I tagged along behind Ellis, parsing what he’d said. Fritz had apparently alerted Bayard that his parents had engaged my services. If he’d called before Saturday simply to alert him to the blackmail scheme, my name wouldn’t have come into it. It did save me an awkward introduction, but the advance notice had given Bayard time to consider exactly what and how much he’d tell me. Given my natural skepticism, I distrusted others’ ability to tell the truth. Heaven knows I have a problem with it myself.
Meanwhile, I was busy taking in the details of the interior of the house, at least the portion I managed to spy with my little eye. The floors were highly polished concrete. The furnishings were modern, which is to say reduced to basic geometric shapes. All of the upholstery fabrics appeared to be selected for people wearing wet bathing suits. The space was airy: high ceilings, white walls flooded with natural light. In the middle of one conversational grouping in the great room, there was a sixty-inch-square coffee table made of driftwood. The surfaces were stripped down to the occasional artful object—a pedestal bowl planted with succulents, a perfect orange placed beside an 8-by-8-inch oil painting of a perfect orange. This was clearly the work of a precious interior designer working with unlimited funds. I knew it was unreasonably expensive because the results were so understated. I wanted to dislike the effect, but the truth was, I loved the look.
We crossed the room and passed through the floor-to-ceiling glass folding doors that opened directly onto the patio. The pool looked like a gaudy cocktail ring, a giant oblong of turquoise sunk in a setting of stone. Bayard and Maisie were nut-brown, newly basted with oil, and stretched out on two oversize wooden recliners upholstered in white. Neither seemed to be worried about getting oil stains on the fabric. On the built-in table between them, there were two Bloody Marys topped with small red and green peppers on stainless-steel skewers. Maisie was in a royal blue bikini and a broad-brimmed hat, with a band of blue-and-white-checked ribbon around the crown. Bayard wore sunglasses and a skimpy black Speedo, the bulge in front suggesting this was where he carried his leather sap.
Ellis said, “This is Kinsey Millhone, the PI.”
Bayard swung his feet to the side and sat up, then removed his sunglasses, which he placed on top of his head. He laid a small white towel across the back of his neck and used the ends to mop the sheen of sweat from his face. His hair was dark and thick, sticking out in sections like an unruly pile of twigs. His eyes were chocolate brown and carried a touch of merriment, as though he were on the verge of laughing aloud.
“Nice meeting you,” he said, offering a handshake. He was lean and muscular, but there was a puffy quality to his features that suggested a lifestyle of waste and excess. Maisie stayed where she was, her face largely concealed by her hat brim.
Ellis stood at the ready in case something else was required of him.
Bayard said, “You’re here to talk about the tape.”
“That and Sloan Stevens. Would you prefer discussing this in private?”
“That’s a fine idea. Why don’t we step into my office?”
I expected to move into the house, but Bayard picked up his Bloody Mary and crossed to a glass-topped table with an oversize tan umbrella that shaded the area. He gestured at a chair and I took a seat, keenly aware that Maisie and Ellis were both in hearing range. I had to guess there’d been a briefing prior to my arrival as all three seemed aware of my purpose in visiting.
He sat down across from me. “Would you like a drink? Ellis makes an evil Bloody Mary that will put you right with the world.”
It was nine thirty in the morning.
“I’m fine for now,” I said, as though in mere moments I might need to belt down a shot of something eighty-six proof.
Ellis excused himself and disappeared into the house.
“I mistook him for you,” I said sheepishly. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“An employee. He’s worked for me the past five years. Butler, valet, personal trainer, accomplished chef, and chauffeur.”
“That’s fancy. I don’t think I know anyone else with a chauffeur.”
“It’s a matter of practicality since neither one of us drives. I lost my license after three DUIs and she let hers expire. As much as we drink, we’re doing the public a service by putting him behind the wheel. Not that we’re alcoholics by any stretch. You know how I know? Alcoholics go to all those meetings,” he said.
He shoved four fingers in his mouth and pretended to bite down. The gesture had a comic quality though I’d already heard the joke.
“This is Maisie. Rude of me not to introduce you before now. Take your hat off, sweetheart, and show Ms. Millhone what a pretty face you have.”
She lifted her hat and set it to one side, gracing me with a languid stare. She made no move to greet me, which left me free to study her without appearing to be too interested. She had long, glossy, jet-black hair and clear blue eyes, her black lashes long and thick. She was beautifully made up, her foundation a perfect blend with her skin tone, eyes subtly shaded to enhance her coloring. Given her flawless complexion, the impact was electric. She was slender and her stomach was so flat, it was nearly concave. I judged her impressive cleavage to be original equipment without surgical enhancement. Some women have all the luck. She appeared older than he was, but the difference in years wasn’t sufficient to cast her as his mother. A girlfriend, perhaps? Her placid manner suggested she was living on the premises and hadn’t simply stopped by for a drink and an early morning swim. She put her hat across her face again and returned to the serious work of maintaining her tan.
Bayard leaned close and whispered theatrically, “She’s my wicked stepmother—Tigg’s widow. He didn’t leave her much when he died, so I’m making it up to her. She’s never had a job in her life. She has style, but that’s a hard sell these days.”
The scent of yesterday’s bourbon wafted from his skin like aftershave.
I said, “What about you? Do you work?” I knew the answer, but I was curious how he’d respond.
He smiled. “You think I could afford all this if I had a job? What kind of work would I do? I don’t even have a college degree. Turns out I pay Ellis more than the average attorney makes. You like the place?”
“It’s incredible.”
“I designed it myself. It took three years to build and we’ve been in it for five. Tigg had this dump of a house in Colgate, a 1950s ranch style in a subdivision with third-of-an-acre lots. He was busy demonstrating how humble and down to earth he was by continuing to live in the first home he’d ever bought. I had that pigsty sold within a month.”
“What sort of work did he do?”
“Investments. He was a wizard with money and made a number of folks in this town very, very rich.”
Maisie spoke up. “It’s fortunate he died when he did. He was actually a flimflam man who narrowly escaped jail.”
“Not quite the case, but I did have to make good on a few promises,” Bayard remarked.
“Someone told me he died during the trial.”
“True, but not before he brokered a deal in the matter of Sloan’s untimely demise. I was granted immunity in exchange for my testimony. I answered every question asked of me as truthfully as I knew how. Poor Fritz.”