Voices of the dead

No one except Lenore knew about her situation, or where she was staying. Joyce had to confide in someone and trusted Lenore. They were good friends. They had talked a couple of times since she went into hiding. Lenore was showing an oceanfront estate to one of her customers, a referral, Southern gentleman from Atlanta. “Sounds like Clark Gable doing Rhett Butler,” Lenore had said. “Heard you’re wonderful.”

“That part’s true,” Joyce said. “What’s his name?”

“Emile Landau. Nice guy, very friendly.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. “Who referred him?”

“A friend from New York was all he said.”

Joyce had sold a property for a man from Manhattan, Bob Meisner, but he hadn’t called and recommended anyone. “What’s he look like?”

“Fifty, six feet tall, hair slightly gray, wears a golf cap,” Lenore said.

“You just described half the men in Palm Beach. The other half is older. He have a goatee by chance?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Hess followed her for the remainder of the afternoon. She met buyers at houses on Seabreeze and Brazilian, each showing lasting forty-five minutes to an hour. He was getting impatient, imagined the woman talking in her annoying, never-ending stream of consciousness.

At 4:30 p.m. he saw her white Cadillac sedan appear coming out of the driveway on Brazilian. He followed her back to the real-estate office, parked on Worth Avenue and waited.

At 5:10 he saw her come out of the office and walk east to a restaurant called Ta-boo. She made her way to the far end of the crowded bar, joining a group of friends. The noise level seemed to rise with her arrival. He sat at a table near the entrance and could hear her voice over the din.

Hess ordered a Macallan’s neat and two appetizers: shrimp cocktail and smoked Norwegian salmon with capers and onions. He was hungry. He had not eaten since breakfast, eight and a half hours earlier. He wolfed down the appetizers, finished the single malt and ordered another. At 6:15 he saw Lenore moving along the bar, coming his way. She noticed him and stopped.

“Are you following me?” Lenore smiled, seemed looser than she was earlier, face animated. “Just kidding. What you don’t know about me, Mr. Landau, I’m a natural-born kidder.” She took a breath. “This is my favorite restaurant. Great food. The owner, Jim Peterson, is a good friend. Would you like another drink? I’ve had enough myself but I’m happy to buy one for you.”

“I am good,” Hess said.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Is ten a.m. OK? We can meet at the office. I’ll take us around.”

And with that she was out the door. Hess left fifty dollars on the table and walked out after her, keeping his distance, followed the woman to her white Cadillac parked across the street from the Town Car. Not as concerned about being seen-it was dark. People strolling on the sidewalk. Lights from the storefronts aglow.

Lenore Deutsch lived in a modest house on Queens Lane, situated at the north end of the island. No lights on. Hess had noticed a wedding ring, but could not believe she was married. Who could listen to her? She parked in the driveway and went inside and turned on the lights. He parked on the street, opened the glove box and took out the Walther. He waited a couple of minutes, then stepped out of the automobile, crossed the street and knocked on the door.

The maid, Josefina, had given Harry directions to the beauty parlor. He went there and waited in the lounge till a petite woman, five two, with reddish-brown hair walked through the beaded curtains. He had never seen Joyce Cantor in his life but he knew it was her. “Joyce!”

She turned and looked at him. “Harry?” Moved toward him, put her arms around him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Now two hours later they were at the estate owned by a rich guy from New York named Frankel. Harry was checking on Cordell in the pool-house living room. He brought him a turkey sandwich, cottage cheese, chips and a Coke. Cordell was stretched out on a couch, watching TV, a nineteen-inch console.

Harry said, “You don’t have to stay out here like the hired help.”

“Think this is slummin’, Harry, never been to a slum. Check it out.”

He already had, asking himself how many two-bedroom pool houses with a cathedral ceiling and a big living room he’d seen? Appointed like the main house. Sixty-foot Italian marble pool right outside.

“Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m watchin’ Soul Train.”

“You hear anything, see any Nazis, give me a call.” Harry handed him a piece of paper that had the phone number to the main house on it.

Joyce was standing at the island counter in the kitchen, opening a bottle of Morgon, two stemmed glasses on the black granite top.

Harry said, “I remember seeing someone running into the woods as I climbed out of the pit.”

“That was me. I don’t remember you though.” Joyce cleared her throat. “But I knew your mother. She was on the last truck, forty-seven of us from the women’s camp. It was late afternoon. They told us we were being transferred to a sub-camp at Halfing. I believed them because I wanted to.”