeth the dazzling white Pepsodent promised, but rarely delivered.
And now she had turned that smile on me. “You must be Nancy’s charming private eye.”
I was standing, straw fedora in hand. “Nathan Heller,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow. “You
“Why’s that?”
“To sneak in here with a name like that.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh politely or slap her.
“You’re outrageous, Di,” Nancy said, almost giggling. “Don’t mind her, Nate. Di’s the least prejudiced person I know.”
