McNally's Caper (8 page)

“I’ll be fine,” she said with a radiant smile. “And thank you again for stopping by. How is your cataloging job coming along?”

“Slowly,” I said.

“Good,” she said and left it to me to figure out what she meant.

I was retreating down one of those gloomy corridors when suddenly Fern stepped from an alcove and clamped my arm. “What did she tell you, Mr. McNally?” she demanded, sharp face hard with anger.

I was tempted to make a tart reply—“None of your business!”—but thought better of it. “Mrs. Sylvia?” I said softly. “Only that she was feeling better and hoped to be up and about in a day or so.”

The maid released my arm and began to gnaw on a thumbnail. “She thinks I did it,” she said fiercely, “but I didn’t. I couldn’t do something like that. I hate and detest violence in any way, shape, or form.”

Then I was thoroughly convinced I had blundered into a haunt of boobies.

“I don’t believe Mrs. Sylvia believes you did it,” I said. “She remembers almost nothing about the attack and can’t identify the perpetrator.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” she repeated, still chewing at her thumb. “And anyone who says I did is a double-damned liar.”

“Fern,” I said, hoping to calm her, “I must confess I don’t know your last name. You know mine but I don’t know yours. That’s not fair.”

“Fern Bancroft,” she said glumly, and I thought how odd it was that both maids had the surnames of movie stars. But then my own name is similar to that of a famous mapmaker and during my undergraduate days I was known as Randy McNally.

“Well, you mustn’t worry about this unfortunate incident,” I told her. “To my knowledge no one has accused you of anything. Try to put it from your mind.”

“You know I’m innocent, don’t you?”

What a question! She was referring to the attempted strangling of Mrs. Sylvia, of course, but it was difficult to attest to the complete innocence of a young woman who had posed for nude Polaroids.

“I believe you,” I said simply, thinking that might suffice.

“I just don’t know what’s happening around here,” she wailed. “Everything is so mixed up.”

“It will all settle down,” I said soothingly.

“I don’t think so,” she said and leaned closer, still munching on her thumbnail. “There are things going on,” she added in direful tones.

I began to get a new take on Fern Bancroft. When we had first been introduced I had thought her something of a linthead, only because of her chronic giggle. But now I suspected that habit might have a neurasthenic origin. She was not giggling because she found life amusing but because she found it close to unendurable, and a constant laugh was her guard against hysteria.

Thank you, Dr. McNally.

“Fern,” I said, “what exactly is going on that upsets you so?”

“Things,” she said and darted away. I was left in a state of utter confusion and a lesser lad might have been staggered by it. But I have learned to live with muddle—e.g.: my relations with the feminine gender—and so I was more fascinated than daunted by the hugger-mugger in the Forsythe household. It merely confirmed my belief, previously propounded, that the world is a nuthouse run by the inmates.

I hoped to make a quiet and unobserved departure but I was doomed to another slice of fruitcake that Sunday morning. Sheila Hayworth, maid No. 2, was in the entrance hall busily wielding a feather duster with no apparent purpose or effect.

“Hi, Mr. McNally,” she said cheerily. “Aren’t you glad the rain stopped?”

“Delighted,” I said. “People always say the farmers need it, but truthfully I don’t much care what the farmers need—do you?”

“Not me,” she said forthrightly. “I grew up on a farm and never want to see another one as long as I live.”

“A farmer’s daughter,” I marveled. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Now don’t tell me you’re a traveling salesman,” she said coquettishly. “I’ve heard all those old jokes.”

What a flirt she was!

“I may travel occasionally,” I said, “but I have nothing to sell.”

She gave me a bold glance. “I wouldn’t say that. Tuesday is my day off.”

Her impudence was impressive. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her.

“You do that,” she said. “You can always leave a message for me with Rufino.”

“The gardener?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, staring at me. “He has a cute little apartment in West Palm.”

Her brazenness was amazing and, I must admit, engendered a slight weakening of the joints between femur and tibia. I mean I’m as eager for a romantic lark as the next johnny but I like to play a role in its creation. But in this drama (comedy? farce?) Ms. Hayworth seemed to be playwright, director, set designer, and female star. It was a trifle humbling to be reduced to a walk-on.

Naturally I didn’t wish to offend the lady by a brusque rejection, but neither did I wish to flop upon the floor and wait to have my tummy scratched.

“It’s something to think about,” I said, a spineless remark if ever I heard one.

She gave me a mocking glance. “Do you require references?” she inquired archly.

I realized I had met my match with this one and a hasty escape would be prudent. But then she added, “I could provide them, you know. From men whose opinion I’m sure you trust.”

I was aware that my smile was glassy as I fled without saying another word. Rufino Diaz was still raking the lawn and gave me a half-wave of farewell as I drove away. I headed homeward, thoughts jangled, trying to guess the identities of those men whose opinions I would trust.

I had to conclude she was referring obliquely to the Griswold Forsythes, II and III. And perhaps Anthony Bledsoe, the butler. And perhaps Zeke Grenough, the chef. And perhaps Count Dracula and Friar Tuck.

I realized I was now making no sense whatsoever. I blamed the fogging of my keen, cool, and lucid mind on a morning spent at the Forsythe asylum. I seemed to have been contaminated by whatever was afflicting the residents. I decided a good dose of normalcy was needed as an antidote. And so the moment I arrived home I built myself a vodka gimlet.

Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.

T
HE REMAINDER OF THAT
Sunday was blessedly uneventful. I stayed inside all afternoon and the quiet ordinariness of the McNally household was a comfort. We had a fine rack of lamb for dinner, I took a nap, worked on my journal, ate cold corned beef and cheese sausage as a late supper, and forgot to phone Connie Garcia. Everything seemed refreshingly sane and orderly.

Of course Ms. Garcia called me later that night to read me the riot act for neglecting her. It required twenty minutes to beg forgiveness and squirm my way back into her graces. But even my performance was a relief because I had done it so many times before and routine was welcome after that confused morning at the Forsythes’.

Monday brought genuine sunshine and a concurrent return of the McNally brio. My father supplied me with a list of the items of value reported as missing by Griswold Forsythe II, and to that I added the articles of jewelry Geraldine Forsythe told me she had lost. It made an impressive inventory. Obviously someone was looting the family manse—but for what purpose? Was the thief fencing the swag or merely assembling his or her own collection of objets d’art?

By the time I arrived at my miniature office in the McNally Building I had decided I needed to know more about the finances of that seemingly dysfunctional Forsythe clan. I phoned Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary, and asked if His Majesty might spare me a few moments.

“Fat chance,” she scoffed.

“Try,” I urged. “The fate of the civilized world hangs in the balance.”

“That’s a good one,” she said. “You’ve never used that before. Okay, I’ll give it a go.”

She came back on the line a moment later and announced I would be granted an audience of ten minutes if I arrived instanter. I went charging up the back stairs to the boss’s sanctum, not wanting to wait for our lazy automatic elevator. I found the padrone standing before his antique rolltop desk. He did not appear to be overjoyed by my visit.

“Yes, yes, Archy,” he said testily, “what is it now?”

“The Forsythe investigation,” I said. “Father, it would help if I knew a little more about the family’s finances. To be specific, who controls the exchequer?”

Of course he immediately lapsed into his mulling mode, trying to determine how much information he might ethically reveal. Finally he decided to trust his bubbleheaded sprout—to a limited degree.

“There is a grantor trust in existence,” he said briefly. “The elder Forsythe is the trustee.”

“Wife and children have no independent income?”

“They are given rather meager allowances for their personal expenses.”

“Meager, sir?” I said. “As in skimpy, paltry, and stingy?”

“That is correct,” he said with a wintry smile. “But he is also responsible for the taxes and upkeep of the Forsythe properties, including salaries of staff. It is not an inconsiderable sum, I assure you.”

I persisted. “In other words, spouse and children are totally dependent upon Mr. Forsythe’s largesse.”

“Yes,” he said irritably, “if you wish to put it that way.”

“And in the event of the trustee’s demise?”

“The estate is then distributed to the named beneficiaries. After payment of taxes, of course.”

“And wife, son, and daughter are the named beneficiaries?”

He nodded. “The granddaughter’s legacy will be held in trust by her father until she comes of age. There are additional bequests to members of the domestic staff.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to reveal the value of the individual bequests.”

“You don’t suppose correctly,” he said frostily.

“Considerable?” I suggested.

“Yes,” he said, “I think that’s a fair assumption.”

I knew I’d get nothing more, thanked him for his assistance, and returned to my office. What had I learned? Little more than I had already guessed. The one mild surprise was that Mrs. Constance Forsythe was not independently wealthy. In Palm Beach, as elsewhere in the world, money usually marries money—which is why the rich get richer and the poor get bupkes.

I spent the next several minutes consulting telephone directories—more valuable to the amateur sleuth than a deerstalker cap and meerschaum pipe. I looked up the address and phone number of Rufino Diaz, the Forsythes’ gardener. My purpose? No purpose. But during an investigation I am an inveterate collector of facts. Most of them inevitably turn out to be the drossiest of dross—but one never knows, do one? I also found the address and phone number of the Trojan Stables in Wellington.

I scrawled notes on both locations and tucked them into my wallet. I then bounced downstairs to our underground garage, boarded the Miata, and set out to explore.

On that morning, I recall, I was wearing an awning-striped sport jacket with fawny slacks, pinkish mocs (no socks, naturally), and my favorite fedora of white straw. The sun was beaming, the humidity mercifully low, and I felt it quite possible that I might live forever. The denouement of the Forsythe affair was to demolish that illusion.

I found the home of Rufino Diaz with little trouble. I was not amazed to discover he lived in a motel—many South Florida motels are happy to have year-round tenants—but I was surprised by the prosperous appearance of the place. I don’t wish to imply it was the Taj Mahal, but it did seem to be more elegant and expensive than one might expect of the residence of a man who raked lawns for a living. I realized that Sheila Hayworth had probably spoken the truth when she said Rufino had a “cute little apartment.” With Jacuzzi and ceiling mirrors, no doubt.

The Trojan Stables required a more lengthy search but was well worth the effort. It was a handsome spread—twenty acres at least, I estimated—with a smallish office building and a barn that looked large enough to accommodate twenty horses. The grounds were well groomed, with a practice ring, bridle paths, hurdles, and a water jump. The entire layout was encircled by a picket fence of weathered barn wood. Very attractive.

I cruised slowly, eyeballing the site. I thought I spotted Constance Forsythe standing firmly planted, hands on hips, observing a rider putting a young bay over the hurdles. But I did not stop to say howdy. Instead I drove back to the beach, pausing en route at a small deli in a strip mall to scarf a roast beef on white (mayo) and bologna on rye (mustard) with a bottle of Whitbread ale. I make no apology for this prodigal consumption of calories. After all, I’m a growing boy—and especially around the midriff.

I arrived at the Forsythe mansion and was admitted by Sheila Hayworth. She blinked twice when she saw my attire but made no comment, pro or con. Occasionally I am forced to endure the sneers of philistines who believe wrongfully that my flamboyant dress indicates color blindness or a sad lack of taste. I point out to them that I am merely following the laws of natural selection. All biologists know that the peacock with the most extravagant tail wins the peahen.

I used the phone on the library desk to call the Trojan Stables. A man answered and I asked to speak to Mr. Timothy Cussack. I was informed that Cussack did not work Mondays but was expected on the morrow. I hung up having confirmed that the former polo player who had treated Geraldine Forsythe so shabbily was now employed by her mother. A curious situation, wouldn’t you say?

I then leafed through the stack of notes I had left atop the desk. The hairs I had carefully placed on pages 5 and 10 had disappeared. But that, I admitted ruefully, did not prove a family or staff member had been prying; it might have happened during Sgt. Al Rogoff’s search. My dilemma reminded me of President Truman’s anguished plea for a one-armed economist, someone incapable of saying, “On the other hand...”

I went looking for Mrs. Nora Bledsoe and found her seated at a small desk in the pantry, a room larger than the McNally kitchen. She was wearing horn-rimmed specs and appeared to be working on household accounts, entering bills and invoices into a ledger. She gave me a smile of welcome, a very nice smile that softened her somewhat imperious features.

“May I help you, Mr. McNally?” she asked.