McNally's Caper (3 page)

Eavesdropping is one of my minor vices, and I moved closer to the screen in an effort to hear what was being expressed so forcibly. But I could make out no words, only angry voices. One, male, seemed to be supplicating. The other was female, furious and scornful. I recalled what Lucy had just told me of being frightened by the loud arguments of grownups.

Then I heard what had to be a violent slap: someone’s palm smacked against another’s face. This was followed by a woman’s gasp and wail. I delayed no longer but opened the screen door and shouted, “Hallo, hallo! Anyone home?”

Silence. And then, a moment later, a woman approached from what appeared to be a tiled corridor. She was sturdily constructed, wide through shoulders, bosom and hips. I could not get a good look at her features for she was holding a hand to her right cheek.

“Good morning!” I said cheerily. “My name is Archibald McNally. I hope Mr. Forsythe informed you that I’ll be to-ing and fro-ing while I catalog his library.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said in what I can only describe as a strangled voice, “he told us. I am Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, the Forsythes’ housekeeper.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I said and held out my right hand, knowing that to shake it she would have to uncover her face. She hesitated an instant then did what I had hoped. I saw at once that she had been the slapee, for her right cheek was reddened.

“I’ve been taking a look at your bully greenery,” I said breezily. “Mr. Forsythe suggested you would be willing to give me a tour of the interior.”

It took her half a mo to regain her composure. I could understand that; she had just taken a good clop to the jaw and it had rattled her.

“Yes, of course,” she said finally. She tried a brave smile but it didn’t work. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. McNally, I’ll show you everything.”

I doubted that but I willingly trailed after her. She was remarkably light on her feet for such a heavy woman. She was wearing a flowered shirtwaist dress and I noted her thick, jetty hair was drawn back and held with a silver filigreed pin.

“That’s a handsome barrette, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said. “Is it an antique?”

She turned and I could see she was pleased. She reached back to touch it. “Oh yes,” she said, “it’s Victorian. Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe gave it to me as a birthday gift. I do like nice things.”

“Don’t we all,” I said, and we both laughed. She ceased leading and we walked alongside each other, shoulders touching occasionally in the narrow hallways.

“I think we’ll start at the top,” she said, “and work our way down. From attic to dungeon.”

“Dungeon?”

“That’s what we call the basement area. Very dark and damp. Nothing but cobwebs and our wine racks.”

“Cellars are rare in South Florida,” I commented.

“Ours is supposed to be haunted,” she said. “By the ghost of Mr. Forsythe’s grandmother.”

“Oh?” I said.

“She committed suicide.”

“Ah,” I said.

W
HAT A MAZY MANSION
that was! As we traipsed from floor to floor, room to room, I became convinced that the architect had been totally deranged. Regal corridors led to naught but cramped window seats; artfully carved walnut doors opened to reveal a shallow linen press; some of the bedchambers were ballrooms and some were walk-in closets.

I had welcomed this inspection as an opportunity to spot a hidey-hole where the purloined works of art might be stashed. But it was hopeless; there were simply too many “nooks and crannies,” as Mr. Forsythe had warned. It would take a regiment of snoops a month of Sundays to search that hodgepodge—and even then a cleverly concealed cache could remain hidden.

“An astounding home,” I remarked to Mrs. Bledsoe.

“Well, it is a little unusual,” she admitted. “I’ve been with the family for many years, and it took me two to learn where everything was and how to get about. Just last month I discovered a cupboard I didn’t know existed. It was behind draperies in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“And what was in it?” I asked eagerly.

“Old copies of
Liberty
magazine,” she said.

We were on the third floor, or it might have been the second, when I heard harpsichord music coming from behind a closed door. I stopped to listen. I thought it might be Scarlatti or perhaps Jelly Roll Morton.

“That’s Mrs. Sylvia playing,” my guide explained. “The younger Mr. Forsythe’s wife. She’s very good.”

“Would she mind if we intruded?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

She knocked once, pushed the door open, and we entered. It was a mid-sized chamber completely naked of any furnishings except for the bleached pine harpsichord and the bench before it. The seated woman stopped playing and looked up inquiringly.

“Mrs. Sylvia,” the housekeeper said, “this gentleman is Archibald McNally who is preparing a catalog of Mr. Forsythe’s library.”

“Of course,” the young lady said, rose and came sweeping forward, if one may sweep while wearing tight blue jeans and a snug T-shirt inscribed with Gothic lettering:
Amor vincit omnia.
Right on, Sylvia! She had the same flaxen hair as Lucy; the two could have been sisters instead of mother and daughter.

“Mr. McNally,” she said, giving me a warm hand and an elfin smile, “welcome to the catacombs.”

“A bit overwhelming,” I confessed. “Please forgive this interruption.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I needed a break. Vivaldi is
so
difficult.”

So much for Scarlatti and Jelly Roll Morton.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter earlier this morning,” I told her. “An entrancing child. We had a nice chat.”

Her smile faded to be replaced—by what? I could not decipher that expression but I imagined I saw something cold and stony.

“You mustn’t believe everything Lucy says,” and her laugh was as tinny as the harpsichord. “She’s quite imaginative.”

“Children usually are,” I agreed. “How long have you been playing?”

“Years,” she said and turned to look at her instrument. “I made it.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did,” she said, nodding. “Didn’t I, Nora? It came in a kit but I put it together. It took ages.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I play tenor kazoo with a pickup jazz combo at my club but that’s the extent of my musical talent.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m sure you underestimate your talents, Mr. McNally. Do stop by again. Whenever you like.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I shall.”

Mrs. Bledsoe and I continued our tour. But I was wearying. In truth, it was a dreary dwelling, a fitting abode for the Addams Family. I could understand why Lucy yearned for a sunlit place all her own.

I was given a brief peek into the haunted dungeon and then we returned to the kitchen, large enough to feed the 1st Marine Division. The entire staff had gathered, preparing for lunch. I was introduced to all, tried to remember names and faces, and failed miserably. They were pleasant enough except for Anthony, Mrs. Bledsoe’s son, who seemed somewhat surly. And Fern, one of the maids, was apparently afflicted with a nonstop giggle.

The chef, Zeke Grenough, a diminutive man who wore a wire-rimmed pince-nez, was stirring a cauldron of what smelled aromatically like squid stew. I hoped I might be invited to share their noontime repast, for I am hopelessly enamored of calamari in any form whatsoever. But no one urged me to remain and so I bid that lucky crew a polite adieu and departed.

I tooled the Miata south on Ocean Boulevard, my salivary glands working overtime as I reflected there was probably red wine in that stew and it would possibly be served over saffron rice. It was enough to make me whimper.

I pulled into the driveway of the lavish estate belonging to Lady Cynthia Horowitz and drove around to the rear. I entered the main house through the unlocked back door and went directly to the office of Consuela Garcia, social secretary and the lady with whom I am intimate and to whom, regrettably, I am inevitably unfaithful.

Connie, as usual, was on the phone but raised her face for a cheek kiss. I was happy to oblige. Then I flopped into the only visitor’s chair available and listened with delight as my leman tore the hide off a florist whose last delivery of arrangements to the Horowitz home had wilted and shed petals not in days but within hours.

“In hours!” Connie shouted wrathfully. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Those flowers had rigor mortis when they arrived. Where did you find them—on graves?”

She listened a moment and seemed mollified. “I should think you would,” she barked into the phone. “Get the replacements here by three o’clock or we cancel our account—is that clear? And go easy on the daisies. We’re paying orchid prices for daisies?”

She slammed down the receiver and grinned at me. “I love to read the riot act to these banditos,” she said. “They think that just because Lady C. has zillions she’s a patsy. No way! How are you, hon?”

“Tip-top,” I said. “Lunch?”

She shook her head. “No can do. We’re planning a benefit dinner and I’ve got to get cracking on it.”

“Benefit for what? Or whom?”

“Unwed mothers.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Connie,” I said. “I’m not guilty.”

“I wish I could be sure,” she said. “Is that why you popped by—to ask me to lunch?”

“That and some information.”

“It figures. Who is it this time?”

“The Griswold Forsythes.”

“Dull, dull, dull,” she said promptly. “Except Sylvia, the daughter-in-law. She’s a live one. The others are lumps.”

“What about Geraldine, the unmarried daughter?”

Connie thought a moment. “Strange,” she said finally. “Bookish. Travels a lot. And brainy—except when it comes to men. A few years ago she had a thing going with a polo player who turned out to be a slime. Not only did he dump her but, according to the gossip, he took her for heavy bucks.”

I nodded. It never ceases to amaze me how many seemingly intelligent women grant their favors to absolute rotters. (I myself have been the lucky beneficiary, of that phenomenon.)

“But I guess the Forsythes could afford it,” Connie went on. “It’s old money, isn’t it, Archy?”

“So old it goes back to beaver pelts and canal boats,” I told her. “All neatly tied up in a trust fund. I don’t think the Griswolds Two and Three have done a lick of work in their lifetimes. They keep a small office on Royal Palm Way not far from the McNally Building and they employ a male secretary one year younger than God. A few months ago I had to deliver some documents and the three of them were playing tiddledywinks.”

She howled. “You’re making that up!”

“Scout’s honor. What else have they got to do except clip bond coupons? Well, luv, if you can’t have lunch I better toddle along and see what the Chez McNally has to offer. Thanks for the info.”

“Call me tonight?” she asked.

“Don’t I always?”

“No,” she said. “Kissy-kissy?”

So we kissed. Very enjoyable. Almost as good as squid stew.

I arrived home to discover the only inhabitant present was our taciturn houseman, Jamie Olson. He and his wife, our cook and housekeeper Ursi, are the McNallys’ live-in staff and manage our home with Scandinavian efficiency and an Italianate delight in good food. They are an elderly couple and a blessing, both of them.

Jamie is also a great source of backstairs gossip currently making the rounds amongst the domestics serving the nabobs of Palm Beach. Butlers, maids, and valets know or can guess who’s doing what to whom, and more than once I have depended on Jamie Olson to fill me in on the high and low jinks of our uppercrust citizens.

My mother and Ursi having departed on a shopping expedition, Jamie was preparing a luncheon that consisted of four varieties of herring with warm German potato salad, plus buttered black bread. I saw nothing to object to and the two of us sat at the kitchen table and scarfed contentedly.

“Jamie,” I said, “do you know Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, the keeper of the keys for the Griswold Forsythes?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Married, divorced—or what?”

“Her mister took off a long time ago.”

“Oh?” I said. “Present whereabouts unknown, I suppose.”

“Yep.”

“So she went to work for the Forsythes. What about her son, Anthony? Butler and houseman, I understand. Do you have any scoop on him?”

“Mean.”

“By ‘mean’ I presume you wish to imply he’s a bit on the nasty side.”

He nodded.

Jamie really does know things but getting him to divulge them requires infinite patience.

“Anything else you can reveal about the Forsythes’ staff—for or against? What about the chef, Zeke Grenough?”

“He’s straight.”

“And the maids, Sheila and Fern?”

Jamie gave me a gap-toothed grin. He had, I realized, neglected to insert his bridge that morning. “Those two like to party,” he reported. “There was some talk that Forsythe junior was making up to Sheila—she’s the pretty one—but the old man soon put a stop to that.”

“I’ll bet he did,” I said. “And what about the mistress of the castle, Constance Forsythe. Anything on her?”

“Horsey.”

“You mean she looks like a horse?”

“Boards ʼem. Got a farm out near Wellington.”

“That’s interesting. Racehorses? Polo ponies?”

“Show horses. Jumpers.”

And that’s all he could tell me about the Forsythes. I finished lunch and handed him a tenner. The Olsons drew a generous salary, of course, but I never considered Jamie’s confidential assistance was included in their monthly stipend so I always slipped him a pourboire for extra services rendered. My father would be furious if he ever learned of it.

Before I returned to the Forsythe manse I went up to my digs and loaded a Mark Cross attaché case with yellow legal pads, file cards, a small magnifying glass, and a roll of gummed labels. Since I was going to be on stage I figured a few props would help authenticate my role as an earnest cataloger of libraries. I also took along my reading glasses, although I hate to wear them in public. They make me look like a demented owl.

The Forsythes’ front door seemed stout enough to withstand a battering ram but was fitted with a rather prissy brass knob in an acanthus design. I pulled it and heard chimes sound within. A moment later the heavy portal was swung open and I was greeted by Sheila, the pretty and nongiggling maid.