McNally's Folly (18 page)

A passing waiter stopped to offer us caviar snuggled into new potatoes and dolloped with crème fraîche with minced onions. We all accepted as DeeDee proclaimed, “Some spread, eh? Cynthia really knows how to do it, but then she’s got the loot to do it with. My husbands always managed to spend it faster than I made it.”

Here, everyone’s attention was drawn to a portable table being erected under the watchful eyes of Lady C and Buzz. Connie, Binky and Joe Anderson began setting it with wineglasses as waiters carried over decanters brimming with a dark liquid that could only be wine. “Now what?” I questioned.

“Just you wait and see. Cynthia has the whole thing planned.” A roll of the drums drew everyone’s attention and DeeDee took hold of my arm. “Come on, Archy, that’s our cue.”

As the revelers gathered around Lady Cynthia and her wine bar, DeeDee led me to stand beside our hostess as Binky, Connie and Joe joined the onlookers. Another roll of the drums silenced the crowd and Lady C began her spiel. “We all know why we’re here, at least I hope we do.” This got a sputtering of guffaws because with Lady C no one could be sure if she meant it as a joke or a reprimand. “For the benefit of the press I am, this evening, formally announcing that the Palm Beach Community Theater, of which I am Creative Director, will put on a production of
Arsenic and Old Lace
at the Lake Worth Playhouse on a date to be announced.” This got polite applause.

“Our own Archy McNally has agreed to direct.” More applause. “A written press release will detail his credentials.” I couldn’t wait to see them. “A lady whose credentials can be summed up in two words—Desdemona Darling—will appear in the star role of Abby Brewster.” This got an ovation, including whistles, catcalls and cries of “Bravo.” DeeDee, beaming, opened her arms, embracing the crowd’s adoration.

“I would like to quickly acknowledge the cast credits, which will also appear on our written release.

“Abby Brewster, Desdemona Darling;

“Mortimer Brewster, Buzz Carr;

“Teddy Brewster, Vance Tremaine;

“Jonathan Brewster, Phil Meecham;

“Dr. Einstein, Arnold Turnbolt;

“Elaine Harper, Elizabeth Fitzwilliams;

“The Reverend Harper, Edward Rogers;

“Mr. Gibbs, Joseph Anderson;

“Mr. Witherspoon, Ronald Seymour;

“Lieutenant Rooney, William Ventura;

“Officer Klein, Penny Tremaine;

“Officer Brophy, Henry Lee Wilson;

“Officer O’Hara, Hanna Ventura.

“Our stage manager will be Binky Watrous, my own lovely Consuela Garcia will act as prompter and the beautiful Priscilla Pettibone will be in charge of makeup.”

Our Creative Director had turned two policemen into policewomen, satisfying the theatrical urges of Hanna Ventura and the bloodhound instincts of Penny Tremaine. Clever. Penny would keep Fitz away from Buzz and Hanna would keep her stepson’s hands out of the till. Our Creative Director was more creative than I had given her credit for. The ladies who lunch were closing ranks. I wondered if our seer had managed to stir the pot.

“Did I miss anyone?” Lady C called out, playing to the crowd.

“Martha Brewster,” they shouted like a Greek chorus.

“Oh, dear, I almost forgot,” Lady Cynthia emoted. “After careful consideration—and on the advice of someone whose instincts are legendary—I have decided to take on the role of Martha Brewster.”

There was a split second of thunderous silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. In the din that followed the orchestra struck up Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” as Lady C and DeeDee hugged each other. Damned if they didn’t look more like Laurel and Hardy than Abby and Martha.

“Desdemona and I have always wanted to work together but, until now, never had the opportunity,” Lady C announced.

“And it’s about damn time,” DeeDee joined in.

Oy vey!
I felt a headache the size of a football coming on. But, like they say in show biz, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

“And now,” Lady Cynthia proclaimed, “we’ll all drink a toast to our success with elderberry wine—served to you by the Brewster sisters.”

This got a laugh, as well as a few howls and shrieks as the two ladies began pouring the wine. They placed four glasses at a time on their trays and began distributing them to the crowd. Flashbulbs were popping all over the place at the sight of Lady Cynthia Horowitz and Desdemona Darling jockeying wine to lesser mortals. Our community theater would get space in newspapers from Miami to Hollywood, proving Lady Cynthia a public relations maven of awesome expertise.

When we had all been served, Lady C raised her glass, the drummer rolled, the trumpeter blared, DeeDee shouted, “To us” and the elderberry wine made its way down many a hatch. Richard Holmes stepped out of the crowd to embrace his wife and fell to the ground at her feet, his glass rolling from his hand, the dark liquid staining the flagstones. DeeDee stared down at him before letting out a scream that could wake Ouspenskaya’s departed cohorts.
Oy vey!
—again.

I
N THE DAYS THAT
followed I often thought about those perfectly trussed beef tenderloins we never got to eat. I supposed the catering staff took away one hell of a doggie bag that night and had themselves a beach party. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away. The caterer got the viands and Desdemona Darling lost her husband.

DeeDee’s scream and the sight of Holmes falling caused half the crowd to back away in panic and the rest to advance for a closer look at the spectacle. The end result was a lot of people bumping into each other. I was on my knees a few seconds after it happened, holding Richard Holmes’s wrist in search of a pulse in the time-honored tradition of film doctors. I am neither brave nor skilled in the medical sciences. I just happened to be the closest person to the stricken man and it seemed the thing to do.

“Give him air, give him air,” someone was shouting, but unless I had my fingers on the wrong spot all the air in the universe wouldn’t help Richard Holmes draw another breath.

“His heart,” DeeDee was crying. “It’s his heart. They told him at L.A. General that his cholesterol count was higher than his bank balance.”

Ouspenskaya was comforting the new widow, telling someone to bring her a glass of cold water. Lady Cynthia was looking down at the dead man as if she’d like to kill him for stealing her show but a higher power had beaten her to the draw. Joe Anderson got a cushion from one of the patio chairs and, kneeling next to me, raised Holmes’s head, slipping the cushion beneath it.

“Thanks, Joe, but I don’t think he’ll notice the difference.”

“He’s gone?” Joe questioned.

“I’m no doc, but I can’t feel a pulse and he’s not breathing. What’s your prognosis?”

“I don’t like this, Archy,” Joe murmured.

“Neither does Richard Holmes, Joe.”

DeeDee was simultaneously sobbing and providing an account of her husband’s medical history. “He had the angina and they gave him pills for the attacks. They told him to live on fish and vegetables but he said that was for cats and rabbits.”

“Please take her inside,” I heard Lady Cynthia saying and a few moments later DeeDee’s sobs retreated. In the dim light of the lanterns the crowd broke into small groups and began describing to each other the scene they had all just witnessed. There would be as many versions of what happened as there were people present.

The photographer with Lolly’s rag was snapping away at the grieving actress and the recently departed Richard Holmes. Two other press photographers were doing the same thing. Lolly Spindrift would indeed get extra bread for this one and the community theater would get more press than Lady C had bargained for.

“What do we do now?” Joe asked just as we heard the siren of an approaching police car speeding up the A1A. Someone, practical Connie I guessed, had the good sense to dial 911. Another siren told us an ambulance was a few minutes behind the patrol car.

“We step back and let the people who know what they’re doing take over,” I said, standing. Before I had a chance to consult with Lady Cynthia, Al Rogoff and his partner had arrived on the scene.

“I need a light,” Al ordered. The younger officer ran back to the squad car just as the paramedics came bounding onto the patio toting a stretcher, oxygen mask and what looked like a stomach pump. All they would need was one out of the three.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Lady Cynthia addressed Al.

“Ma’am.” Al remembered to tip his cap. “Who’s the victim?”

The word
victim
sounded ominous but one could be the victim of a heart attack as well as a crime. I should say here that Sergeant Al Rogoff and I have what I like to call a closeted relationship, a term he abhors for obvious reasons. We have worked together on several cases, chat often and I believe I am one of the few people privy to his devotion to the ballet, opera, and classical music, and his middle name, Irving. However, when he’s on the job and I happen to be present, we keep our distance and play it as it lays.

As Al gathered information from Lady Cynthia and jotted it down on his pad, the paramedics put Richard Holmes on the stretcher, covered him with a blanket and began to carry him to the waiting ambulance. Only Holmes’s size-twelve black loafers were visible. The partygoers watched in stunned silence as the man they had been drinking and chatting with not twenty minutes earlier made his final exit—a reminder that we were all destined to one day follow in his size-twelve footsteps.

“I got what I need so we won’t bother Mrs. Holmes now,” Rogoff was saying to Lady Cynthia, “but for the record you should prepare a list of everyone present tonight, including the help, and have it at the ready.”

“Why?” Lady Cynthia demanded.

“Until the medical examiner files his report we have to consider any sudden death, like this one, a suspicious occurrence, ma’am.”

“Suspicious?” Lady Cynthia repeated, taking exception to Rogoff’s explanation. “He had a bad heart. His wife will tell you that.”

“Is his wife a qualified medical doctor, ma’am?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Officer. She’s Desdemona Darling, the world-renowned actress.”

“Then we’ll have to wait for the medical examiner to tell us how her husband died, ma’am.”

Good for you, Al, I thought. Then Al pocketed his pad and tipped his hat to Lady Cynthia, saying, “They’ll take Mr. Holmes directly to the county morgue, ma’am. I suggest his wife come to the police station tomorrow, first thing, and we’ll walk her through it from there. She’ll have to identify the body.”

“We all know who he is, Officer,” Lady Cynthia snapped back.

“Who he
was,
ma’am. Good night.”

Al’s partner had retreated with the high-powered flashlight he had played on the supine body to assist Al and the medics. The sight appeared more gruesome in its harsh glare than it had in the flickering glow of the Chinese lanterns. As Al took his leave the onlookers broke their silence as they sheepishly returned their wineglasses to the table and surrounded Lady C with words of consolation. A few, including Joe Anderson and Binky Watrous, headed for the bar where I would have liked to join them but took the opportunity to chase, unnoticed, after Al Rogoff.

The ambulance had gone and the young officer with Al was sitting in the squad car. “As soon as I got the nine-one-one call to this fancy address I knew I would find Archy McNally here rubbing shoulders,” Al said as he saw me approaching. “What can you tell me?”

“Nothing more than Lady Cynthia told you. I’m sure it was his heart. But for the record, and now that it doesn’t matter, Richard Holmes was my client. He’s the guy who hired me to investigate the seer, Serge Ouspenskaya.”

“Was he here tonight? The Ouspenskaya guy, that is.”

“He was and still is. He took the new widow into the house to calm her.”

“Why did the deceased want this Ouspenskaya investigated?”

“He thought the guy was bamboozling his wife but it doesn’t make any difference now. She can lean on Ouspenskaya all she wants with her husband’s checkbook and without his interference.”

“Some dames have all the luck,” Al speculated. “You have any idea why she consults this Ouspenskaya?”

“Can I speak in confidence, Al?”

“Like always, Archy, I won’t repeat it unless it becomes police business and is pertinent to the case.”

“Fair enough. Desdemona Darling made a naughty one-reeler in her prime and the lucky cinematographer has been blackmailing her ever since. She wants Ouspenskaya to find the guy and the can of film.”

“Blackmail? She should have reported it to the police years ago. It’s a felony.”

“In this case the felon doesn’t ask for money, Al. He just threatens to release the film to your friendly neighborhood video shop and the thought drives the lady bananas.”

“With what you can rent today at any video store it wouldn’t make a ripple,” Al noted.

“True. But the lady is adamant about preserving her image.”

“The camera guy might be dead after all these years,” Al said.

“It would be easier for Ouspenskaya to contact him if he were dead than if he were alive.”

Al shook his head. “They’re all nuts, Archy.”

“You’ll get no argument out of me on that score, Sergeant.”

“What was the party for tonight? I saw a few beauties in the dim light of those paper lamps.”

You had to admire Al’s professionalism. He had taken in the entire scene as he gathered information from Lady Cynthia and no doubt he was referring to Fitz, and perhaps Hanna Ventura. Al, and the rest of Palm Beach would read all about it tomorrow morning, so I gave him a quick briefing on the community theater and my involvement in it.

Al pulled a half-smoked cigar butt out of his breast pocket and began to chew on it. “You’re the director? What have you ever directed?”

“You can peruse my credentials in the early editions.”

“I never believe anything I read in the newspapers.”

Al Rogoff was many things, from intellectual to uncouth, but a fool he was not. Many a nefarious punk who judged him solely by his mannerisms and grammar had lived to regret it.