“So, your new best friend has agreed to share his deep dark secrets with me?”
“Said he would. Just before breakfast this morning. I told him I wouldn’t make my world famous five-cheese omelet for him again if he didn’t.”
“What did you get out of him this morning?”
“He likes to mambo.”
“That’s a joke I hope.”
“You’ll see.”
STOKE SMILED at Hawke, downshifting to pass an old couple tooling along in a green Volvo covered with “Save the Manatee” stickers. Stoke had nothing against Volvos, or the elderly, but he had almost zero tolerance for manatees. All the fat sea-cows did was eat and get fatter. Didn’t even eat anything bad like mosquitoes or snakes. Just hung around clogging the waterways and ate grass all day. They were totally useless. But, hey, what did he know? He was just saying.
“Hold on to your hat,” Stoke said, blipping the throttle.
Just before the intersection of Crandon and Harbor Drive, Stoke braked and downshifted once more, then took a hard right on a narrow, unmarked road. The street was barely visible amidst the thick foliage of an overgrown hedge. They crossed a small coral bridge, barely wide enough. The road became crushed shell beneath an arch of severely sculptured ficus hedge. Once over the bridge and through the hedge, the feeling was quiet and cool and withdrawn.
“Does this place have a name?” Hawke asked.
“Place called Low Key,” Stoke said. “Get it?”
“That’s why there’s not even a street sign.”
“That’s it exactly.”
They drove slowly past one or two manicured estate entrances with vine-covered gatehouses. On either side of the gently winding lane were walls of mossy ivory and, visible above them, a few rose-colored crenellated rooftops, peaked, all at various elevations. The few mostly hidden homes, some festooned with exploding bougainvillea, were tucked away in riotous gardens of emerald, blue, and mauve. An old gardener they passed removed his floppy straw hat and held it reverently over his heart as Stoke’s American icon rumbled by.
Alex Hawke suddenly found himself thinking about Fancha. He had never set eyes on Stokely’s lady friend. He understood that Fancha was lovely to behold. And, judging by this brief sample of her neighborhood, he also had to assume the nightclub singer from the Cape Verde Islands had enjoyed an extremely successful musical career.
Glints of sun bounced off wave tops now visible through the thick palm groves as the bay came back into view. The shell road had turned to brick. It was cool and shady and the air was heavily scented with jasmine. This small and very private road, Stokely said, was called Via Escondida.
The Hidden Way.
33
V ia Escondida led to a small peninsula that jutted into the bay. At the brick road’s end, they came to a broad cul de sac bordered with sharply tailored hedgerows and stately palms.
Stokely had slowed almost to a crawl as they approached an apron of mossy brick marking an entrance. Here was a very impressive set of wrought iron gates cloaked with heavy vines and streamers of bougainvillea. The gates were framed on either side by stands of tall coconut palms and a wild profusion of birds-of-paradise in full flower. Hollywood could not have done a better job.
“This is it?” Hawke asked.
“God’s little acre,” Stoke said. “Actually, she’s got about ten of them back in here. Do you have any idea how much a square foot of dirt costs in this neighborhood?”
“One hardly dares ask. How’d she manage it?”
“She was married to the owner back in the late nineties. A serious club owner from Chicago. Bought this place back in the eighties. He died somehow.”
“Somehow?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“Another American regulation.”
Stoke turned into the gravel drive and stopped just outside the gates beside a crumbling stone column with a shiny keypad mounted on top. He reached out and pressed several buttons. The engine was ticking over nicely and Hawke enjoyed the deep burbling note of the muffled exhaust. It was a lovely sound combined with the tinkle and zing of invisible insects.
He’d had just time enough to read the cracked and peeling painted tiles set into the vine-covered wall. A colorful plaque declared that this was Casa Que Canta. The name roughly translated into something like “The House That Sings.” Appropriate enough, he supposed, considering the current owner’s occupation.
A second later, the gates swung slowly and silently inward revealing a twisting crushed stone drive that disappeared into the wild yet perfectly maintained jungle. On the other side of this faux wilderness, a monstrous white palazzo sitting atop a gracefully sloping lawn that ran down to the water’s edge. The house was a blend of Spanish, Moorish, and Italianate influences. A three-story-tall tower dominated one end, which Hawke imagined gave spectacular views of the bay and Miami skyline at night.
The large center portion of the house, which included an ornate entrance portico, was a long colonnade of graceful white arches covered with red barrel tiles. Beyond the arches, a large tiled fountain splashed in a tranquil garden courtyard. Tropical birds of various colors and sizes flitted about the garden.
“How many bedrooms?” Hawke asked, knowing it was the required question.
“She stopped counting at eleven,” Stoke said.
Stokely eased the rumbling machine to a stop under the porte cochere and switched off the engine. As they climbed out of the Pontiac, a manservant in a white jacket swung open a tall cypress door, carved and studded with hammered bronze nails. The man, who had flaming red hair swept back in a pompadour, saw Stokely coming around the front of the car, stepped outside, and said, “Lovely morning, Mr. Jones.”
“Isn’t it, Charles?” Stoke said, beaming.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Very laird of the manor these days, aren’t we, Mr. Jones,” Hawke whispered to him as they walked up the flagstone path to the arched entrance.
“Almost as bad as you,” Stoke said, laughing. Hawke, shaking his head, followed him through the door.
Inside, it was dark and cool. A salt breeze filled Hawke’s nostrils. The central hallway of blue tile and stucco led all the way through the house. At the far end, the brilliant blue bay and silky green lawn were plainly visible. Hawke, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, slipped away to open a very grand door to his left. He stepped inside. It was the living room, a great barrel-shaped affair with a fireplace at the near end that was surely Carrara marble and must have weighed eleven tons or more.
“Alex?” Stoke said from the open door.
“Sorry, just looking.”
“We don’t want to keep the Mambo King waiting.”
“Where’s the lady of the house?” Alex asked the butler as their footsteps echoed down the length of the hall. He was now even more curious about this woman who might one day marry one of his closest friends.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, Madame said to tell you she had an emergency appointment at the studio. Overdubbing, I think was the expression she used.”
“Charles calls Fancha Madame,” Stoke said. “Says it all the time. He doesn’t mean anything derogatory by it.”
“Quite normal, I assure you my good man,” Hawke said, suppressing a smile. He wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
“Well, we won’t be here too long anyway,” Stoke told Charles.
“This is Mr. Hawke. He and I are going out to the Boat House to check on our houseguest. How’s he doing,
