Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  I asked Montbard, “Are you sure Isabelle Toussaint’s a woman?” The conical breasts and eyelashes were unavoidable, but I had also noted the masculine larynx and slim hips.

  “I don’t presume anything I’m not willing to confirm personally,” Montbard said, taking the binoculars. “My curiosity has limits. I’d sooner risk the Himalayas.”

  I said, “Understood. Even so, she-or he-is damn popular with the guests.”

  Two dozen men and women dressed for cocktail hour in the tropics had formed a loose line, drinks in hand. They mingled with an aloof, A-list poise as they awaited their turn to speak with Toussaint, who was sitting between male attendants near the pool. The cheery indifference of some guests reminded me of fans waiting to meet an oddball celebrity-an amusing story they could share with friends. Others, though, wore the congenial masks that signal uneasiness or hostility.

  More blackmail victims?

  Toussaint handled the attention with a less careful indifference. She affected regal gestures that seemed an intentional parody. She nodded and smiled when introduced, holding out her hand to be kissed. It was an old familiar role, yet Toussaint made it clear she rarely interacted with clients. They knew it. Some didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Others seemed resigned.

  Montbard whispered, “I told you she looked a bit daft, but don’t be misled. Do you recognize any of those people?”

  “More actors? I don’t go to many movies.”

  “Nor do I. But I read the London Times. One of the men is a South African industrialist said to be among the wealthiest men in the world. The svelte women in the red dress? She’s the wife of a former French president. Rumors aplenty about her!

  “There’s a lot of power and wealth down there, Ford. Toussaint’s no fool. She’s earned a certain European vogue-orchids; her herbal lotions, now the Midnight Star. The woman’s also a legendary bitch. For some reason, artistic types find sexually ambiguous snobs alluring.

  “I dare say most of those people fancy themselves artists of one sort or another. I’m referring to their flamboyant attire. Who else would come to a place such as this?”

  Flamboyant? Compared to Sir James, the staff was dressed flamboyantly in their white shirts, white slacks, and plaid headpieces, carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, serving with fixed, Third World smiles on their faces.

  I took the binoculars and studied the guests more carefully. I saw horn-rimmed glasses and John Lennon glasses, a few wild scarves, and. .. a Nehru jacket? Yes-a Nehru jacket. A man with spiked hair wore his shirttails outside his slacks despite a beige blazer. Ages from late twenties into the sixties or seventies. People with money, but not obsessively health-oriented. Several smoked cigarettes. They drank red wine and martinis-not the sickening sweet punches most tropical resorts serve-while patiently waiting to get what I realized was the house specialty. The drink was a mix of fruits, vegetable greens, and something else-flower petals?-liquefied in a blender. It took the bartender several minutes to produce a champagne-sized glassful, so the drinks were served sparingly. Guests put aside everything else, though, when the specialty drink was offered.

  Artistic sensibilities-Montbard was probably right about the guests. Now, though, I was paying more attention to the staff. There was something familiar about two employees near the kitchen entrance at the rear of the dining room.

  I continued to use the binoculars as I listened to Sir James say, "Rumors that Madame Toussaint practices obeah adds to her mystique. Same’s true of her ambiguous sexuality. I’ve heard that she was once a man. I’ve also heard that her personal kit includes the complete assortment-male and female. Some orchids are that way, you know.”

  I said, “You lost me.”

  “There are species of orchids that are sexually self-sufficient. Quite literally, the flower’s blossom twists and turns until it fertilizes itself. What would Freud make of Madame Toussaint’s fascination for orchids? Care to speculate? Why… the old girl looks like an orchid in that hooded white gown.”

  He added, “Is it any wonder that locals fear the Maji Blanc sneaking into their bed at night?… or into their dreams? By God, Ford, just the thought of that woman in my bed has earned me a stiff whiskey!”

  The man was still enjoying himself.

  I wasn’t.

  Beyond the pool was a forested incline where the fence turned sharply uphill. The area between was landscaped with birds of paradise, Japanese bamboo, sections of medieval rock wall. White Christmas lights spiraled through the forest canopy-a fairyland effect-while hidden LEDs panned from tree to tree, spotlighting orchids that were framed on wood, like paintings.

  Montbard, standing ahead of me, said, “It appears the electrical system is computer controlled. The low-voltage system, anyway. Emergency lights, fire alarms, and surveillance cameras all linked. I don’t see any sign of a generator, so it may be battery backup only. Just a guess. I’m not an expert, of course.”

  He’d seen all that from this distance? I said, “Of course,” not sure what to believe.

  “Not many cameras either, have you noticed? I think the old girl has more faith in her reputation as a witch when it comes to protecting her precious orchids from poachers. Amazing collection. I’ve seen varieties I’d love to have in my orchid house. For instance, that dark-petaled beauty near the fire pit? She developed it herself-highly coveted, especially by Japanese collectors.”

  An unattended fire smoldered in a nearby commons area-maybe there’d been a ceremony before the cocktail party. My eyes shifted to the fire’s smoke, noting the direction of the wind, as Montbard said, “She named the spa after that orchid. Or vice versa. I believe it’s a variety of Masdevallia. If I had the chance, I’d nick it in a flash. Next visit, eh?”

  The tiny LED lights shifted among dozens of blooms. The black orchid was spotlighted for fifteen seconds before the next orchid was illuminated. Hundreds more orchids decorated the patio and open dining room.

  The dining room-I had the binoculars zoomed tight on the place, watching the two staff members who stood shoulder to shoulder, talking intensely, gulping drinks, while their colleagues hustled trays. The men wore the white uniform, but they weren’t waiters. They held a more elevated position. Guests approached them occasionally and exchanged greetings. Mostly female guests, I noticed.

  The way they moved, their attitude, suggested it was Ritchie, Shay’s fashion model islander, and Clovis, the slick Peter Lorre look-alike. But the one I thought was Ritchie wasn’t wearing his signature bandanna, and Clovis looked bigger, fitter than I remembered.

  It wasn’t until the men moved into the light that I realized I was mistaken.

  I touched Montbard’s shoulder, and handed him the binoculars. “Do those two remind you of anyone?”

  “Hmm. Yes… I see the similarities. Late twenties… rather nasty-looking young chaps. Same cocksure swagger. On some islands, those types are referred to as beach boys. Gigolos in many cases, not all.”

  “How’s Senegal going to react if the man who seduced her works here?” I was thinking about Beryl-the same could happen to her.

  “We’ve already discussed it. I told her to pretend as if she’s never seen the man before in her life. I’d be very surprised if he didn’t do the same. If spa management, or an employee, behave in any other way, it’s the same as admitting they’re the blackmailers. It won’t happen.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I still hadn’t told Montbard that his exquisite actress wasn’t an actress. Not a professional actress, anyway. It was unlikely Beryl would pretend she didn’t recognize Ritchie and Clovis if they worked here.

  Like the Englishman, I wore a battered old Rolex-a basic Submariner, stainless steel, no date-that I’d been given when I was nineteen. The radium-coated numerals of a Rolex have never been adequate for low light, and I had to put my eye to the crystal: 10:07 p.m.

  Getting late. I was about to remind Montbard that it was time to go, when a startling sound descended from the stars-a forlorn ho
wling. A predacious howl, like ice on the spine. The note echoed through the tree canopy, then was absorbed by rain-forest gloom.

  “Dogs,” I whispered.

  “Worse than dogs,” Sir James replied, still using the binoculars. “They’re bloody young vipers if they’re anything like the others.”

  He was talking about gigolos, I realized. I also realized that Isabelle Toussaint was leaving the party, suddenly in a hurry.

  "SHE’S HEADING HOME,” I told Montbard. “We can follow her, but we have to start down the mountain no later than ten-thirty. That only gives us twenty minutes.” When he didn’t reply, I added, “Agreed?”

  The man was toying with his Freemason’s ring again. “You run along, old sweat. I have business to attend to here. Now that the Maji Blanc is leaving, I may take the opportunity to pop down to the lodge and have a look around.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not as mad as you think. A well-dressed Englishman is accepted without suspicion at most social functions, no matter the circumstance. Fortunately, we are also dependably forgettable. To the uninitiated, we all sound alike, you know.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, I’ve heard it’s true.”

  “I’m not talking about your accent-”

  “I know, I know.” There was a sly smile in his voice. “Shadow the woman in white. Stay close. You suggested we create an emergency? I have something in mind.”

  Now he was standing and taking off his shooting jacket. He folded it, put it into his bag, then surprised me by taking out a stiletto, which he fitted behind the shoulder holster that held his Walther PPK.

  I said, “You plan on stabbing someone?” as he reached into his bag again. I watched him produce a white dinner jacket, which he slipped into as if standing in front of a mirror.

  “I certainly hope not; I had this tailored in Hanoi. Pure silk, you know. Bugger of a job to get stains out. Ford?-” He was straightening the jacket’s lapels now. “-would you mind very much staying on post until ten forty-five? A fifteen-minute lead on a Brazilian mastiff is more than enough-even if you are slightly out of training. I’ll pull stakes no later than ten fifty-five. Or thereabouts.”

  I said, “But before we make any decisions, there’s something you need to know-the actress isn’t an actress.”

  I told him about Beryl. When I’d finished, he gave the situation some thought before saying, “That gorgeous woman is here posing as your fiance?”

  “I have no idea. I mentioned the place in a phone message, that’s all. She’s… a resourceful woman.”

  “That may make it a bit sticky for our girl Senegal, don’t you think?”

  “For all of us. Maybe worse for Beryl if Ritchie and Clovis work here. She wants revenge.”

  “When you say revenge, you mean-”

  “I’m not sure. If she had access to a weapon, violence maybe. Beryl’s motivated. She has more reason than most.”

  “I shouldn’t ask any particulars, I gather.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But do you really think she would-”

  “I wouldn’t be shocked. She’s not as even-tempered as Senegal.”

  “Really. Part angel, part lioness, eh?” Montbard liked that. “What a splendid creature-you can tell me more about her later. But I think Lady Beryl is actually in less danger here among the enemy, so to speak. Those two cretins won’t dare lay a hand on her while she’s a guest. And it’s all the more reason for me to slip down and mingle.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving you. Let’s drop the stiff-upper-lip stuff, please.”

  “Don’t be silly! This is a perfect opportunity to discover where the old girl keeps her treasures. Stick with Madame Toussaint. Keep your eyes open. If I’m not back at the boat by midnight, it simply means I’ve taken a different route down the mountain. Return to Saint Lucia without me.”

  “But where will you-”

  “My God, man! This won’t be the first time I’ve grabbed a bit of kip without a roof over my head. I’ll take the morning ferry and meet you for breakfast at Jade Mountain. The buffet’s excellent. Say, ten-ish? Have a Bloody Mary waiting, won’t you?”

  I was rubbing my forehead, annoyed.

  “Oh… a couple of details.” He was putting a fountain pen in his pocket, next a lighter. “The moment we split up, night vision is required. I have my little infrared. You have your lovely little Triad flashlight. No one will be the wiser. Swing the light side to side, it will mean stand fast, something interesting may happen. Circular motion means regroup immediately. Rapid series of dashes means danger approaching, run. Got that?”

  He added, “And remember to keep your eye open for the Misericord. A secure little structure where monks were punished-it would fit with Madame Toussaint’s psychological profile.”

  I said, “Someone’s compiled a profile?”

  “Several dozen pages.”

  “A professional?”

  “I’d like to think so. I already knew a fair bit about Toussaint because of the monastery, but I really went to work on it when Senegal told me about her problem. Ample time to put together a decent profile.” Then he added, “You have no idea who I am, do you, old boy?” He said it as if he found me entertaining.

  I said, “No… but I’m starting to get the picture. James? Hey

  … Hooker.”

  He was already moving down the hill, straightening his jacket, using fingers to neaten his silver hair. When he got to the fence, I watched him hide his bag behind a tree, then reach for something growing near a low limb. An orchid.

  Sir James inserted the flower into his lapel. He patted it in place before scaling the fence.

  25

  I was straddling a tree limb outside Isabelle Toussaint’s chateau when I heard the man scream. It was the frantic, soprano wail of someone who was falling… or being mauled.

  Sir James?

  Had to be, although it was impossible to identify the voice. It was an unearthly bawling mixed with what resembled the rumble of a distant waterfall.

  No… not a waterfall. It was the rumble of growling dogs.

  Only five minutes earlier I’d been lying belly-down on the stone wall that enclosed the woman’s estate, when the power went out. Not just her house-the entire property, lodge and monastery included. A moment later, emergency lights blinked on. Frail blue beams in the darkness. Simultaneously, I heard a warbling siren, like a police car in an old French film. A fire alarm or a burglar alarm.

  The Englishman had wasted no time.

  I’d been wearing the night-vision monocular, as instructed. From a forested area unexpectedly close to the house, an infrared flashlight painted horizontal streaks on trees. Montbard’s signal: Stand fast, something’s going to happen.

  I no longer doubted the man, but I wasn’t in position.

  I’d dropped over the wall and jogged toward the rear of the house. The area was landscaped with hedges, like an old English garden. A maze of hedges, literally. Ficus trees cut low, roots like bars, so it was impossible to bust through the hedge when I came to a dead end. I encountered several dead ends. Maddening.

  It took a couple tries before I exited into a garden behind the chateau. The chateau was built over a wedge of stone ruins that disappeared into the side of the mountain like a storm cellar. There was a terrace, a lily pond, a marble statue of Saint Francis, trees weighted with moss, bromeliads, orchids. One of the trees had limbs low enough to climb, and I did. Pulled myself up as a light came on inside the house. Someone had struck a match to an oil lamp.

  It was Isabelle Toussaint. She was a ghostly figure, carrying the lamp in both hands as she glided through the house. The interior was over-furnished, like a museum storeroom. I could see tapestries and ornate furniture and paintings in heavy frames. There were religious icons on every wall. Crosses… a life-sized carving of Christ in agony. It was like watching a series of TV screens as the woman disappeared, then reappeared inside glowing windo
ws and glassed French doors.

  The alarm was still warbling. Toussaint looked concerned-turning her head to listen, sniffing the distant wood smoke, touching a hand to her necklace-but in control. Apparently, power outages were common on the mountain. The alarm, though, troubled her.

  She had removed her hood. I watched her lean over the lamp to light a thin black cheroot, smoking unself-consciously as she crossed into the kitchen where there were skillets and pots suspended on hooks above a stainless gas stove. Beyond the refrigerator was a narrow staircase-the servant’s back steps to the second floor. On the wall next to the staircase was an oversized painting: an infant’s white crib in a black room. Bizarre.

  The woman poured a glass of wine, sniffed the air once again, testing for fire despite her cigarette. Once again, she touched fingers to the Midnight Star sapphire… then turned toward the window, startled, because of a sudden, piercing sound outside. The screaming had begun.

  It was a man’s voice, shrill… vocal cords tearing as terror peaked. After several seconds, the bawling transitioned into a series of ragged shrieks. Terror had become pain.

  "Godohgodohgod… HELP MEEEEEEEE!”

  The confusing sound of a waterfall became the snarling, clacking chorus of dogs dragging down prey. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Sir James’s voice. But it was coming from the forested area where he’d last used the infrared to signal. Who else could it be?

  “Noooooo… NO!”

  When horror is converted into childlike cries, panic becomes transmittable.

  You have a gun, James… goddamn it, pull your gun!

  I felt the panic… so did Isabelle Toussaint. I started down the tree, fixated on the source of the screams, but a peripheral part of my brain noted that the woman was also reacting. She was removing her necklace as she hurried toward the back staircase. I saw her lean