Palm Beach Nasty (13 page)

Cynthia Dexter.

She had made it all possible.

But all of a sudden she had become a liability. Particularly after her distressing call to the house earlier that morning.

He had absolutely no idea how she got his number, as she fiercely rebuked him for standing her up. She harangued him about the four messages she had left on his cell, starting with, “Do you want to meet me at the movies or pick me up,” then, “Nick, please let me know what the plan is,” after that, “I hope you’re okay, Nick,” and finally, “I think it’s very rude that I haven’t heard from you.”

Then, she told him, she’d found out that he lived at the Palm Beach Princess from the nice bartender at Viggo’s. So she drove to the Princess and the guy at the desk said no, he hadn’t seen Nick for a few days. Last time was when Nick got into a Yellow Cab, which was weird since he had a car.

Next, Cynthia said how she’d phoned Yellow Cab, and convincingly playing Nick’s mother, explained where and when her son was picked up by one of their drivers. But she told the dispatcher she had no idea where he went from there, and now he was missing. He hadn’t called in days and she was very concerned.

Nick wanted to reach through the phone, grab her and smack her silly. She was so damn smug and pleased with all her little detective work.

Then she continued and told him how the sympathetic dispatcher had checked the records and told her the cab had taken her son to 101 El Vedato.

101 El Vedato, huh?

She said she knew right away that was the address of Spencer Robertson’s house. Well, now . . . wasn’t that interesting, she thought? How she had told Nick all about how rich Robertson was. Senile, too. Told him how Robertson just had the one elderly butler to protect him from the scam artists of the world.

Guys like you, Nick, she said.

NINETEEN

N
ick heard a commotion at the front door as he hung up with Cynthia Dexter.

“Yo, Grandpa Spence,” a voice boomed out. Nick was in the kitchen getting ice cream out of the freezer.

He hurried toward the front door, wearing the green Poinciana golf hat he had found in Spencer Robertson’s hallway closet.

A man in his midtwenties, knapsack on his back, came reeling into the house. Alcie hadn’t been able to intercept him because the man had his own key. The man’s arm was around a woman whose nipples seemed to be holding up a loose-fitting halter top. They were both inebriated.

“And who might you be?” the man asked, looking Nick over from head to toe.

Nick in his linen pants and Stubbs & Wootton slippers felt he should be doing the asking.

“Avery,” he said, “and you are?”

“Jesus, dude . . . it’s me, Dickie,” the man said throwing a bear hug around Nick.

Nick had to play along until he figured out who Dickie was. According to Cynthia Dexter, Avery was the only living relative of Spencer Robertson. His guess was she had missed one.

“So how’s it goin’, Dickie?” Nick said, enthusiastically, waiting for an explanation of their relationship. He saw Alcie back out of the room, figuring Nick had things under control.

Dickie released his hug.

“Christ, last time I saw you was at the funeral, you were like twelve,” Dickie said, looking him over.

Nick didn’t know what to say.

“Even back then, I remember those big ole Mick Jagger lips,” Dickie said, giving Nick a punch on the shoulder.

Nick laughed. He hadn’t wasted any time making an appointment with the cosmetic surgeon in Boca. But the doctor was a little collagen happy and went pretty heavy on the stuff. For the first twenty-four hours after he got his new lips, Nick had had a problem enunciating his words properly.

“I like ’em,” the girl slurred.

It was like Dickie had forgotten about the woman next to him, falling out of her clothes.

“Oh, sorry, this is my girlfriend, Gigi.”

Gigi flounced forward and gave an exaggerated curtsy. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Same here,” Nick said, shaking her hand. “Welcome.”

Dickie took off his knapsack and dropped it on the floor.

“So how is the old bastard, anyway?”

“Uh . . . not that great, I mean, you know, he is ninety-six.”

“Jesus, really? Time flies when you’re havin’ fun, huh?”

After his initial panic about getting found out, Nick knew he was now in the clear.

He had a lot of experience dealing with drunks, too.

“Whose funeral was it?” Gigi asked, reaching up to her shoulder and adjusting her black bra strap without any sign of modesty.

Dickie looked over at her gravely. “Avery’s parents, my aunt and uncle . . . really bad accident.”

Thank you, Gigi,
Nick thought.

“Yeah, really bad,” Nick said, wondering how they bought it. “How long you down for, Dickie?”

“I’m figuring ’bout a week. Get my shit together . . . see what happened, I got kicked out of Duke.”

The guy was like twenty-five and still going to college? And how’d the cretin get into Duke and the best he could do was fucking Hofstra?

“Sorry to hear that, man. You guys stay here as long as you want,” Nick said, not meaning a word of it.

“Thanks, man, where you living now anyway?” Dickie asked. “When you’re not down here on the gravy train?”

Nick remembered what Cynthia Dexter told him. Avery lived in some place way out there, like Montana or Wyoming.

“Montana. You know, I ski-bum around . . . rest of the time fish and hunt.”

Dickie looked envious.

“Sick, what’s the name of the place?”

Shit.

“Oh, little town outside of, ah, Helene called . . . Big Elk.”

Gigi cocked her head. “Wait, isn’t it
Helena
?”

Fuck.

“Yeah, but us locals just call it Helene.”

She bought it.

Dickie had a faraway look, like he was fantasizing about life as a ski bum. He was around five ten, had the potbelly of a six-months pregnant woman and was expensively, but badly, dressed. He had dirty blond hair that was combed straight back; a few strands flopped forward on both sides and circled his eyes. His hair had a glossy sheen to it, like he went heavy on the gel.

“All right if we take the yellow bedroom?” Dickie asked.

“Yeah, sure, I’m in the blue one. Want a hand with your stuff?”

“Thanks, dude, I’m good,” Dickie said, heading toward the front door, Gigi right behind him.

Nick was glad he sold the Albaran before the two lushes showed up.

A few minutes later they came back in with their stuff, mixed two large vodka and OJs, stumbled upstairs and didn’t come back down.

For the rest of the night Nick was kept awake by caterwauling shrieks of passion. The carnal racket started up again around eight o’clock the next morning when Nick was in the kitchen with the old man’s nurse. She looked at him, puzzled.

“My cousin, Dickie,” he explained.

She rolled her eyes.

Two days later, Dickie and Gigi hadn’t left the house. They were heavy maintenance, but gave Nick a chance to study Dickie like a textbook. He couldn’t possibly get a better education about the conduct and speech of a spoiled, entitled, debauched young aristo.

Above all else, Dickie Mortimer was a hardcore roué. Nick wondered why it had taken Duke three and a half years to toss his ass out of there. Despite being twenty pounds overweight and having marshmallow skin, Dickie was handsome. But, Nick predicted, he would have a short shelf life. In ten years his features would go soft and mushy.

Dickie’s modus operandi was to get out of bed at ten, stumble down to the refrigerator and, in one gulp, drain a half carton of OJ. Then he’d go back up and he and Gigi would come back down two hours later expecting bacon, eggs, the whole nine.

After breakfast, Dickie and Gigi would go for a swim. One time Dickie boasted how he was going to do thirty laps, but petered out after two and a half. Puffing like he had just run three miles, he dropped onto a chaise longue. After slathering on a handful of SPF 30, he flattened out in the chaise, his protuberant stomach the closest body part to the sun. Within minutes he was snoring.

Nick spent as much time as possible in Dickie’s orbit, soaking up all he could. One time, Alcie wheeled the old man out to the pool to give him some sun and fresh air. Dickie swung around when he heard the clank of the wheelchair. He looked up at Gigi, mischievously.

“How’s it going there, big guy?” he said to the old man.

His bewildered grandfather stared back.

“Happy New Year,” Spencer said.

Dickie and Gigi howled.

“So what’s happenin’, dude? Been down to the club lately? Teeing it up with the boys?”

The old man squinted.

Then Dickie looked over at Nick and smiled his, “aren’t I amusing” smile.

Nick felt a rush of protectiveness. He wanted to tell Dickie what a repellent slug he was.

Instead, he flicked his head in Alcie’s direction. Alcie got the message and wheeled the old man back inside. He had had enough fresh air, sun and Dickie.

Gigi finally got her fill, too. Nick was wondering how many days in a row a woman—even one with obvious self-esteem issues—could sleep until noon, knock back Bloody Marys at two, blow lines on the backgammon board at four and pass out halfway through dinner.

In Gigi’s case, the answer was four days.

She just vanished without a word. No explanation from Dickie. Nothing. And Nick didn’t care enough to ask. Gigi was barely out the door when Dickie started clicking away on the Internet. A half hour later, he made a call. He had been on Craigslist trolling for companionship. An hour later, Gigi’s perfume still heavy in the air, two skimpily clad white trash bimbos in their early twenties showed up. Facial and body piercings punctuated their emaciated torsos.

Shortly after their arrival, Estelle, the nurse who prided herself on working in an orderly household, informed Nick she had had enough, she was giving her two-week notice. Nick—delighted to have one less body in the house—told her he was sorry to see her go.

Fifteen minutes later, Dickie and the two women were in the hot tub by the pool quaffing Spencer’s vintage Dom Pérignon. An hour later, they were upstairs thrashing around in a pile.

Sometime during the night, the two women snuck out after boosting Nick’s new iPod touch in the kitchen.

Nick decided it was time Dickie followed them out the door.

Nick could be very direct when he had to be.

He was waiting when Dickie stumbled down just before twelve the next day.

“Sorry, man, you gotta go.”

“What do you mean?” Dickie asked, looking stunned.

“One of your . . .
girlfriends
stole my touch and an Albaran painting from the powder room,” he said. “You turned this place into a goddamned crack house.”

Embarrassed, Dickie looked down at his scuffed-up Testonis.

“They got my wallet, too,” he admitted, the air completely out of him. “Give me another chance, huh Ave?”

But Nick was firm and, without a further whimper or protest, Dickie caved. Like maybe he felt he was on borrowed time anyway. Probably because he had been kicked out of so many places, he figured it was just a matter of time.

Ultimately, Nick felt sorry for the guy and peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills from the Albaran sale. Dickie was appreciative.

An hour later he was gone.

So with Dickie out of there, Nick was ready to embark on a bold new phase of his plan. It was an experiment, really. He had decided to see if he could actually pass as the grandson of Spencer Robertson. He didn’t see how it would be a problem, since the real Avery hadn’t been to Palm Beach in twelve years.

His test run was going to be lunch at the Poinciana Club. It would be his society debut. His coming-out party. A little brazen, but not reckless, because he was absolutely certain he could pull it off.

He had thought a lot about what he would do after he sold his Hoppers, Bacons and Freuds. That was how he thought of the paintings now. As his.

He fantasized about where he would go after he cashed in and sold them. His first thought was the south of France. Where else? That was where his heroes, the Fitzgeralds, the Murphys and their high-minded literary group had spent so much time. Their pitchers of gin and bon mots . . .
sur la plage.
But he wondered—as romantic as it all sounded, stretched out on the same sand as they had done before him—what would he actually do there? He couldn’t speak more than a handful of words in French.

Besides, he had really warmed up to Palm Beach. He couldn’t wait to spiff up and swagger around like a PB blade. He felt confident he could walk the walk, talk the talk, and do the pink and green shuffle with the best of them.

TWENTY

C
rawford and a cop, John Porter, got to the building at the same time. Ott was on his way, be there in five, he told Crawford.

Crawford and Porter rode up the elevator together with the building manager, who was waiting for them. David Ponton, manager of the Poinciana Club, had called the Palm Beach police. Said he was worried about an employee. Explained that in seventeen years Cynthia Dexter had never missed a day of work and she definitely wouldn’t miss this morning’s budget meeting. Said he called her several times before the meeting. Tried her again after, on both her home and cell phones. Both went straight to voice mail. He repeated his concern and said it was “very un-Cynthia.”

Normally, just a cop would go out on a call like this. But the dispatcher had a hunch and told Crawford about it. Crawford decided it was worth the trip.

The building manager pushed the buzzer. He waited. Then knocked. Waited again. Then hit the buzzer once more.

“Better try the key,” Crawford said.

The manager put the key in the lock, turned it, then pushed open the door.

“Ms. Dexter,” Crawford called.

Crawford walked past him.

“Don’t touch anything, John,” Crawford said; then to the manager, “Stay right here, please.”

The manager nodded.

The place smelled good and looked immaculate.

“Ms. Dexter?” Crawford said.

He went down a narrow hallway, then into the first room he came to. The den. Very cozy and feminine. A nice perfume smell. She obviously spent a lot of time in there.