McNally's Caper (25 page)

“Ma’am,” I said, “I don’t know whether or not you are aware of it but I have been working with the authorities in the investigation of your husband’s murder.”

She looked at me sharply. “Are you now?” she said. “And why on earth would you be doing that?”

“Griswold Forsythe was an old and valued client of McNally and Son. Naturally we want to provide the police with whatever assistance we can.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, turning to look at the cantering horses. “I hope that doesn’t include revealing any confidential information.”

“Of course not,” I said stiffly. “As I’m sure you know, my father is a very principled man.”

She wheeled around to stare at me again. “I believe he is,” she said. “I’m not so sure about you.”

“You can trust my discretion,” I assured her.

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” she said with a hard laugh.

“Mrs. Forsythe, I would think you’d be eager to aid in solving this brutal crime.”

“Of course I am,” she said peevishly. “But the cops ask such stupid questions. I don’t think that clunky sergeant—what’s his name?”

“Al Rogoff.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think he’s got a clue.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” I advised her. “He may move slowly but he’s very determined.”

“So what?” she said sardonically. “I’ve seen thoroughbreds who move slowly but are very determined. They finish twelve lengths back.”

I didn’t feel like smiling but I did. “Actually,” I said, “I’m here more or less on Sergeant Rogoff’s behalf. He is so occupied analyzing the physical evidence he has had little opportunity to interrogate the people who may or may not be personally involved. That is why he has deputized me—not officially of course—to ask questions and try to provide him with profiles of relatives, employees, friends, and acquaintances of the victim.”

It was a long, rambling speech, pure fudge, and I wasn’t sure she’d buy it. But she did.

“All right,” she said, tightening the belt on that scrofulous riding jacket she wore, “what do you want to know?”

“Anthony Bledsoe,” I said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“A barrel of laughs he ain’t,” she said with that whinny of hers. “A sullen kid. Oh, he does his job; no complaints there. But he’s got a grudge against the world.”

“Any evidence of violence?”

“Occasionally.”

“Against whom?”

“His mother, for one. There seems to be a constant squabble going on between those two. I’ve never asked about it. None of my business. If they do their jobs that’s all I ask.”

“Does Tony drink?”

“Don’t we all?” That whinny again.

“Do you think he’d be capable of assaults against others while under the influence?”

She considered that a brief moment. “I think probably he would. He’s got a ferocious temper. To tell you the truth, Archy, I’m not sure he’s got both oars in the water.”

“Is he having an affair with Fern Bancroft?” This was a supposition on my part but evidence pointed to it and I reckoned it was time for verification.

Constance Forsythe gave me a crooked grin. “You do get around, don’t you?” she said. “Well, she’s as nutty as he is and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if they had a thing going. Listen, why are you asking all these questions about Tony Bledsoe? Is he a suspect in my husband’s murder?”

“There are several,” I replied. “He’s one of them.”

She nodded. “I can understand that. I’d hate to believe it but he’s hyper and strong enough to have done it, especially if he was in one of his wicked moods.”

“What would be his motive?” I asked her.

“Money,” she said promptly. “What else? Tony has dreams he’d never realize on what Griswold was paying him. Maybe he went to the office that day, asked for a raise, got turned down and blew his stack.”

“That’s possible,” I said. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Forsythe. I’m sure it will aid the investigation.”

“You’ll report to Sergeant Rogoff what I’ve just told you?”

“Unless you have any objections.”

“No,” she said. “No objections.”

She walked away from me abruptly to meet the returning riders. I headed for the Miata but stopped when I saw Sylvia Forsythe’s silver-gray Saturn come gliding into the parking area. It stopped and she hopped out, wearing white jeans and an aqua tank top. No matter what her costume, it had a dégagé look, as if she had grabbed the first things in her closet that came to hand. The result was elegant insouciance.

She came bopping over to me with a sassy smile. “And a jolly good morning to you, Archy,” she said. “Sorry, luv, but I can’t have lunch with you today.”

I laughed. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

“However,” she said, drawling the word and looking at me speculatively, “I should be free by three o’clock. The Michelangelo Motel. Okay?”

“Why not?” I said hoarsely, hating myself for the weak-kneed craven I am.

“That’s what I like in a man,” she said saucily. “Uncontrollable passion.” She tossed me an air kiss and scampered over to Mrs. Constance and the sweated horses.

Stay tuned.

I
POINTED THE MIATA
toward West Palm, singing mightily and revising the lyrics of that old spiritual to “Swing high, sweet chariot.” For I was in a frolicsome mood. That verbal fencing with Constance Forsythe had added confirmation to my ramshackle theory. I began to glimpse the end of the Forsythe affair and could imagine the whole story being condensed in
Soap Opera Digest.

It was then about eleven o’clock or so. I stopped at the first public telephone kiosk I could find and dug into my wallet for Gladdie’s number. Surely you remember Gladdie—the barmaid at the Sea Turtle. I reasoned that because of the hours she worked it was possible she was now astir and ready for breakfast.

“Yeah?” a man answered in a croaky voice.

“May I speak to Gladdie, please.”

“Who?” he said. “What?”

Then I remembered her warning about a hard-of-hearing father. “Gladdie!” I shouted. “Your daughter!”

He grumbled but in a few moments she came on the line, sleep in her voice.

“ ʼLo,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“Archy,” I said, then added modestly, “I don’t suppose you remember me.”

“Archy!” she said. “Of course I remember you. You’re that cute redheaded boy with the funny little goatee.”

Somewhat discomfiting. “Not quite,” I said. “I’m the cute boy who was drinking with Timothy Cussack.”

“Of course,” she said. “Now I remember. You’re a vodka gimlet.”

“You’ve got it,” I said gratefully. “That’s exactly what I am. Gladdie, I realize I probably woke you up and I apologize. But I was hoping I might treat you to breakfast.”

“Hey,” she said, “that sounds utter. I usually go to our local IHOP. I love their pancakes—don’t you?”

“Divine,” I said.

Which explains why, thirty minutes later, I was seated across the table from her, watching with fascination while she attacked plates of pancakes, a T-bone, eggs, potatoes, toast, a pint of OJ, and enough heavily creamed coffee to float the USS
Wisconsin.
I had already enjoyed an abstemious breakfast of a single English muffin (admittedly slathered with Rose’s lime marmalade) and I could not believe this young miss was gobbling a meal that would have staggered Lucullus.

“Archy,” she said, “you don’t think all this is fattening, do you?” Oh yes, she was quite serious.

“I’m not a doctor,” I told her, “but I play one on TV. In my judgment your breakfast is not fattening providing you get sufficient physical exercise.”

She gave me a bright smile. “I try,” she said.

She really was a
nice
woman, destined, I was sure, to marry a handsome rake who would starve her shamefully, not recognizing what a treasure he had won.

I took a sip of my black coffee. “Gladdie,” I said, “I must be honest with you. I need some information from you for which I am willing to pay.”

She stopped gorging long enough to ask, “Information? About what?”

“You have a drop of maple syrup on your chin,” I mentioned. “It’s about Timothy Cussack. Two questions, and if you don’t wish to answer them, that’s your prerogative and I’ll understand completely.”

“What are they, the questions?”

“What kind of a car does he drive, and do you know of any particular woman with whom he has been closely associated. Recently, that is.”

She wiped her chin. “This won’t get me in any trouble, will it? Timmy is a meanie when he’s riled. You saw that.”

“Our conversation is confidential, Gladdie. I promise you he’ll never hear about it.”

“Okay. How much?”

“Fifty.”

“Works for me,” she said blithely, starting on her dessert: a bowl of chocolate ice cream. “Tim used to drive an old beatup Pontiac, a real clunker. Then, a couple of months ago, he showed up in a new Taurus wagon, pearl blue. A real beauty. Okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “And his favorite woman—if he has one.”

“There I can’t help much,” she said. “The guy’s a real Don Juan.” (She pronounced it Don Joo-ann.) “But I’ve noticed he’s got a thing for older women. Not ancient, you know, but older than him. Does that help?”

“Immeasurably,” I said and watched, disbelieving, as she stole the salt and pepper shakers and glass ashtray, slipping her loot unconcernedly into her shoulderbag. The only thing I’ve ever lifted was a stein from McSorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan.

I paid for our breakfast and in the parking area outside the IHOP I passed a fifty to Gladdie.

“Thank you, sir,” she said pertly.

“My pleasure,” I said.

“When will I see you again?” she asked eagerly.

“Soon,” I promised. But I didn’t think so.

It was nudging one o’clock when I finished that bacchanalia with Gladdie but I was in no mood for lunch. Watching her gourmandize had somehow robbed me of an appetite. I mean, who puts catsup on scrambled eggs? That qualifies for the icky category, wouldn’t you say?

So I had two hours to slay before my rendezvous with Sylvia at the Michelangelo Motel and, despite the travel involved, I resolved to make a quick trip back to the beach and do a spot of discreet inquiry. My flaccid theory was beginning to sit up and bay at the moon. I was convinced a few more bits of info would prove me the most brilliant detective since Nancy Drew.

Arriving at the Forsythe Bedlam, I drove around to the back, intending to enter through the rear door. But the man I sought was standing outside, smoking a twisted cigar that looked like two entwined pieces of rope that had been soaked in tar. Zeke Grenough was wearing chef’s whites, his wire-rimmed pince-nez clamped to the bridge of his nose.

His greeting was affable enough and we exchanged news about the most recent of the season’s hurricanes, which was now apparently weakening and would exhaust its remaining fury in the North Atlantic.

“Mr. Grenough,” I said, “I heard a distressing rumor that you may be leaving the Forsythes’ employ. Surely that can’t be true.”

“Oh no,” the little man said calmly. “No, no. I admit there was a minor disagreement right after Mr. Forsythe was killed. But things were so upset, you know. Now we’ve all calmed down. No, I’m staying and young Mr. Griswold has promised me a new microwave.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “I know how much the family depends on you.” (McNally’s Law: If you wish to seduce by flattery, pile it on.)

“I try,” he said modestly. “When I arrived they were strictly beef and potatoes people. Gradually I have been introducing them to more subtle dishes. For instance, this evening we are having veal medallions and scallops sautéed with sundried tomatoes and fresh basil.”

“With a good white wine,” I gurgled, my appetite suddenly returning in full force.

“Of course. Perhaps a chablis or sauvignon blanc.”

“The Forsythes have a good wine cellar?”

“I am gradually creating it,” he said complacently.

“When I started I was horrified to find most of their bottles had screw tops and handles.”

“Incredible,” I said, shaking my head. “So in addition to increasing their fondness for haute cuisine you are also teaching them the glories of good vintages.”

“Oh yes,” he said, apparently happy to discuss what was not only his job but his passion. “As they say, life is too short for cheap wine. Mrs. Constance has been especially supportive of my efforts.”

“And what about Anthony Bledsoe?” I asked lightly. “I hear he enjoys a glass or two.”

He stared at me through those crazy specs. “Tony?” he said. “Oh no, you have been misinformed. Tony has no interest in wine—or any other spirits as far as I know. He drinks Diet Pepsi with my
chef d’oeuvre
: poached salmon with pears. That offends me.”

“I should think it would,” I said.

We chatted a few moments on vital topics, such as which is the best sauce for tournedos, béarnaise or bourguignonne. We came to no agreement but parted firm friends, each recognizing in the other a fervor for tasty vittles. I hopped back into the Miata having determined, in my opinion, exactly what I had hoped.

I sped back to the Michelangelo Motel in a mood more depressive than manic. It was gratifying, of course, to have added confirmation that my analysis was correct but it gave me no joy. Instead I was saddened by human perfidy. I am no saint, mind you, but my sins were small spuds compared to the evils committed by the miscreants who had conspired to murder Griswold Forsythe II.

My visit to the doldrums was mercifully short. By the time I arrived at the Michelangelo the McNally spirits were once again bubbling like an uncorked magnum of Bollinger. I espied Sylvia’s silver Saturn in the parking area and found her already in Suite 309, nibbling on a small beaker of applejack. She was wearing a grin of luxurious content. And nothing else.

I realized we had enjoyed only two passionate scrums but sometimes brief encounters are more meaningful than a lifetime of intimacy, are they not? In any event this flighty woman still had the magic to entice me. It was, I decided, a clear case of déjà voodoo.

She was in no mood to waste time, nor was I. In the blink of a gnat’s eye we were jousting on sea-foam-colored satin sheets and howling (pianissimo) with delight. What a madcap she was! She gave new meaning to the phrase “fancy-free.” But I was not so insensible with passion that I did not recall Ms. Browning’s words: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Before that afternoon ended I was up to fourteen.