My glasses were pushed up on my head, and I was looking through the binoculars. Silently, I filled in the blank… She’s memorable because there’s so much of her to remember. Something like that.
I was still thinking about Beryl-how the hell had she gotten into this place? I’d told her I might be staying at the Orchid, but there was no way for her to know I’d be registered under a different name. I hadn’t been near a computer to check if she or Shay had replied to my e-mails, true, but…
“You do see the woman, old boy. Or have you dozed off?”
I refocused the binoculars, and forced myself to concentrate.
Madame Toussaint was a linebacker-sized woman. Sunken cheeks blushed with rouge, a heart-shaped mouth made girlish with lipstick, and wide, dark eyes that moved with tactical precision from guest to guest, even while engaged in conversation.
She was dressed in white robes with a white gabled hood trimmed in scarlet. The robe was the white of a hospital hallway, not the silken white of gowns issued to female guests. The hood was a starched rectangle that framed her face-a monastic touch that attempted stylishness with a shoulder veil that was knotted as if it were a ponytail. The Midnight Star, worn high on her neck, was a blue sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. No risk of exposed cleavage. A convent nun with Madonna affectations- that was the impression.
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.