“Young transvestites in the neighborhood?” I say.
Alex gives me an amused look. “Yes, probably.”
I say, “They most likely used the pillowcases to carry the other items. That’s common.”
“Well, it breaks up the set,” Sharon says, pointing to the spread, which looks much less glamourous in here, I notice.
“Had you gone through everything from the estate before the break-in?” I ask.
“Not really. I hung up all the finest clothes when I got home — that was the most important thing, to keep them nice. And then I was tired and my daughter and her family took me out for sushi. In the morning, I went out to the post office to ship things — I try to go early every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, so I don’t get behind.”
“Someone seeing you leave with packages would probably assume you’d be gone awhile.”
“I suppose. I was gone about forty-five minutes. When I came back the police were here, and I turned the alarm off.”
“Wasn’t there some costume jewelry?” asks Alex.
“Yes. I put it in here.” Sharon pulls out a vanity case from the closet floor. “It’s mainly brooches. Substantial ones that look good on her suits.” She opens a jewelry roll on the blue velvet piece and snaps on the light and they shine: fake pinwheels and starbursts.
“She wore the pearl one on Sundays,” I say.
“That’s the best,” says Sharon. “Miriam Haskell.”
“There was a decent coral one,” says Alex, “set in fourteen-carat gold, which I have. The rest was costume, which is Sharon’s territory.”
“Any missing?”
They both shake their heads.
“Well,” I say, “first thing to do is fix the window. And I think you need a deadbolt on that door — no reason to make things easy for them. I can do that for you, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” she says, and gives me a big smile. She takes us into the living room, a quiet space in greens and beiges. One end is nearly empty. A low table holds candles and a mat is unrolled in front of it on the pickled pine floor. She sees my glance. “I do meditation,” she says, “to calm down.”
“Does it help?” I ask.
“Yes. You should try it sometime. It’s good for your blood pressure. You tune in to yourself and just notice what there is: the light and little sounds.”
“I think I’ve done it,” I say. “On stakeout.” I’m looking at her, recognizing that after — what, three years? — I don’t know her at all. We’re all such strangers.
Driving home, I tell Alex it’s impossible to say what the burglary was all about. It might be something to do with the Dorsett estate or completely random. I drop him at his house in Palm Grove and tell him I’ll stay in touch with Sharon, in case she notices anything else. And otherwise keep my eyes open.
And for the next few days I do, with no particular idea what I’m getting at. I go back to help Sharon out, but she hasn’t made any further discoveries. At home, I work through all of Helena Dorsett’s books and papers. The only thing of real interest is a vintage book on how to dress, from 1939; she was still a girl, if she got it new. There are pencilled tick marks next to various tips. A strawberry blonde should not wear orange-reds, but blue-reds and true violets. There is a chapter about shopping that tells what kind of coat to have if you can only afford one, and then what to buy when you can purchase a second.
I have many pictures of Hialeah Park, postcards, programs. I went to closing day, back in 2001, and bought up a few future collectibles. It was a sad occasion. Even the pink flamingoes on their little island looked faded. I take a drive over there on Friday and circle around behind to see the area of extensive decaying stables where people used to board horses for the season. I forget what I last read about plans to reopen the track.
Then I drive on down to Coral Gables and tour Leucadendra Drive and spot the house. It’s certainly worth a million now. But whatever it was worth in 1962 was plenty.
I think I hear someone scrabbling outside my sun porch, late Friday night, but I’ve had problems with possums there, getting in under the house, and anyway it might just have been palmettos chipping at the window as they do. You have to prune here constantly. I get up, turn on some lights, patrol, see nothing, and go back to bed. I take out the phone book and look her up: an H. Dorsett is listed at the right address.
Now I’m fully awake, so I go into my linen closet which is full of reference books. I have a half dozen assorted Social Registers I’ve picked up. In the one for Greater Miami 1955, I find, DORSETT, MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM ELSFORD (Helena M.H.), listed at the address on Leucadendra Drive, Coral Gables. Then:
Summer: Little Chestnut Farm, Ligonier, PA
Miss Diana Hogarth
Clubs: Riviera (CG); Princeton (Miami); Rod and Reel
(MB); Jockey. Clubs, Mrs.: Opera Guild.
Coll., Mr:. Princeton
Yacht: Sea Lark
I note that she chose the initial of her stage name, and then Hogarth’s — which was needed to indicate where Miss Diana came from. No Coll. for the Mrs. was not all that unusual in those days. I presume the Opera Guild interested her due to her musical background.
I look up Dr. Pryor, but I don’t suppose veterinarians were society people. Nor is there any Roy Robineau. I don’t have a register from the early ’50s, but I know the Hogarths wouldn’t be in there — they were staying at a hotel, not a home or a club. I’ve put Mr. Billy Hogarth down as a young guy with a little family money, not in Mr. William Dorsett’s league.
I think about money and Florida. When I first came down here, years ago, after I got divorced, looking to have some fun and cheer up, I was amazed to see how much money was here, filtering in from all over America as people cashed in their piles. I cannot completely explain the fascination of discovering where they all went. In my old town when I was growing up, there were some rich people. You knew who they were; you worked for them. Then they deserted, and a lot of the people in the middle left. After they made me chief, I put in a few years at my best salary and then deserted too. I bought myself a little house down here in a neighborhood that was turning around and added my bit to the comeback. Here, I got interested in life’s cast-off paper, and started to buy and sell and learn the worth of the worthless.
Sunday morning early, I’m at the Lincoln Road Antiques & Collectibles Market. The humidity has lifted and it’s cool, in the fifties at 8 a.m., though it promises to warm up later. I’m in my usual spot on Drexel just off Lincoln near the community church — the side street gets morning shade. I have set up my tent with plastic side flaps. Rain — even a stiff breeze — can do a lot of damage to my stuff. But it doesn’t look a bit like bad weather today, so I leave them rolled up. I get to work, unpacking the rubberized tubs of pages organized by subject, and the display rack for the intact magazines. I never dismantle anything that’s perfect. Boxes of books go on the ground, and my best stuff under glass on the back table.
Other dealers pass by, circulating — we check out each other’s stuff early. Sometimes an item has changed hands twice before the average buyer comes out looking. There’s interest in my 1934 Vanity Fair with the Albert Einstein paper doll page: mint. I have the whole thing encased in plastic, but dealers know better than to touch. No one buys. I don’t expect it; I’ve set the price high because I don’t really want to let it go. When I have things laid out, I stand and stretch and look around. The Kussrows, as usual, have the corner of Drexel and Lincoln, across from where the SPCA has its table and pen of dogs up for adoption. Jeff and Hank are angling their stuff to best advantage: a bunch of Heywood-Wakefield chairs, a dresser, and there’s Helena’s dressing table with the circular mirror, catching and reflecting the morning sun like a fat full moon.