McNally's Caper (22 page)

“I don’t trust that Timothy Cussack,” she said angrily. “I think he’s a conniver and he’s going to cheat Tony.”

“You may be correct, Mrs. Bledsoe, but I doubt if your telling Tony so will change his mind. There’s a point you haven’t considered: it will take months, perhaps a year, before Mr. Forsythe’s estate is settled and your son receives his bequest. What I’m suggesting is that this is not an immediate problem. A lot can happen during the next year. Perhaps Tony and Cussack will have a falling out. Perhaps your son will find a more attractive opportunity to invest his legacy. I don’t have to tell you the future is unpredictable. That’s why I think you are worrying unnecessarily about something that may never come to pass.”

I was gratified to see her brighten after listening to my Solomonic discourse.

“Of course,” she said. “You’re right, Mr. McNally. Things can change, can’t they?”

“They always do,” I assured her, refraining from quoting “
Plus ça change
, etc.”

“Yes,” she said, “and I must think positively. That’s very important.”

“It is indeed.”

She rose and reached across the desk to shake my hand. “Thank you so much for your help,” she said earnestly. “Since Griswold died I’ve had no one I can talk to.”

Then, realizing she had used her former employer’s given name and implied an intimacy she had kept hidden for so many years, she blushed and fled. She left me feeling proud of the way I handled a rather delicate situation and at the same time realizing I now had another motive for the murder of Griswold II. The only person I could confidently absolve from complicity in that violence was little Lucy, and I went looking for her.

But I was told by Anthony Bledsoe—in a definitely surly manner, I might add—that Lucy would be late returning that day since she was rehearsing a school play in which she was acting the part of a tangelo. I thought it a fitting role for such a sweet child.

But what I could not comprehend was Tony’s enmity toward me. It went beyond his quite understandable rancor at not having been legally fathered: a sullen railing against fate. He obviously had an antipathy toward me personally. I was not aware of ever having offended him yet he treated me with a mixture of dislike, envy, and scorn. It was off-putting and another part of the Forsythe puzzle.

Searching about wildly for any activity to delay my cataloging chores, I traipsed up to the music room and put my ear to the door. I heard no jingling of the harpsichord. Just to make certain Sylvia was not present I knocked but received no answer. She was apparently busy elsewhere. Possibly Suite 309 of the Michelangelo Motel, I acknowledged.

I then sought Mrs. Bledsoe and asked directions for finding the private chambers of Geraldine Forsythe. Finally, after a few wrong turnings in those labyrinthine hallways, I found the correct door and rapped softly.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Archy McNally.”

After a moment I heard the sounds of a bolt being withdrawn and a chain unlatched. Superfluous security for the daughter of the house, I thought, but perhaps the attack on her sister-in-law had spooked her.

She opened the door and stood blocking the entrance.

“Yes?” she said.

It was not what one might call a warm, enthusiastic welcome.

“Just wanted to say hello, Gerry,” I said as breezily as I could. “And give you a progress report on the investigation—or lack of progress I should say.”

“Oh,” she said, thawing, “that. I want to talk to you about it. Do come in.”

I entered and she bolted and chained the door behind me. She had a small suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. But the ceilings seemed at least twelve feet high and there were enormous windows facing northward. It was heavily furnished with velvet drapes and overstuffed furniture, everything in maroons and lifeless blues. There was a depressing dinginess about her quarters and I looked in vain for some evidence of lightheartedness. Zip. A fun place it was not.

She led the way into the bedroom. It was in disarray, with two large suitcases and one small, all on the floor, opened and half-filled.

“I’m packing,” she said unnecessarily.

“So I see. Where are you off to, Gerry?”

“First to London. I have friends there and I’ll stay with them a few days while I make up my mind where I want to go next. Vienna perhaps. I love strudel. I’m glad you stopped by, Archy. I was going to give you a call before I left. I want you to end your investigation of my missing jewelry.”

“Oh?” I said. “Why is that?”

“I changed my mind.”

I stared at her. “You have every right to do that of course, but I’m curious as to why.”

“I just decided it wasn’t important.”

When some people lie they first lick their lips to lubricate their falsehood.

“You seemed to think so when you asked me to undertake the inquiry.”

“That was then,” she said. “This is now. I want you to drop the whole thing. Okay? They were just things. I can always buy more things.”

“I thought they had considerable sentimental value.”

She shrugged. “I can live with their loss. You’ll stop looking into it?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Let’s just forget about the whole thing. I really don’t care if my sister-in-law is having a fling with Timothy Cussack. It’s all a bloody bore.”

I was silent, trying to evaluate this switcheroo and link it to the recent orders I had received from Griswold Forsythe III to cease investigating the theft of his late father’s property. I was certain there was a link but what it might be I could not at the moment conceive.

Those north windows filled the room with a dullish afternoon light that had the hue of sullied brass. A desultory breeze billowed lace curtains. I was struck by the dead quiet of stodgy rooms enclosed in thick stone. I wondered if that was the reason for the Forsythes’ behavior: everyone was trying to break out—dig tunnels, smash walls, fly, whatever it took.

“Listen, Archy,” she said, “I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to see you again before I leave. I keep a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black up here to help when I can’t sleep. Could we have a goodbye drink?”

“I’d like that.”

“I don’t have any ice.”

“No problem,” I said.

She went back into the sitting room while I reflected that Jack Daniel’s Black was Timothy Cussack’s choice and wondered what significance that had—if any.

She returned with two reasonably clean tumblers, each holding what I estimated to be about two ounces of 90-proof plasma.

I raised my glass. “Bon voyage,” I said.

I sipped, she gulped. It seemed to have no effect on her but I was aware of a sudden jolt to the red corpuscles and looked at her with altered and slightly concupiscent interest.

She was wearing cutoff denim shorts with frazzled cuffs and a white T-shirt that bore no printed legend or image. A blank white T-shirt makes a statement, does it not? In her case it did; I mentioned before she was a robust woman. I imagined her capable of lofting me into the bleachers or perhaps out of the park. I jest, of course, but I was willing to accept the challenge.

She must have seen libidinous thoughts reflected in my expression because she smiled and said, “I always keep my promises, Archy.”

“I wasn’t aware you had made any.”

“Oh yes,” she insisted. “I asked you to do a job for me and promised a reward. The fact that I’ve ended the job doesn’t relieve me of my obligation. It’s payday, Archy.”

I refuse to apologize for my conduct. I was less seducer than seducee—and if there isn’t such a word there should be. Suffice to say that I allowed myself, heartily, to join in her desire to pay what she apparently felt was a debt. I considered her complaisance more than adequate compensation for my labors on her behalf and would gladly accept more employment at a similar salary.

What a stalwart woman! And what a vigorous lover. All firm muscle and glossy skin. My one objection to her behavior during our frantic joust was that she was so vocal—yelps, bleats, and yowls. Thank God for thick walls!

In all honesty I must confess I might have been guilty of a yodel or two.

Away we flew and a pleasant time was had by all. So pleasant, in fact, that after we had completed our escape and returned, perforce, to harsh reality, Gerry turned to me and said, “If you ask me to, Archy, I’ll unpack.”

“No,” I said promptly, “don’t do that.”

She accepted it calmly as if she had long ago recognized that rejection by men was her destiny. I could have given her a lot of blather about my own personal obligations and how a closer relationship would prove awkward if not catastrophic. But I thought it best to make our parting short and sweet. Cowardice of course. Another go-around with Gerry and I reckoned I’d be using a walker.

Our farewell turned out to be happily casual with no recriminations and, I hope, no regrets.

“Send me a postcard from Vienna,” I said lightly.

“I may even send you a strudel,” she said.

We both laughed, kissed, and parted.

I had accumulated enough experiences that day to keep me scribbling in my journal for hours. I returned home and decided to forsake my two-mile ocean swim. I was in such a frail condition that even wading up to my ankles might have caused collapse. But collapse I did, in my bed, for an hour’s nap that was more resuscitation than sleep.

The family cocktail hour and a splendid dinner of broiled wahoo helped restore my vigor and confidence. But before I set to work that evening recording the day’s events in my professional journal I phoned Connie Garcia. I always do that after I have been unfaithful. Guilt, naturally.

“Hi, hon,” I said. “How are you?”

“You’re alive?” she said. “Good heavens, I was sure you had passed away ages ago.”

I snickered, a mite falsely I must admit. “I’ve been chasing my tail,” I told her. “Busy, busy, busy.”

“As long as you’re not chasing someone else’s tail. What are you up to?”

“All sorts of things, most of them gruesome. Dinner tomorrow night?”

“Can’t make it. Lady C. is having a sit-down for a passel of politicos. Black tie. It’s about local taxes.”

“Which she thinks are too high.”

“You’ve got it,” Connie said. “But I can grab a quick lunch.”

“Sounds dandy to me,” I said. “Tomorrow at the Pelican Club. Let’s make it at noon. I haven’t seen you in years.”

“And whose fault is that?” she demanded before she hung up.

I wish I could understand my attachment to that lady. I want her and I need her. I think she wants me and needs me. But we can never make a final commitment. It’s not a love-hate relationship; it’s more like a yep-nope. Nothing endures but the struggle—which ain’t bad.

I settled down to my bookkeeping entries. And as I jotted rapidly in my scrawly script I came across something I found intriguing. Both Griswold III and Gerry Forsythe had instructed me to end my investigations into the thefts. Their orders had come after the murder of their father. But I could not see how his death could possibly influence their decisions.

Then, flipping back through my journal, I found something interesting and possibly meaningful. On the afternoon before the day he was slain Mr. Forsythe had told me about the pernicious note he had received: YOUR NEXT. He had forbidden me to report the matter to the police because, he said, he intended to make inquiries himself that evening in an attempt to discover the author of the threat.

It occurred to me that perhaps, as his son claimed, he had succeeded and in the process had learned the identity of the person or persons responsible for the disappearance of his artworks and his daughter’s jewelry. If so, he had paid dearly for his success.

And what the king of the hill had uncovered had led to his son and daughter commanding me to cease and desist from any further inquiry into the thefts. It all made a crazy kind of sense. I began to draw tentative lines between those unnumbered dots. It might result in a recognizable picture but it was not a pretty one.

I yearned to spend the remainder of that evening ruminating on the complexities of the Forsythe affair while tasting a marc and listening to a tape of Leadbelly singing “Goodnight, Irene.” But my peace was disturbed by a phone call from—guess whom? Timothy Cussack himself.

“I hear you were looking for me this morning,” he said bluntly.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I wanted to ask how you made out after your imbroglio at the Sea Turtle last night.”

“Imbroglio?”

“The fight.”

“Shit,” he said, “that was no fight. The guy asked for it. The cops pulled me in but they had no case and they knew it. I walked out. Listen, I’m calling from the Sea Turtle right now and—”

“How did you get my personal phone number?” I interrupted.

“It’s in the book.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You gave me your card.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Hey,” he said, “don’t make a federal case out of it. I got your number from someone—okay? Like I was saying, I’m calling from the Sea Turtle and I want to talk to you. How about joining me and we’ll hoist a few.”

“Sure,” I said. “Give me twenty minutes or so.”

It was not a prospect I welcomed, but when duty calls, A. McNally stands to attention and salutes.

C
USSACK WAS CLAD IN
his ninja costume of black jeans, black turtleneck, black leather jacket. What’s even worse was that he was wearing a musky cologne I loathed; it called to mind an ox that had neglected to shower for several days.

We sat at a corner of the bar and were served by Gladdie, who gave me a nervous smile and, when Cussack wasn’t looking, rolled her eyes to express—what? Nervousness or perhaps fear, I reckoned. But Timothy seemed in an equable mood, sipping his sour mash peaceably and paying no attention to the frenetic action on the dance floor behind us.

“Nice of you to join me,” he said. “How’s it going?”

I had no idea what he meant. Just a casual inquiry about life in general I supposed.

“The madness rolls on,” I answered.

“Yeah,” he said, “doesn’t it. Listen, the reason I wanted to talk to you may be nothing but it may be something.”