McNally's Chance (23 page)

“It is, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”

He was holding a glass filled with sparkling water. Were it spiked, it was with something of the colorless variety. “Your father handled some business for me awhile back,” Schuyler said. “I understand he’s out of town.”

“On a cruise with mother. Not the best time of year to sail in the Caribbean, but it’s the only time he can get away. He will be disappointed to have missed the party.”

“Nice of you to say so, but I doubt it’s true. This is not my affair, as you can plainly see. It’s a fund-raiser for young Troy by the way, you don’t have to ante up just because you came.”

“I have no intention of doing so, sir.”

“Smart boy. As I was saying, it’s not my gathering, not at all. Tommy Appleton called me up north and asked if he could use Casa Gran for the happening. The old ark has a certain cachet, as I’m sure you know, and it’s been used for far less worthy causes. Tommy and I were at Saint Paul’s together, so what the hell.

“As it turned out it worked to my advantage. I wanted an excuse to get back here without people wondering why, and this was my ticket.” He concluded by taking a long swig of his drink.

I sipped mine. It was one hell of a martini. The bartenders must have been told to pour liberally to get the folks in a giving mood. “Then you invited me so we could meet accidently on purpose.”

“You don’t waste words or time, Mr. McNally, and that’s just what I want. When doing business I am a man of few words, and presently I am very short of time. I’ve heard good things about you and they are justified.” He took another swig.

I’m at your service, Mr. Schuyler,” I volunteered.

“Have you seen our roof garden?” he asked.

“Only in Town and Country and Architectural Digest. This is my first visit to Casa Gran.”

“Is that a martini you’ve got there?”

“It is, sir.”

He flagged the bartender and ordered another. “Don’t rush. I’ll leave mine, which is just designer water, and carry your spare. Now follow me.”

He led me out of the solarium and into a room twice as big with a vaulted ceiling trimmed in gold leaf. It was furnished with a resplendent array of Queen Anne and Chippendale pieces of museum quality, as the merchants along Antique Row in West Palm describe their wares. “The Grand Salon of Casa Gran,” Schuyler lectured, sounding like a tour guide. “The proportions and ceiling are exact replicas of the great room in Catherine’s Palace at Tsarskoye Selo. Nana Dolly was mad for the Romanovs. They say the furniture rivals Winterthur.”

It was stunning, and about as warm and inviting as an igloo. Where did nana Dolly kick off her shoes and kick up her heels? He opened another door and, for a change, we stepped into a small room. It was the elevator. A press of the button and we rose. The panel indicated four levels: B, 1, 2, 3. We entered on 1 and ascended to 3. Schuyler opened the door, stepped out ahead of me, and magically lit up the scene. Did I say ascended? Right to heaven.

The pool, lit in a rainbow of colors, was the centerpiece. Surrounding it were more reminders of the landscape architect and his minions.

Flowering trees, indigenous shrubs, and formal mini-gardens all theatrically illuminated. Replicas of Greek and Italian sculptures in marble looked down at us from their pedestals, most notably David, whose appendage was more in keeping with the gigantic original than this far smaller reproduction. Seeing my gaze, Schuyler remarked,

“Nana Dolly had a sense of humor.”

It was now dark, the sky had turned on its own twinklers and floodlights highlighted the beach below us and the eternal motion of the surf. The party had now spread out to the sandy terrain. “There are no words,” I said. “There really are no words.”

Indicating a marble bench, Schuyler sat and I joined him. “I grew up here and it still impresses me. Drink up, Mr. McNally, or I’ll devour your spare and hasten my end.”

That was the second time he had alluded to his poor health. “You can’t take the hooch, sir?”

“Oh, I can take it all right, but it would only beg the inevitable and there is something I want to do before I depart this mortal coil,” he waved my spare across his princely domain. “Like attend my son’s wedding in September.

“I have about six months to live, Mr. McNally. A year at the most. It seems my liver isn’t in the best of shape. I’m in no condition to withstand a transplant, should one become available, which is just as well. I would only mistreat that one, too. So, time is of the essence, son.”

“For what, Mr. Schuyler?”

“For stopping Sabrina Wright’s daughter from adding an addendum to my obit.”

Surely I had heard wrong. The height and heady atmosphere must have clogged my ears. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Schuyler. You said…”

“I told you I was a man of few words and believed you were, too. I know Sabrina came down here and hired you. I got wind of it in Southampton the day after Spindrift ran his blind item.”

That blind item. Would it never rest in peace? “She did hire me, sir, for one day. She is no longer a client, nor are we in touch. Can I know your interest in Sabrina Wright and her daughter?”

Ignoring my question, he bragged, “My son is a fine young man and he’s going to be a great research scientist, though God knows how he got that way coming from Linda and me. The boy is about to marry a lovely young lady in the same profession. Thanks to him I have been on the straight and narrow for several years and I intend to stay that way until they plant me. I will not have their wedding sullied by another scandal about his old man. I will not.”

His voice shook and his hands trembled. I finished my martini and reached for my spare before it became a puddle. “Please don’t excite yourself, sir. I’m sure it won’t help your liver, or your situation, whatever that may be. Sabrina Wright hired me to find her husband who came down here looking for her daughter. It’s a little confusing, I know, but it’s the truth. I found him, or rather he found me, and that was the end of my association with Ms Wright.”

“I don’t believe you,” he stated.

“You may believe what you wish, Mr. Schuyler, but that’s the truth.”

“As far as it goes, I’m sure.” He put down my empty glass and ran a hand through what was left of his hair. The guy was in a bad way and so was Archy. What was going on here?

“The girl and her friend, a reporter they say, are snooping around old newspaper stories.” Schuyler repeated the scuttlebutt I had gotten from Ursi over my kippers and eggs. “Social items, if the gossips are right. There are those who believe she’s looking for her natural mother. Thanks to some magazine article, the world knows Sabrina adopted the girl.”

“I know this,” I admitted cautiously.

“It’s all bull because Sabrina is her natural mother. I know that for a fact,” he ranted. “So who is the girl looking for? Her father, who else? And why is she looking here? Because someone gave her a lead and the only person who could give her a lead was her mother.”

Here’s where I came in, I thought, but it wasn’t a film and I couldn’t leave. I told myself this wasn’t happening and didn’t believe me. I drank from my spare. “What is your interest in this, sir?” I held my breath and waited.

“I told you I don’t have the luxury of time, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m the girl’s father.”

My flabber was ruptured. My synapses ceased to synapse. Another contender had just entered the ring. Thirty years ago Sabrina Wright had come down to Ft Lauderdale for spring break and had screwed Tom, Dick, and Harry literally as well as figuratively. What a remarkable woman.

The sounds of the night floated upward like incense rising from the High Priest’s censer the rumble of the surf, the peal of genteel laughter, the strains of cocktail music. Perhaps, if I counted to ten backward, I would wake up in my garret repeating, There is no place like home, there is no place like…

“Did you hear me, Mr. McNally?”

“I think you said you are Gillian’s father.”

“You think right.”

He told me the story of the young, the bad, and the beautiful on spring break in Ft Lauderdale three decades ago. It loses its punch the third time around. Fourth, if you included the lady’s version. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of Tom downstairs, wondering what the hell I was doing here. Had he seen Harry leading me out of the solarium?

These old school chums were completely unaware that they were competing for the same title along with Dickey Cranston.

Schuyler ended with, “Can you help me?”

“Help you? How?”

“Get Sabrina to pack up, go home, and take her daughter and the reporter with her.”

“Why me, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Because you know her. She contacted you for whatever reason the moment she got here. Who else but you?”

“Trust me,” I said. “Sabrina wants to do exactly as you wish.”

“So you do know more than you’re saying,” he charged.

“I do, sir, but I could not reveal what I know until I knew what you knew. Client confidentiality.”

“Good. I’m a client and don’t you forget it. If you breathe a word of this, I’ll kill you, and if you think I’m joking, try me. All I could get is life or the chair, ain’t that a laugh?”

Yes, it was very funny, indeed. There were now three men in Palm Beach poised to do me in, and let us not forget dear Consuela and her long knife should she learn of my coitus interruptus episode outside Charley’s Crab. Who says you can never be too popular?

I read Schuyler my set piece. The one I deliver to all of Gillian’s fathers. “So you see, sir, Sabrina came down here purposely to stop Gillian from learning the truth.”

“Why the hell did she tell the girl she wasn’t really adopted? It was a fool thing to do. I paid her a fortune to forget she ever knew me. I had survived one paternity suit and didn’t want to face another. My father would have killed me,” Schuyler griped.

I was trying to calculate how much Sabrina had walked off with three times. “But she didn’t name anyone,” I reminded him. “She didn’t break the bargain.”

“And she told you,” he fumed.

“But she didn’t name names. If you hadn’t.. .”

“Okay,” he said, not liking the implication. “I had no choice. I need someone to talk to Sabrina and tell me what’s going on. I want to know how close the girl is getting, and I’m hiring you for the job.”

“Why don’t you call Sabrina?” I suggested.

“I did.”

“And?”

“She agreed to meet with me.”

So Harry had called. Again I wondered if Tom and Dick had, too. “So why do you need me, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Quite frankly, because I don’t trust her. I want a spy in her camp.”

“I’m not in her camp, sir.”

“You have entry, Mr. McNally.”

I said I was going to keep out of this, but thanks to that chance I took when I told Ursi and Jamie about my meeting with Sabrina, everyone in town knew the author and I had a working relationship. Of course, the most problematic folks on my list were the three kings she had bilked out of a fortune. I took a chance and look at the hand I drew.

Three kings, a queen, and yrs. truly, the joker.

Right there I decided it would be in my best interest to join the game and declare jokers wild. I would call Sabrina. First, to warn her of just how desperate her three old paramours were and to tell her to get them off my back. Also, I wanted to hear what the lady had to say in her defense. Plenty, I was sure. I would also bill Harry for my time and perhaps Tom and Dick, too. I had nothing to lose but my life.

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Schuyler,” I told him, not without some misgivings.

“I wish I could say that makes me feel better, but it doesn’t,” he said with a show of no confidence. “In my condition I guess I never will.”

“I’m sorry about your poor health, sir.”

“So am I,” he said standing. “Shall we go below? You look like you could use a drink.”

We were both carrying empty cocktail glasses as we walked to the elevator. Mine and mine. Just before Schuyler put out the lights I thought I saw David wink at me. Cheeky guy.

The party was in full swing. We deposited our empties on the bar, but before I could get a refill there was a stir of excitement in the crowded room at the arrival of two new guests.

“Oh, it’s Dickey Cranston and Ginny,” Schuyler said. “He was at Saint Paul’s with Tommy and me. Good of him to come. He and Troy are not on the same team. Different parties, you know. Would you like to meet him?”

“I don’t think so, sir. I’d rather scram before they pass the alms plate.”

“Nonsense, it’ll only take a minute. Dickey is going to be an ambassador or something. Big deal.”

Schuyler dragged me into the lion’s den, and at the sight of me Dickey Cranston almost keeled over. I hate having this effect on people; it bruises the ego. The crowd made way for Harry Schuyler as they must have all his life, and we had no trouble penetrating the groupies surrounding Cranston. Schuyler made the introduction, and Cranston shook my hand like I was Typhoid Mary. Suzanne was at the moment showing off her Chanel suit to Virginia Appleton.

“Pleased to meet you,” Cranston lied. “Are you a political enthusiast, Mr. McNally?”

“No, sir. My father was the invited guest and I’m here in his place.”

“That’s right,” Schuyler mumbled. “Prescott McNally did some work for me awhile back and I may need his help again.”

Unable to resist, Tom Appleton left his son, the Givenchy, and the Chanel to join us. “Good of you to come, Dickey,” he said to Cranston while looking at me. “I guess we can’t count on your vote. What’s your party affiliation, Mr. McNally?”

My para-was so -noid I wanted only to run out of the room and into the ocean, never to return. I was at Casa Gran, surrounded by three social-register heavyweights, all giving me the fisheye like the motel clerk who knows damn well you’re not Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Looking at them side by side was like playing the old shell game. Which one contained the pea? These three fools all believed they did.

“I’m an independent, sir,” I told him. “But I promised your son my vote and I will keep it.”

“Mr. McNally is my guest, Tommy!” Schuyler explained. “Lawyer business.”