McNally's Chance (28 page)

“No. Between your boy and Bianca the Palm has become a battle zone.

Mrs. Brewster thinks the management should keep a nurse on call. I think a nursemaid would be a better idea. I hear Bianca introduced you to Tony Gilbert. What did you think of him?”

“More your type than mine, Al.”

“Screw you, Archy. Now vamoose, I gotta go.”

I had the car door opened before I remembered my promise to Simon Pettibone. “One more thing, Al. Henry Peavey. Anything turn up?”

“Who?”

“Henry Peavey. Mrs. Pettibone’s mysterious cousin in California. You said you would see if you could get a line on him.”

Al tapped his forehead with one finger. “Sorry, pal. Forgot all about it, and right now I can’t say when I’ll get to it.”

“Get some rest,” I told him. “Henry Peavey can wait.”

Twenty-Two

It was Christinas in July. For Ursi there was perfume by Chanel. For Jamie, a cardigan sweater in loden cashmere. For Hobo, a leather collar tooled with banana trees. For Archy, a lemon-yellow sports jacket in raw silk.

“Your mother spotted it,” father said, ‘and insisted it was made for you. I wonder why?”

“And look what I got,” mother exclaimed, holding out her hand to display a lovely tennis bracelet circled with brilliants. “It was very expensive but your father insisted.”

“It was her reward for being such a good sailor,” father told us. “I had chronic mal de mer while her team won the shuffleboard championship. Mother also managed to win a few hearts. The gentlemen were very attentive and their wives furious.”

“Don’t believe him,” mother said with a shy smile.

There was no doubt but that the trip was a rousing success, the voyagers returning rested and in good spirits. Mother’s florid complexion, which kept us so concerned, had not disappeared but it was less evident thanks to a very healthy-looking tan. The dispenser of all this largesse had not left himself off the receiving end. Jamie had to unpack as many fancy liqueurs as one could legally purchase at their duty-free ports of call.

Mother inspected her garden and pronounced her begonias alive but little else. “I don’t think Martha talked to them,” she complained of the woman who had attended the plants. “Oh, she did a good job, but they do enjoy being spoken to. Tomorrow they will know I’ve returned.”

Tomorrow the begonias would be begging for earplugs.

By cocktail time things had calmed down and the McNally family was back to their familiar routine. We gathered in the den where father poured and stirred and served as mother smiled approvingly, and I raised my glass in a toast. “The best present you brought us is yourselves, back home safe and sound.”

“Why, Archy, how lovely,” mother applauded.

“Thank you, Archy,” father said unbending as far as the Chairman of the Board would ever unbend. “I trust you’re not going out tonight as I’d like to confer with you after dinner.”

“I thought as much, sir, and made no plans.”

Being on the ship-to-shore with Mrs. Trelawney daily, it was not office matters father needed to be advised of. Jamie had apparently had a chance to tell him of my involvement with Sabrina Wright. They say thoughts have wings and ours must have touched down on mother’s shoulder.

“Did you hear about the writer Sabrina Wright?” she exclaimed. “It was all the talk at breakfast. The ship’s newspaper put out a special edition to make the announcement. I can’t tell you how many of the ladies had brought her latest book along for leisure reading. What have you heard, Archy?”

We tend to keep the more harrowing aspects of my business from mother as it only aggravates her hypertension. However, rather then lie to her, which would be undignified, we simply soften the rough edges or omit the more sordid details. In keeping with this edict I readily admitted, “I met Sabrina Wright shortly after she arrived here.”

“Really, Archy? How exciting. Was it at a book signing?”

“I would be more interested in hearing about Binky’s housewarming party,” father insisted. “Did he like my gift and how many more did he receive?”

Always amiable to forgo a celebrity for a friend, mother started in her chair, “Oh, yes. Mrs. Trelawney told us Binky now has his own apartment. Tell us all about it, Archy.”

I regaled them with life at the Palm Court until Ursi announced dinner.

It had been a long day for the travelers who were looking forward to retiring early in a bed not bolted to the floor. With this in mind the ever vigilant Ursi presented us with light but satisfying fare, consisting of a crabmeat cocktail with lemon and a tangy red pepper sauce, grilled chicken breasts, chilled sliced beets marinated in vinegar, and tossed with diced onions, steamed broccoli florets, and Ursi’s own home-baked bread which has become a staple of her kitchen.

In a celebratory mood, the Squire poured a bottle of Chateau Lafite, 1950. Mother, as always, stayed with her sauterne. The homecoming meal ended with ice cream and Ursi’s almond cookies.

I kissed mother’s velvety cheek before father escorted her to bed shortly after dinner. “I missed you so,” she whispered to her favorite son. I assured her the feeling was mutual and went into the den to await father’s return. When he joined me he took his customary seat behind his desk and asked if I would join him in a glass of port. “I would, sir, thank you.” I went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the wine, serving the Gov’nor before perching in a comfortable wing chair.

To your good health, Archy,” he saluted. “It’s good to be home.”

Stroking his mustache he said, “Wasn’t there a book awhile back called Ship of Fools?”

As the Master is a latter-day Victorian who reads only Dickens, this caught me off guard. But like Jamie Olson, mon pere is a keen listener and what he hears he does not forget. “Yes, sir. A much praised novel by Katherine Anne Porter. It was also a very popular film. I take it your holiday is what brings it to mind.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “There were a few good chaps aboard but Porter’s title has much to say about the majority of our shipmates. However, your mother relaxed and enjoyed it and for that reason I have no regrets and would gladly do it again.” Amazing how devoted he was to his wife of almost half a century. Would I one day sit in that swivel leather chair behind that great oak desk and utter the same sentiment?

I think not. I gently swirled my port in the fine crystal glass, savored its aroma, and drank. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Father opened the side drawer of his desk and brought out his cigars. “Archy?” he said, proffering the box. “No, thank you, sir.” I took out my English Ovals. “I’ll have one of these.” Don’t be misled by this. Father was anxious to learn my news, but the rituals must be observed. The after-dinner port, the comments regarding his shipmates that were not meant for feminine ears, the cigar, its tip now being removed with a special scissors, and finally touching flame to stogy before puffing it to life. Did he pretend we sat in a gaslit room filled with furniture adorned with antimacassars?

Did he hear the clop, clop, clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones echoing through the dense evening fog? Was I Boswell to his Johnson, or was he Watson to my Holmes? Exhaling a cloud of smoke he said, “Perhaps Sabrina Wright’s death brought to mind the Porter novel. Jamie tells me you were working for the lady?” “Briefly, sir.

If you would indulge me I think I should tell you all that transpired from the day I met Sabrina Wright to this very morning.”

“You have the floor, Archy.”

As the story unfolded father stroked, tugged, and blinked as his one eyebrow rose and fell with the speed of an express elevator in a busy office building at lunchtime. Each gesture depicted his thoughts more eloquently than the spoken word.

An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler,” he intoned at the conclusion as if each were a deity and perhaps, to Prescott McNally, they were.

“All three? And the story is true?”

“I see no reason why those involved would lie, sir.”

He shook his head as he tugged on his bushy mustache. And you were at Casa Gran?”

“It was a fund-raiser for Troy Appleton,” I said, but it’s so seldom I get a chance to impress father I went into details with, “Harry Schuyler took me to the roof garden where we spoke in private.”

Father’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline. “The roof garden is off-limits when the house is lent for charitable events,” he said. “You know, I did some work for Schuyler a few years ago. Nothing much, but I was hoping for more.”

As I related my meeting with Al Rogoff, I commented, “The police are convinced that Gillian’s search is the reason Sabrina was murdered.

They think the girl was gathering information on a prominent Palm Beach family for her mother. Zack Ward’s involvement with a tabloid only adds fuel to the rumors. Strange how close everyone is to the truth.”

Father continued to smoke thoughtfully as I put out my cigarette. The second for today, but it was an exceptional day.

“Would you please pour me another dram, Archy, and help yourself to more if you like.” When I had refilled both our glasses the Gov, still nonplussed, ruminated, “An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler.

Remarkable.”

Father was never a gossip, but he could not conceal his excitement over this intimate look into the lives of three of the richest men in the country. Tom Appleton keeps a mistress, Dick Cranston has a drinking problem, and Harry Schuyler is not long for this world,” he went on.

“Each of them thinks he is the father of Sabrina’s daughter and without even knowing which one is, she beat them all out of a fortune. What an extraordinary woman.”

“She was, sir, but not very timid, I’m afraid. She ruled her family like a czarina and harbored a great resentment against those three men in spite of beating them at their own game, and continued to goad them when they met again this past week. For all that she was special and, as you said, extraordinary.”

“You’ve seen the daughter. Do her looks give the father, away?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. She doesn’t resemble her mother either, but then I’m told my sister looks like mother and I look like an orphan,;

“You look like my father,” he said with foreboding.

Having seen pictures of Freddy McNally I was aware of this, but as father likes to think the stork brought him (directly to Yale, I presume), I am mum on the subject. That I am a constant reminder of the McNally days on the burlesque circuit is a tough rood to tote around Palm Beach, believe me. Being tossed out of mein papa’s alma mater does not help my cause.

“Who do you think did it, Archy?”

“Cranston. He’s the most desperate and the murdering kind. Maybe he had one too many before his meeting with Sabrina.”

“I cast my lot with Schulyer. As he said, he has nothing to lose.”

Experience told me that the least likely suspect was usually the guy who done it. Sorry, Tom.

“For all her faults,” I said, “I would like to see the one who did this pay for his transgression while upholding Sabrina’s end of the bargain.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it of all I had told him, father returned to his abstemious self when he said, “I don’t think that’s possible, Archy.”

“Sir?”

He flicked his cigar ash in the tray on his desk and answered, “If Sabrina Wright was killed to prevent her from revealing the name of Gillian’s father, you are in danger of meeting the same fate.”

“The thought had occurred to me and, apropos of this meeting, so are you.”

“No one is aware of this meeting, Archy, but you and I, and I promise not to tell if you don’t.” He smiled at his own wit, which was indeed a rarity. “But there’s more to this than your imminent danger.”

It’s rather startling to be prioritized and come in second.

“I speak of our duty to assist the police in apprehending a murderer,”

he lectured, ‘especially one who is poised to murder again. You know all the facts and it’s your duty to report them to the police and let them proceed from there. You are not capable of hunting down a murderer, especially one who is out to get you first. I don’t relish the idea of my son in the role of a moving target.”

I did not remind him that I had apprehended a few murderers in my time, with great success, because I thought he might be genuinely worried about me getting in the way of a bullet. “If I go to the police, sir, two innocent men will go down with the guilty one.”

“There are no innocent men in this scandal, Archy. There are only rotters and scoundrels who will get what they deserve.”

Remember, he was speaking about those he revered the super-rich landed gentry but in the age-old battle between justice and privilege Prescott McNally would always side with the former and lament the errant ways of the latter. Pomposity is father’s style, not his religion.

After a pause a bit theatrical I thought he continued, “This is not an order. When I put you in charge of Discreet Inquiries I did so without reservations. You’ve proved yourself worthy of that decision many times over and what I suggest now is not a matter of opinion but of law, the law we are all pledged to uphold.”

He was right. No question about it, but I could not turn my back on the obligation I believed I owed Sabrina Wright. To this end I pleaded my suit. “I discuss all my cases with you not because I must, but because I value your judgment,” was how I began. “This case is no exception. When I learned of Sabrina Wright’s death this morning your return was the only light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I sought your counsel and you’ve given it.”

“But there’s a caveat,” he anticipated.

“I want a chance to talk with Appleton, Cranston, and Schuyler.”

“That could be dangerous, Archy,” he put in.

“One of them may have killed her, sir, but none of them are hardened criminals who would murder indiscriminately. Sabrina didn’t know the meaning of tact and may have driven her adversary over the edge in a moment of rage.”

“He went to meet her with a loaded gun,” came the attorney’s rebuttal.

“Perhaps to frighten her, but she wasn’t the type to kowtow even when facing a loaded pistol. I’m asking for a chance to meet with them and I want to see Sabrina’s husband and daughter. I want to know what they’re thinking and what they intend to do now that Sabrina is gone.