Corpus Delectable

by Talmage Powell

  The party was one of those casual facets of Florida living that begins when somebody announces open house for one reason or another. Today the reason was the start of Gasparilla. Later the blast might splinter itself into scattered restaurants for dinner or descend en masse on a night club late tonight. It would finally peter out in exhaustion.

  I made with the chimes button beside the bleached wood door. A trim maid of middle age responded to my summons. She didn’t place me as one of the clique. Behind her spectacles, her eyes were cool. “Yes?”

  “I’m a friend of Miss Putnam’s,” I said.

  “The gentleman who called?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe she’s arrived, sir.” A crisp, female voice behind the maid said, “What is it, Zola?”

  “A gentleman looking for Miss Putnam, Mrs. Clavery.” The maid moved aside as her employer came to the door.

  Mrs. Clavery was a woman of cool, aloof, almost sleek beauty. She was thirty, or forty, or fifty. There was no way of knowing by looking at her. Her face and body had received endless and expensive care during all her years. She had the ageless perfection of a fine painting. Her hair was like polished ebony, and her eyes were so black they looked purple. She wore a polished-cotton print dress with an air of careless sophistication.

  “I’m Mrs. Natalie Clavery,” she said. “What is this about Jean?”

  She’d glanced me over as she spoke. Her eyes recoiled slightly. I didn’t mind. A slope-shouldered 190 on a six-foot frame, I have a face that usually brings a reaction. It gives women ideas, hot or cold. It inspires caution or complete trust in men. There seems to be no middle ground, but it’s my face, creased, swarthy, thick-skinned, with sleepy brown eyes under hooded lids, and I’m stuck with it.

  “My name is Ed Rivers, Mrs. Clavery. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About Jean?” “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand … but can’t you make it some other time? We’re in the midst of a bit of entertaining.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” I said. I opened my wallet and showed her the photostat of my license.

  She regarded it with some hesitancy but without a change of expression. Still looking at the photostat, she instructed the maid, “Tell Mr. Clavery to come to the study.”

  Then she stepped aside, made a small motion with her graceful, long-fingered hand. “This way, Mr. Rivers.”

  I entered a living room that was a sunken garden in which the tricky use of glass gave you the feeling of being outdoors. Following her, I noted the swing of her hips, the flash of her bare, firm calves. Off the top of my mind, I made a guess about her husband. He had himself one hell of a woman — or an icy queen with a firm grip on an invisible ring in his nose. Her decision as to a relationship with a man wouldn’t contain reservations. He would be all or nothing.

  The study was more bleached wood, floor-length draperies, with pale-tan leather furnishings. She closed the door and leaned against it.

  “I can’t possibly make a connection between Jean and a private detective, Mr. Rivers.”

  “Have you known her long?”

  “Since she became private and social secretary to Señora Isabella Sorolla y Batione.”

  “The hefty Spanish monicker strikes a chord,” I said.

  “The newspapers gave the señora considerable space.”

  “Yes, I’m beginning to remember. She was an old Venezuelan doña who came to Tampa and settled a year or so ago, after Venezuelan terrorists planted a bomb in her husband’s office.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Rivers.” Natalie Clavery moved to the desk and chose a cigarette from a beaten silver humidor. “The bomb killed both the husband and the daughter of Señora Isabella. The old lady never wanted to see her native country again.”

  “And she got her wish,” I said. “Didn’t she die a few days ago here in Tampa?”

  “Yes, of a kidney ailment compounded by a heart attack. But then, none of us lives forever. Señora Isabella had a full measure of years — more than eighty of them.”

  “What else can you tell me about Jean Putnam?” I asked.

  She speared me with an arched brow. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, the study door opened. The man who entered was lean, wiry, his movements indicative of a quick, nervous energy. His thin face had a harried look reflecting about forty-five years of anxious living. He had thin lips, a sharp nose, intense eyes, and sparse, faded brown hair. Skinny as he was, he somehow looked natural and slightly dangerous in his pirate’s costume.

  “Van,” his wife said quietly, “this man’s credentials identify him as Ed Rivers, a private detective.”

  He cut a glance at her. I sensed a quick understanding between them.

  “I see,” he said. He extended his hand. “I’m Van Clavery, Mr. Rivers. What can we do for you?”

  “He was asking about Jean Putnam,” Natalie Clavery said.

  “What about her?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid she’s in trouble.”

  “Jean? Trouble?” he said, as if the two were totally inconsistent. “I’m sorry to hear it. What kind of trouble? How does it concern us?”

  I let his anxious flow of words go unanswered. “Tell me something about her,” I suggested.

  “A fine girl. A friend. She was employed by a business associate of mine.”

  “You represent a Batione interest?” I asked.

  Clavery nodded, a jerk of the head. “Tropical hardwood timber. I import it. Because of my business association, the old señora chose Tampa after her husband and daughter were killed by terrorists in Venezuela. Also, as you know, Ybor City, the Latin Quarter, with its Spanish-speaking population and Old World flavor, differentiates Tampa from all other American cities. The old lady felt more at home here than in any other place in the United States.”

  “Were you instrumental in Jean’s going to work for Señora Isabella?”

  “No,” he said. “Fred Eppling, the old lady’s attorney, suggested the arrangement. But we got to know Jean pretty well during her term of employment.”

  “Before we continue this,” Natalie Clavery said, “I think you should tell us what kind of trouble Jean Putnam is in, Mr. Rivers.”

  “She’s dead,” I told them. “Murdered.”

  There was an absolutely empty second of time during which they did nothing but stare at me. Then Natalie Clavery went white. Her husband clutched the arms of a chair and lowered himself.

  “Impossible,” he said. “Impossible!”

  In a controlled voice, Natalie said, “When?”

  “Early this afternoon. She was dressed for your party, intending to detour by my office on the way here.” “How?”

  “She was shot,” I said.

  “Merciful God!” Clavery said. “Who would do that?”

  “A man. We think he is a professional hoodlum. He hasn’t been identified as yet.”

  Clavery’s hands were hard tentacles of bone on the arms of the chair. “It’s senseless! She’s the least likely candidate for murder I could name …”

  Three

  “Good background?” I asked.

  “Impeccable. Not wealthy, but substantial. Her parents were killed in an accident when Jean was young, but they left enough to see her through school, including an excellent finishing school.”

  Clavery’s growing and suppressed nervousness was reflected in his eyes, in his hands as he knuckled his jaw, curled his fingers to pick an imaginary hangnail. I had the distinct feeling that his mind wasn’t really on what he was saying. “Señora Isabella was Jean’s first employer. The old lady considered herself lucky to have found such a girl.”

  “What my husband is trying to say,” Natalie said as she broke in, “is that Jean was conscientious, quiet, devoted to her work. She led a sheltered, faultless life, if somewhat dull.”

  “I’d very much appreciate her address,” I said.

  “She moved, a cou
ple of days ago, to share an apartment with an one-time schoolmate, Lura Thackery. The address is on Calmwaters Boulevard.”

  “Where had she lived previously?”

  “In Señora Isabella’s hacienda,” Natalie said. “The old lady provided a very lovely suite, including a room they outfitted and used as an office. Jean moved in at the beginning of her employment. She remained after the señora’s death until her duties were completed.”

  “Catching up tag ends?”

  “Something like that,” Natalie said. “Señora Isabella had one surviving blood relation, a granddaughter, Elena Sigmon. The old lady’s son-in-law, Keith Sigmon, and Elena flew in from Venezuela forty-eight hours after the señora died. Elena had never been in the States before. Jean Putnam remained to give whatever assistance she could.”

  Clavery pushed himself out of the chair as if it had become a pincushion. “Poor Jean! Did she reach you before she died, Rivers?”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t elaborate. I let him stew, watching him closely. I sensed the fright in him, rather than seeing any visible evidence of it.

  Then Natalie intervened smoothly. “I’m sure Mr. Rivers would acquaint us with anything Jean might have said concerning us.”

  A look passed between them. It gave Clavery a little more fortitude. With a nervous moistening of his lips, he said, “I wish we could be of more help.”

  “Don’t fret over it,” I suggested, certain that he would. “I usually get where I’m going.”

  I didn’t wait to be invited out. I stopped at the first shopping center I passed and got Lura Thackery’s address and phone number from a phone-booth directory. I let the phone ring a dozen times before I decided she wasn’t home.

  I filed Lura Thackery for future reference, and drove out to Señora Isabella’s hacienda.

  The local papers had carried a picture-feature spread about the place when the old lady had purchased it from the estate of a one-time citrus magnate.

  The old woman had made the restoration of the home and grounds a pet project. She had completely renovated the house. With upwards of twenty million dollars to toy with, she’d brought in artwork from as far away as Valencia and Milan. She’d put a crew of horticulturists at work on the tropical gardens that surrounded the house like a vast, carefully planned, exotic jungle. There were even strange birds of colorful plumage at home in the foliage that shaded the long, winding drive and acres of green lawn and flower beds.

  The house slid into my view, a huge square U of stucco, stone, and iron filigree. Vaulted open porticoes with slim columns faced inward on a flagstoned courtyard where a fountain played over lily pads in a marble pool.

  The aura of Castilian refinement was shattered by a female voice screeching a stream of curses in Spanish. A man’s voice told her in everyday American that if she didn’t shut up he would knock her damned teeth out.

  I broke into the cozy family discussion by lifting and lowering the heavy brass knocker on a massive wormy cypress door.

  The heavy portal was opened by a girl in a scanty pirate’s costume. Deeply tanned, she had a lean-hipped, small-breasted figure that suggested sly sensuality. Her face was small; in later years it would be the face of a vixen; right now it was startlingly pretty, with a mouth that was almost too wide, a small nose, and wide-set blue eyes under carelessly unplucked brows. A wisp of dark-blond hair showed beneath the bandanna knotted on her small head, and in her right ear she wore a large ring of gold.

  As she focused her eyes on my face, I realized she was in the first warm, cozy stage of drunkenness. “What is it?”

  “Are you Miss Sigmon? Miss Elena Sigmon?” “Uh-huh. Who are you?” “My name is Ed Rivers.” “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.” “I’m not selling anything. I want to talk to you,” I said.

  “Make an appointment. I’m on my way to a party.”

  “It’s about a girl who worked for your grandmother,” I said. “Jean Putnam.”

  “She no longer lives here. She moved out a couple of days ago.”

  Elena Sigmon tried to close the door. My shoulders were in the way. The alcoholic haze lessened in her eyes. “You seem to be a ruffian,” she said thinly. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “If you like.”

  She regarded me with eyes that had become surly and brooding. Then she eased the pressure against the door. “Do explain yourself as briefly as possible. My day is already behind schedule.”

  I was in an entry foyer that was austere, almost barren. Ahead, a short stairway dropped to a living room the size of a small cathedral with a vaulted ceiling. “So is Jean,” I said. “Considerably behind.”

  “Really? What is she to you?”

  “A client.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No,” I said. “A private detective.”

  A momentary chill came to her. “I think you had better talk to Keith, my father.” She turned with the lean motions of a lithe, sinewy female leopard and went out of sight in the spacious living room.

  She either had trouble finding him, or they carried on a conversation of nearly ten minutes’ duration. When Elena finally returned with him, Keith Sigmon greeted me with a smile and outstretched hand.

  He was a tall, slender, slightly dissipated man of about forty-five. Age, and probably his habits, were just beginning to mar a lean face chiseled in lines of classic good looks. His jaw line was clean, his chin square. His lips, nose, and widow’s-peaked forehead were patrician in cut and perfectly blended. His black hair, barely salted with gray, seemed molded in softly waving lines to his proud head. “I’m Keith Sigmon, Mr. Rivers, and hope I may be of service to you.”

  With a motion of his hand, he invited me into the living room. “Elena, why don’t you get Mr. Rivers a drink?”

  “Anything you’d prefer?” She was now the dutiful daughter. Her attitude had veered toward warmth. “I’ll pass,” I said.

  Sigmon patted her shoulder. “Then get me a small Bacardi, dear.”

  The living room interested me only because Jean Putnam had lived and worked here. Sigmon noted my survey of the substantial furnishings, the Persian carpeting, the fine oil paintings on the walls. The room reflected real grace and luxury, the sort of good taste that is generations in the making, none of the tinsel or gaudiness of the newly rich.

  “I see you appreciate my mother-in-law’s eye for quality,” Sigmon said. “She will be missed, not only by those close to her. There are few of her breed left in the world.”

  Sigmon was now quite a contrast to the male voice that had threatened dental destruction to a brattishly screeching daughter.

  “I’m under the impression,” I said, “that Señora Isabella was quite fond of Jean Putnam. Maybe the old lady recognized points of breeding they had in common.”

  “I really couldn’t say. Neither can I understand why Jean has sent a private detective here.”

  “We’re retained for various reasons,” I said. “Sigmon … Not a Venezuelan name, is it?”

  “American, as a matter of fact.” His voice took on an edge.

  “Do you get back often?”

  “I haven’t been back since I chose Venezuela many years ago, Mr. Rivers. I would not be back now if Señora Isabella were still alive.”

  “I suppose you’ve found a lot of changes in the United States.”

  “I really haven’t been interested.”

  “When did you get in?”

  “On Tuesday, following my mother-in-law’s death. Fred Eppling, the attorney, cabled the news. Elena drove from Caracas to the mountain cottage where I was vacationing and told me what had happened. The next day we flew from Caracas to Mexico City and jetted across the Gulf to Tampa.” “Known Eppling long?”

  His shortening temper thinned his lips. “I don’t understand the purpose or the necessity for this cross-examination, Rivers. But I don’t mind answering your questions, in exchange for a few answers from you.”

  “Eppling,” I reminde
d.

  “He entered the picture after Elena’s grandmother left Venezuela and found need of a legal adviser here. I introduced myself to him when he met our plane.”

  “WAS Jean Putnam with him?”

  Sigmon shook his head. “I met her that evening. She was here at the house, staying on to put her work in final order.”

  Elena returned with that leopardine flow of motion. She had two drinks in her hands. She gave one to her father. “If the party is out, I’m going to get drunk, Papa dear. Rivers, you’re a big, ugly, strangely attractive man. And it’s Gasparilla, or haven’t you heard? Why not take the afternoon off and let me show you how to get drunk? I’ll bet we could make Cloud Nine music, drunk together.”

  She had nipped heavily while fixing the drinks for herself and Dad. The fog was back in her eyes, heavier than ever. She wasn’t too drunk to know, dimly, what she was saying — merely too drunk to really care.

  Sigmon went white with fury. He raked her with his gaze. She was standing in an attitude of abandonment, in a slouch that thrust her crotch forward. In two generations, the old señora’s breeding had degenerated to animal vulgarity.

  All of us turned as the heavy knocker boomed on the front door.

  Elena waggled a finger. “I’ll see who it is, Pops. May be a descendant of José Gaspar who’ll drag me off to a nice, hot party.”

  I thought for a second that Keith Sigmon was going to slap her. Instead, he stood quivering, hands clenched at his sides, as Elena wavered toward the front door.

  The caller was a neat, smallish, sandy man dressed quietly in a conservative, expensive business suit. He came briskly toward me. “Fred Eppling,” he introduced himself. “You’re Ed Rivers, aren’t you?”

  He had a lean handshake that hinted at considerable tensile strength. The only hint of his age was in the gray at his temples. His eyes, like his body, were quick and ready. I suspected that he’d be right at home on a yacht deck in bad weather.

  “You know this man?” Sigmon said.

  “Rivers is practically a Tampa institution. He makes the papers now and then.” He looked at me earnestly. “You’re staying with it?”