Voices of the dead

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?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come again?”

Harry passed the Breakers, pulled over and turned around. “I’m going the wrong way.” They went back along the water, south on the beach road to 1960, the address Joyce had given him. The island was narrower along this stretch, the estate property extending from the beach road to the intercoastal. There was a decorative iron gate closed across the driveway. He went right on a narrow lane just past the house, and drove along a white seven-foot-high wall bordering the property. Another paved lane behind the estate led to a four-car garage.

He went back out to the front gate and rang the bell. A woman with an accent-Spanish or Italian-answered the intercom.

“Yes, who is this, please?”

“Harry Levin.”

The gate opened. He drove in and parked on the circular drive. A plump dark-haired woman, mid-thirties, wearing a light-brown uniform, came out the front door and approached the car. Harry got out.

“Welcome Senor Levin. You must be tired from your journey. Please come in. My name is Josefina.”

“Nice to meet you. Where’s Joyce?”

“I am sorry, the Senora is not at home.”

“Where is she?”

A Nazi might be coming to kill her but she wasn’t going to skip her maintenances. She could see her auburn hair starting to turn gray at her temples. Joyce had been getting her hair colored for about ten years, freaking out when she saw the first signs of gray when she was thirty-eight.

She would have Josefina drive her to the salon on Peruvian, and pick her up. If Harry Levin called, tell him where she was. She would wear a sun hat with a wide brim, hide her face, slip in and out of the salon without being recognized.