The Rich and the Dead (10 page)

Lila knew that by “the club,” Effie meant the Fisher Island Club, Miami's most exclusive country club. Every person in the Janus Society was a member there. Lila was dying to explore it, but she could only go as the guest of a member.

“That sounds fun,” Lila said casually. “I'd love to see the club sometime.”

“Fun doesn't begin to describe it,” Effie countered. “The club is where everyone hangs out. My family have been members since the beginning of time, practically, so I know everyone worth knowing,” she said. “Why don't you come with me? If you're going to be in Miami, you really have to join.”

“Great,” Lila said quickly.

They decided that Lila would come to Effie's house on Star Island around noon on Saturday, and they would go to the club on Effie's boat. Effie also decided that they both “simply must” wear the silk georgette dresses they'd just bought at Yves Saint Laurent.

Effie was making it clear that if Lila was going to have the good fortune to be in her entourage, she'd have to play second fiddle. But that was fine with Lila. If Effie wanted the spotlight, she was more than welcome to it.

The next day, at noon sharp, Lila pulled her Maserati up to Effie's gargantuan, perfectly manicured Spanish Colonial mansion. It struck her with renewed force that in a few short months, this whole world of privilege would be shattered. Effie and the eleven other members of the Janus Society would be murdered at Chase Haverford's mansion, just a stone's throw from this very house.

Effie opened the door looking bleary-eyed and hungover. She greeted Lila's smile with a blank face.

Lila pulled out her cell phone. “Your place is exactly what I want mine to look like,” she gushed. “Can I take some pictures to show my designer?”

Effie enthusiastically agreed, her sour mood instantaneously lifted. With iPhone in hand, Lila followed Effie through the sprawling multitude of rooms, snapping dozens of shots as she oohed and aahed in reply to Effie's various stories about the house.

Then they cut across the green oceanfront lawn toward the dock, where Effie kept her boat. A strong tropical breeze had been tossing everything to and fro since morning, and the ocean was choppy. A gust of wind suddenly hit both women at once, blowing their light-as-a-feather dresses over their heads. To Lila's surprise, she heard herself shrieking and giggling along with Effie.
Get it together,
she admonished herself as she stepped onto Effie's red-and-yellow-striped Pantera speedboat.

There was no bridge to Fisher Island, so club members had to get there by ferry (the default method for trophy wives and their unruly children), helicopter (the favored mode of transport of the tycoons), or private boat. Effie preferred the last option.

“Hold on,” Effie warned, flashing Lila a wild grin. “I like to drive fast.”

A sudden wall of g-force threw Lila back in her seat as the boat roared into the open water. The boat's nose smashed into each wave's crest, then slammed back. Lila clutched the side with both hands as she bounced in her seat, each slam onto the water smashing her tailbone.

“You New York girls aren't that hardy on the sea, are you?” Effie said, pointing at Lila's white-knuckled grip. “Better stand up, or you'll break your ass.”

The ride was ten minutes of sheer terror for Lila. Effie didn't see a wave she didn't want to smash straight into. Lila couldn't believe that while she, a seasoned cop, was in a state of panic, Effie was utterly placid.

This girl just may be crazy,
Lila thought.

Finally, the boat pulled up to one of the many docks on Fisher Island, and Lila gave a silent prayer of thanks that they'd arrived safe and sound.

“Come on, Manhattan,” Effie said, tossing the tie line to one of the boys standing at attention on the dock. “Let me show you how we do things here in the Sunshine State.”

The Fisher Island Club was breathtaking. The Spanish Colonial roof had been tiled by an artisan imported from Madrid. Each blade of grass on the entire island was manicured with ferocious precision. There were four staff for every member, and it showed. Two doormen dressed in matching white linen shirts opened the wooden front doors as Effie and Lila breezed through.

The doormen bowed deeply for Effie. The Websters were charter members and therefore expected to be treated deferentially by all those lucky enough to wobble around in their wake. The family's revered status in the South Beach social scene was proof positive of Teddy's claim that becoming a senior member of any of Miami's institutions takes less time, and more money, than you'd think.

Lila looked around the first floor of the club and saw the entire South Beach social scene, in all its splendor, laid out before her. Everyone within sight bore the marks of extreme wealth and the relaxed, self-important insouciance that it buys. The room was a sea of tanned skin, straight white teeth, and hair that screamed effort-filled effortlessness. It was like a summer camp for billionaires.

“That's Scott and Meredith Sloan at the bar,” Effie said, pointing to a rather dashing couple visibly scowling at each other. “It looks like they're already fighting. By the end of the night, they'll practically be scratching each other's eyes out. Come on, I want to introduce you to them.” Lila was curious to see how Meredith Sloan and Effie would interact, whether anything they said or did would hint at the fact that they shared membership in the Janus Society.

Meredith had a severe sort of beauty, with her long caramel-colored hair and the hollow look of a woman who existed purely on liquids and willpower. Her husband was turned toward her, with his back to the room. As Lila and Effie walked up to the couple, Lila noticed that Scott had Meredith's tiny wrist in his hand.

“Don't make a goddamned scene again, dear,” Lila heard Meredith hiss. “If you want to get colorful, wait until we get home.” Meredith, seeing that Effie was approaching, switched her face from withering to welcoming with a swiftness Lila had only ever seen from Effie herself.

“Darling Effie!” Meredith cried, wresting her wrist from her husband. “How are you?”

“I'm perfection, and so glad you're both here because I wanted to introduce you to my very good friend, Camilla Dayton. She's fresh off the boat from New York. Camilla, this is Meredith and Scott Sloan.”

The wave of sadness that had hit Lila when she first saw Effie revisited her now. Meredith Sloan, yet another of the Star Island killer's victims, would be dead within months. And here she was, drinking, laughing, battling with her husband, as if the life before her stretched on indefinitely.

Studying Effie and Meredith as they smiled at each other, Lila looked carefully for anything out of the ordinary between them, any subtle hint that there was much more uniting them than the Fisher Island social scene, but their body language betrayed nothing. Both appeared to be experts at keeping secrets.

“Are you staying in Miami long?” Scott asked as he swayed slightly from side to side. He was a heavyset man with fine, thinning hair. Lila could smell the booze on his breath.

“Actually, I'm thinking of moving here.”

Addressing Lila, Effie said, “Now, Camilla, these two are the Miami power couple when it comes to real estate. They'll get you all set up with a gorgeous place in an instant. Am I right?”

“It's a buyer's market,” Scott said. He fumbled in the interior pocket of his seersucker jacket and pulled out a business card, handing it to Lila.

“Here,” he said. “Call our office to set up an appointment. We can take you to see some properties right away.”

“Actually,” Meredith interjected, “the house next to Effie on Star Island just went on the market. I listed the property a few days ago.”

Lila knew that the more time she could spend on Star Island, the better for her investigation. She nodded.

“Effie will tell you, Star Island is marvelous,” Meredith said, already in sell mode.

“Ladies,” Scott said with an over-the-top bow, “it would seem my wife's drink is empty. Chivalry requires that I fetch her another.” He grabbed Meredith's hand. As he was bending to put his wet, drunken lips on her skin, she snatched her hand away.

“I've had quite enough to drink. And so have you, darling,” she said with a false sweetness that struck Lila as more terrifying than a display of blatant hostility.

“Ah, my ever faithful wife,” Scott said. He stumbled out onto the veranda overlooking the ocean and headed for the poolside bar.

“Forgive my husband,” Meredith said, turning her attention to Lila. “He's been . . . overserved today. But he's right. Do call us. We can take you around to look at places as soon as tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

As Meredith left, Effie rolled her eyes. “Does that make you nostalgic for your own blissful marriage?” she asked.

“And how,” Lila said, following the unhappy couple with her eyes, her mind busily sifting through this new information. She hadn't known how fractured the Sloans' marriage was. “Always check out the husband first,” they used to say on the force. And in about a third of the murders she'd seen during her time as a detective, the perp had ended up being the person who shared the victim's bed.

Scott Sloan was officially a person of interest.

Lila had questioned Scott several times in the weeks following the Star Island massacre. She remembered that he'd seemed extremely distraught at Meredith's death, yet she was surprised that, given how upset he'd appeared to be, he never once shed a tear. She had a gut feeling that it was all an act.

Her suspicions were as good as confirmed when, about six months after he came off the suspects list, he got remarried to a nineteen-year-old Ukrainian model named Oksana Peterenko. Not the typical behavior of a man lamenting the loss of his one true love.

When she questioned him, he had vowed that he had no idea his wife was a member of the Janus Society, nor did he have any idea why someone would've wanted to kill her. So much of what he said had struck Lila as bald-faced lies, yet she'd never been able to back up her hunch with any sort of proof.

As she stood watching him weave his way through the club with Meredith in tow, Lila began to think of all the ways Scott might benefit from his wife's death. But what about the eleven other lives? Were they just collateral damage?

As Scott and Meredith cut across the lawn and down to the beach, Lila made a snap decision.

“I'm famished,” she said. “Should I go get us some food?”

Effie looked at her quizzically. To Effie, who existed exclusively on vodka, Red Bull, and an occasional can of Ensure, the thought of eating was preposterous.

“Do people still eat in New York?” she asked glibly. “No matter. I think you can find something in the clubhouse. Nothing for me, thanks. Find me later, 'kay?”

In an instant, Effie had turned her back on Lila and was air-kissing a tall man with a waxed mustache.

Lila quickly walked into the clubhouse, then ducked out another door, and headed toward the beach, down the steps, and onto the sand, where she ditched the strappy sandals that had been torturing her feet. Several young children were making sand castles with their nannies. A group of toned women were doing sun salutations in the afternoon's burning light. She saw Scott walk away from the crowds, Meredith following closely behind him. Keeping her distance, Lila trailed them. The couple walked behind a large cluster of palm trees and escaped Lila's gaze. As she got a bit closer, she heard them shouting.

“Get the hell away from me,” Scott yelled. Meredith said something in response, but the crash of the ocean waves and her lowered tone made it impossible to hear. Lila stood very still, her ears straining, her feet burning on the hot sand.

“I don't even know who you are anymore. It's nothing but secrets with you,” Scott said.

Meredith gave another inaudible reply.

“Trust you? How dare you ask me that? Trust between us died when you picked them over me.” The roar of Scott's voice grew louder until, too late, Lila realized he was walking back toward her. He abruptly turned the corner and rushed past Lila, once again running away from his wife. Luckily, he was in too much of a drunken rage to realize that Lila was there, but his sober wife was much more observant. The moment she laid eyes on the young woman just standing there on the beach, a wicked smile spread across her face.

“Enjoying the show, Camilla?”

“Excuse me?” Lila asked.

“Playing dumb only works on the boys. I know better,” Meredith said over her shoulder, as she walked back toward the clubhouse.

Needing to put her burning feet in the water and to absorb what she'd just heard, Lila went into the ocean up to her ankles, holding up her designer dress to avoid ruining it.

Them over me, Scott had said.

From the sound of it, Scott did know about the Janus Society. Lila was right. He had lied to her during the investigation. She had never understood how a husband, no matter how distant, could be unaware of such large sums of money being donated every year. And, more important, why was the society such a secret in the first place? During all the years she spent hunting the Star Island killer, that was the one question she could never come close to answering. She was convinced that the moment she figured out the mystery at the core of the society, she would figure out who the killer was.

If Scott had lied to her about the Janus Society, what else had he lied about? Certainly his so-called devastation after Meredith's death. Given what Lila had overheard, he seemed nothing like a man who would mourn his wife. This was a man who wanted his wife gone. By the time Lila returned, Effie was halfway into her second Red Bull vodka, and flirting with a handsome Australian bartender. Her blue eyes were unfocused and shining. When she saw Lila, she slipped an arm around her waist. “I'm broiling up here. Let's go sit by the pool. I'll be the tour guide and you'll be the tourist.”