In a case like this, it’s always best to follow the money. I planned to start with the insurance company that had paid off the claim, Victory Life. But first I wanted to find out what my friend Otto knew about EQ Edmunds and Lola Flores, the dame rumored to be the only witness to his death.
You don’t need to read the paper if you stop by Otto’s newsstand in City Hall. He can tell you everything that’s going on, most of which never gets into the papers. But you give him your nickel, and he gives you the lowdown, and you take the paper for form’s sake. And, of course, to read the official party line, as my father would say. I buy the Tampa Herald, never the Chronicle, for reasons of my own.
“Lola Flores,” he said when I asked. A sly smile snaked up the left side of his face. He had a way of pointing his dark glasses at you as if he could look right through you even though he’d been blind since birth. “A succulent little papaya. I believe you’ll find she has a lifetime rent-free lease on a penthouse in Edmunds Towers.”
Sounded like a convenient way to keep a mistress. “What do you know about her?”
“Word has it she was a taxi dancer in Cuba. Edmunds added her to his entourage when he was down there before his first marriage.”
“He was married before?”
Otto nodded. “The first Mrs. Edmunds died. Some sort of swamp fever, I think.” He paused and seemed to study me for a moment. “Tell me you’re not investigating Edmunds’ disappearance.”
“Maybe.”
“Dangerous waters, Corazon. You go fishing there, you’re liable to lose a lot more than your pole.”
Otto’s warning didn’t do much to stir up my gusto for the case, but it was too late now. I had given my word to a lady in tears. Damn that Corazon blood.
I took a Herald and flipped him a nickel, which he caught in mid-air and felt with his thumb. “Brand new Indian head,” he said with a smile. “You’ve been to the bank this morning.”
Not much gets by Otto.
Victory Life was closer, but Lola sounded more interesting, so I hopped the Bayshore streetcar headed south out of town. Tampa sits on a fat finger of land surrounded by Hillsborough Bay to the east and Tampa Bay to the west and south. Bayshore Boulevard runs south along Hillsborough Bay from downtown to the tip of the peninsula. Tampa’s wealthiest citizens live in columned mansions along this stretch of road with views of blue water meeting bluer sky, interrupted only by a couple of grassy keys where snowy egrets and great blue herons nest.
It was on those keys that Edmunds originally planned to place his development. But Tampa’s best didn’t want their view obstructed, so they pressured City Council members not to grant the needed permits. They had underestimated Edmunds, though.
He managed to bribe, charm and probably blackmail a four-to-three decision in his favor. The mayor, who lives on Bayshore, was none too happy, so Edmunds made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Edmunds had quietly bought up another key off the southern tip of the peninsula a couple miles south of the end of Bayshore Boulevard. He told the mayor he would put his development on this island on two conditions. One was that the city would extend Bayshore Boulevard and the streetcar line all the way to his island, and build a bridge to it. The second condition was that the city would purchase the other two keys at three times the price he had paid and pledge in writing never to develop them. The mayor haggled on the price a little, but otherwise pretty much gave in.
I had the streetcar almost to myself this morning. The only people headed south on a weekday morning were a few Cuban and Negro women on their way to do laundry, cook, clean and tend children in the sparkling bayside homes. They eyed me curiously. A Latin man, especially one in a suit, is a rarity on the Bayshore streetcar.
It was ten a.m. by the time the streetcar stopped at Edmunds Towers. The whole island was done in a new style called Mediterranean Revival with textured stucco facades, deep colonnaded porches, arched windows, cool, hand-painted tile courtyards and lots of fancy turrets that made the houses look like castles. The place was supposed to look like the Italian Riviera, and I suppose it did, minus of course the Italians. We stayed in Ybor City where there were none of the signs common in Tampa that said, “No Dagos Allowed.”
Edmunds Towers was the first building on the island, and Edmunds had spared no expense on its opulence. It was, after all, the model he used for selling plots. It looked like a twelve-story-high wedding cake with frosting the rosy tint of a tropical sunrise. Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea draped over the central arch that led to the inner courtyard replete with fountains spilling into a deep blue pool.
I entered the lobby and found Lola’s apartment listed as penthouse two. The white-gloved negro elevator operator eyed me with suspicion when I told him my destination but said nothing. On the ride up, I noticed a small, gnarled bit of tree root with a piece of fabric tied around it fixed over the door. A Haitian root doll, put there no doubt by the operator to keep evil from crossing the threshold of his elevator. I wondered if it had done its work.
I knocked on the door of penthouse two and waited a long time for an answer. Lola Flores opened the door wearing a purple satin robe and matching high-heeled slippers. Even fresh out of bed with her glossy black hair not yet combed, she was a delectable dish. She dish with coppery skin as smooth and flawless as the satin of her robe, and fine, high bones. But it was her eyes that made her beauty most arresting. They were the most startling shade of gold, a color seen more in cats than in people. They held not a trace of warmth as she looked me up and down.
“Salesman are not allowed in this building.”
“I’m a private investigator. My name is William Heart.” I handed her my card, which she inspected briefly. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”
“You don’t look like a Heart, guarjiro.” The word means something like Italian hillbilly. It’s no compliment, but I needed answers. I had to let it slide.
“May I ask you some questions?”
She made no move to let me in. “What’s your real name?”
“Corazon.”
“Spanish?”
I nodded. “My mother’s Italian.”
“Why’d you change it?”
“It’s a long sad story, Miss Flores. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“About what?”
“The disappearance of EQ Edmunds.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you working for?”
“Mr. Edmunds’ wife.”
She rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh as she gestured me in. I followed her through the luxuriously appointed apartment, stuffed full of brocade furniture and huge potted palms. Shimmery bits of clothing were draped about amid overflowing ashtrays and half-empty glasses with lipstick smudges on their rims. The place had the musky smell of an overripe papaya. Her fluid movements, like her eyes, reminded me of a cat. Otto had been right about her.
Lola draped herself across a chair on the terrace and lit a cigarette. I took in the magnificent view of the bay, the bridge and the tail end of Bayshore. From here its houses looked dwarfed and inconsequential. It was a view that could give a person a false sense of power. Her voice cut through my musings.
“So what is it this week, did I push him, or did he jump overboard and swim to Europe?”
I turned to face her as she poured herself a demitasse of strong black Cuban café solo. She threw it back like a shot of whisky, the way that men in Ybor made no offer to me. I gestured to a chair.
“May I?”
She shrugged and I sat.
“Tell me what happened the night Edmunds disappeared.”
“I told it all to the insurance company investigator.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Usually I’m not good with names, but his was so stupid.”
“What was it?”
“Les Moore. Do you believe it? Who would name a kid Les Moore?”
“So what did you tell him?”
“Can’t you just get it from his report? He wrote it all down, and then he made me sign it.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
She sighed and fingered her cup. “Eddie liked to show off. He was dancing on the table. I told him he would fall and hurt himself. He said nothing could hurt him, he could fly like an angel.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. A vivid scarlet flush stole over the smooth curves of her breasts and up her neck. Some people blush when they’re embarrassed, some in anger, and some when they lie. I didn’t know Lola Flores well enough yet to guess which one applied to her.
“You were alone with him?”
“No, this was earlier. Everyone was there. He flapped his arms like wings and ran around the room pretending to fly. He climbed into the window. He said he would fly around the ship. We had to pull him out. He was kicking and waving his arms. He kicked Dom right in the mouth.”
“Who else was there?”
“Dom’s wife, Hedda, and Mrs. Conti.” The scarlet flush mottled the flesh of her face now.
“The papers said your mother was there.”
“The papers never get anything right. Mrs. Conti is my duenna.”
I couldn’t help it; my eyebrows shot up at the thought of this former taxi dancer traveling with an old-fashioned Latin chaperon. She noticed my surprise and smiled.
“A Spanish lady always travels with a duenna.”
“You’re Spanish?”
She lifted her chin, defying me to contradict her. “Of course. What did you think?”
I shrugged. I knew she was Cuban, but we all had our reasons to alter history.
“Was Edmunds drunk that night?”
She laughed. The sound came from deep in her throat like a growl. I could feel my blood surging in response. “Very drunk. He stayed up all the night before drinking and he drank all that day.”
“Any particular reason?”
She shrugged. The flush was gone from that magnificent chest. “He liked to drink. He was not a large man, but he could drink until everyone else was crawling on the floor.”
“Then what happened?”
“Everyone left to go to bed. But he wanted me to stay.”
“You stayed without your chaperon?”
Her nostrils flared. “Listen, Linguini Boy, I don’t have to talk to you at all, you know.” The flush again. It was definitely anger that brought it out.
Our eyes locked. Linguini Boy? This was one tough cookie, and she wasn’t about to crumble under a little pressure. “Look, Miss Flores. I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just a poor paesan with no manners. I’m not used to questioning a Spanish princess. Forgive me if I was rude.” I dropped my head in obeisance.
“Don’t overdo it,” she muttered.
“What happened next?”
“He kept saying he could fly. He got in the window again. I couldn’t pull him out by myself. And then…” She stared at the bottom of her empty cup. I waited. “He just…slipped out.”
“What did you do?”
“At first I was stunned. I couldn’t believe he was gone. And then I guess I started screaming. The steward came. I couldn’t stop screaming. Then a doctor was there. He gave me a shot. That’s all I remember until…”
“Until what?”
“Many days later in London. They said he was dead. She was there. She called me a liar and a whore.”
“Mrs. Edmunds?”
“Yes.”
The flush rose to her face again, and I stood. She looked at me as if just remembering my presence.
“Thank you, Miss Flores.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.”
She made no move to rise. “She must not be paying you very much. Les Moore asked many more questions.”
“I’ll see myself out.”
The day was beginning to heat up as the streetcar passed over the bridge from the island. The sluggish breeze stirred up by our movement was too warm and damp to be cooling, too heavy to remove the musky smell that clung to my nostrils. On the ride back to town I thought about Lola. Women who make their living pleasing men could lie without the usual telltale signs, but a woman of passion cannot hide other emotions. She hated Nesta Edmunds. That much was clear and not surprising. But she’d had the same red-faced response when she described the others in the room. Which one did she hate, her chaperon, Edmunds’ lawyer or Hedda Boudreaux?
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