McNally's Folly (22 page)

“Our success? You mean you intend to go ahead with putting on
Arsenic and Old Lace
? I don’t believe it.”

“The play will go on whether you believe it or not,” Lady C said. “This unfortunate accident has given us a very high profile and we should strike while the iron is hot.”

She knew of what she spoke. Lady Cynthia had struck six irons while they were hot and had walked away with a king’s ransom in gold and a title.

“I think it would be in very poor taste, Lady Cynthia. Especially when you take into account the way Richard Holmes died. The morbidly curious and the more lurid tabloids will flock to see us. The gentry will stay home.”

“Nonsense, lad. Mr. Ouspenskaya told me the play will act as a catharsis to this terrible business. Avoiding it would only encourage our wounds to fester. He predicts success and a new career for DeeDee.”

So the oracle had been consulted and the die was cast. No big surprise except that Desdemona Darling wasn’t backing out. “And DeeDee has already agreed to go on with the show?” I questioned, hoping to convey the distaste I had for the decision in general and Ouspenskaya in particular.

“She is,” Lady Cynthia stated as she carefully placed her glass on the service table. “We’re from the old school, DeeDee and I, made like winter wheat that bends with the wind and bounces right back when it’s past. Not like today’s breed of shrinking violets.

“On the day my last husband died,” Lady Cynthia divulged, “I refused to cancel a charity tea for the benefit of humpback whales. The show goes on, lad, and you go with it. Like it or not.” The threat of pulling her account out of McNally & Son was inherent in the statement.

Her last husband was high in a tree snooping on two click beetles going at it when the limb of the sturdy oak holding him
accidentally
broke away from the trunk. He had married her for her money and she had married him for his title. As usual, she got the better part of the deal.

“Maybe your guru can tell us how that particular glass got into Richard Holmes’s hand.”

“I know you dislike Mr. Ouspenskaya because he unearthed your burlesque comic grandfather. Don’t be such a prude, lad. Everyone in town knows where the McNally money came from.” I would expunge that when reporting this conversation to Father.

“If everyone knows it, what’s so remarkable about Ouspenskaya knowing it?”

“What was remarkable was his predicting your involvement in our community theater exercise when no one on this earth knew DeeDee and I had elected to ask you to direct.
No one on this earth,
lad, is the operative phrase, as they say. Elsewhere the future is often clearly visible as Mr. Ouspenskaya proved once again today. Connie told you about his call to me this morning to warn of what lay ahead for DeeDee and myself. How can you doubt the man’s sincerity?”

“How can you unequivocally accept him based on a few parlor tricks? Did you know Richard Holmes was my client, Lady Cynthia?”

“He told DeeDee and me last night that Richard had hired you to investigate him. It was very foolish of Richard.”

“So foolish that it may have gotten him killed.”

“Careful what you say. There are laws against libel. And now that Richard is gone I expect you will close your case against Mr. Ouspenskaya.”

I wasn’t going to tell her what I was up to, so I answered, “I might order up a séance to see what Ouspenskaya can tell us about Holmes’s death.”

“Richard Holmes is newly arrived on the other side. It will be months, perhaps years, before he is acclimated to his new life and until then contact with his shadow is impossible.”

She spoke by rote, as if she had memorized every bit of bilge Ouspenskaya had spewed out on the subject. This tactic was easy to figure out. Both Lady C and the widow must have asked Ouspenskaya to contact the dearly departed to see if Holmes could explain his own sudden demise and Ouspenskaya wasn’t going to go near this one with the proverbial ten-foot pole, especially if he knew more about it than he cared to admit. If his paying customers liked the accident theory, so be it. And Archy was going to worry this case until Richard Holmes cast his
shadow
across Ouspenskaya’s turban.

“Then we’ll just have to wait and see what the police come up with,” I forecast.

“Until then,” Lady Cynthia said, “you can start thinking about working out a rehearsal schedule and calling a cast meeting to distribute it. They will need a pep talk, lad. That’s your job. The theater is bugging me for an opening date. Of course DeeDee must observe a respectable period of mourning after the service, but you can work around her until then.”

“A service?”

“Cremation. DeeDee will take his ashes back to California and inter them in her plot in Forest Lawn. All her husbands are there.”

“I hate to rattle your beads but the police will have to release the body first.”

“I’m aware of that,” she snapped back.

At that moment Buzz Carr, clad in white trunks and his skin glistening with moisture, entered the room. “Excuse me,” he said, “I was working out in the pool and forgot my robe. It’s starting to rain out there. How are you, Archy?”

“You’re excused,” his patron said, eyeing his half-naked form lasciviously. They say in matters sexual men lose the ability but women never lose the desire. Lady Cynthia Horowitz was proof of half the assumption.

Buzz went directly to Lady Cynthia and took her hand. “Are you feeling better?” he asked her solicitously, sounding sincere.

“I am, my dear. I was just telling our director we are going ahead with the show.”

Buzz was clasping Lady C’s hand between both of his. He had been with Fitz last night and more than likely would be seeing Phil Meecham later in the day because men like Buzz Carr can’t afford to burn any bridges. Versatility was his long suit and a shot at acting was his last hope to break away from courting women old enough to be his grandmother and men who traded pocket money for favors. With Ouspenskaya a firm supporter of the show and its star, it was in Buzz’s best interest to keep the psychic out of harm’s way.

“We’re all sorry about Mr. Holmes,” Buzz said, still in his solicitous mode, “but Mr. Ouspenskaya says we should go ahead and he predicts we’ll be a big hit.”

“From his lips to Apollo’s ears,” I said, standing.

“Apollo?”

“Apollo was the Greek god of the theater,” Lady Cynthia informed her protégé.

“I’m going to pick up my script from Connie and be on my way,” I told them. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve worked out a schedule.”

“See you, Archy,” Buzz bid me adieu. Our Creative Director was silent.

Connie was so busy fielding calls she barely had the time to tell me she couldn’t go to lunch. I picked up my script, told her I would call her later and left her to her chosen profession.

On the way out I met Annie, who showed me to the door. I wondered if she, an attractive woman of about thirty, had come to Palm Beach in search of a rich husband as Hanna Ventura suspected was the lure for most of our winter help.

“How do you like working here?” I asked her.

“Fine, sir, except for last night. I hear the poor man was done in.”

“Accident, according to your boss.”

“Either way, sir, I hope Mrs. Marsden gets back real soon.”

T
HE PELICAN CLUB WAS
practically empty except for a few stragglers who had lingered over their lunches. Mr. Pettibone was sitting on a bar stool studying the latest stock quotes and Priscilla, looking ravishing in a red frock that resembled a sarong with shoulder straps, was setting the tables. “You’re too early for dinner and too late for lunch,” she informed us. “Take your pick but take your leave.”

“Lunch is served till three,” I told her. “It’s a house rule.” I steered Al to my favorite corner table and Priscilla reluctantly followed us.

“They broke a few rules at your fancy ball last night, Mr. Director, unless a ‘suspicious death’ is what’s happening on the ocean side of the A1A.”

“Suspicious death?” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

“It came over the local Miami TV channel on a newsbreak about an hour ago. My first society party and I knocked ’em dead with my presence.” Like Connie, Priscilla was perturbed by the news of Richard Holmes’s unnatural death and her glib chatter did little to hide it. “I see you’re tight with the fuzz. Is that for protection or is he going to give you the third degree over your victuals?”

“I thought I saw you in that sea of faces last night,” Al said. “What’s your role?”

“I know I saw you, Sergeant, and I was going to be makeup artist to the stars,” Priscilla answered.

“What do you mean
was
?” I broke in.

“I take it the show will go dark before we have a chance to turn on the lights,” Priscilla explained.

“Sorry, but you take it wrong,” I said. “The show will go on and I hope you’re still on board, Pris.”

“Is the widow still on board?”

“She is. The old gal is made of true grit,” I told her.

“Or there’s less to her grief than meets the eye,” Priscilla observed. “I’d say the play is jinxed, so I’ll have to reconsider your offer.”

“I doubt if Henry Lee Wilson will back out,” I teased.

“I don’t need to powder his nose to keep him interested. Now what are you having? It’s one minute before three, so make it snappy.”

When lunching with Al Rogoff we didn’t have to look at the menu to place our order. Burgers, medium rare, along with Leroy’s fries, which are made by peeling and slicing potatoes, not reaching into the freezer, and two drafts. “Could Leroy put together a mixed green salad to go with that?” I ask Priscilla.

“With Thousand Island dressing,” Al added.

Watching Priscilla’s trim stern withdrawing, Al observed, “You know, Archy. She’s got a point there.”

“I would say she has several points, Al.”

“More curves than points, pal, but that’s not what I mean. She said the actress dame might not be as upset over her husband’s death as she pretends to be and now you tell me that she ain’t dropping out of the show. Seems odd to me.”

I nodded in agreement. “Ouspenskaya is advising her to stick with it. He predicts a new career for the lady.”

“At her age?”

“Jessica Tandy got her Oscar when she was eighty,” I informed Al.

“Has this Desdemona ever won an Oscar?”

“No, Al. Her appeal was more to the eye than the ear.”

“What’s in it for Ouspenskaya if the show doesn’t get canceled?” Al asked.

“I had the same thought. I think he doesn’t want to see Desdemona fly back to California with her husband in an urn. There are also several other ladies, including Lady Cynthia, who are with the show and all of them are Ouspenskaya’s faithful followers. Why break up the gang? Besides, Desdemona still hasn’t found her lost work of art. She’s a cash cow.” Before I had a chance to withdraw the unfortunate analogy, Priscilla brought us our brews in pilsners, each with a perfect two-inch topping of white froth.

“Here’s mud in your eye,” Al said, hoisting the glass with a beefy paw. One sip and the pilsner was half empty—or half full if you happen to be an optimist. I’m a firm believer in Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. For those who disagree I have two words:
Titanic
and
Hindenburg.

“I think Ouspenskaya told Desdemona about the phone call he got from her husband, threatening to stop financing Desdemona’s patronage.”

“Before we go into that, Archy, tell me how this Ouspenskaya knew about the poison.”

“I wish I could. All I know is what Connie told me this morning.” Here I repeated, almost verbatim, Connie’s words.

“And you’re sure about the times of those calls?”

“Positive,” I answered. “The nine o’clock call is a matter of electronic verification, not someone’s word. You think the guy has a shill at the station?”

Al shook his head. “Check this out, Archy. The medical examiner got in about eight this morning. He went to work and reported the results of his autopsy to us at nine, just about the time the actress was giving her statement to the press outside the station house.”

That not only gave me pause, it also did permanent damage to what was left of my sanity, leaving me bothered and bewildered if not bewitched. “Are you saying Ouspenskaya knew about the poison before the police?”

“Just about,” Al said. “So maybe he is psychic. It ain’t impossible.”

It was more bravado than confidence that had me saying, “Or he helped Holmes meet his maker.”

“And then announced it the next morning?”

“The guy is nervy, Al. Was the arsenic in the wine?”

“Who knows? It was in Richard Holmes, that’s for sure. They say the stuff is quick-acting and the wine was the last thing he downed before he expired, right? Hence, we go by the theory that it was in the wine.”

Priscilla arrived with our mixed greens in a huge teak salad bowl, two salad plates and a bottle of Kraft’s Thousand Island dressing. Leroy usually disguises his store-bought dressings in a store-bought cruet but I guess latecomers should be happy with what they get.

Priscilla put three shakers on our table, announcing, “Salt, pepper, arsenic,” and fled.

“Some sense of humor,” Al griped.

I helped myself to the greens before Al got his hands on the bottle of dressing and deluged our salad. “Where does one get arsenic, Al?”

“Where do kids get assault weapons to take out their history class? It’s a controlled substance but so is marijuana. It’s in rat poison and products sold to clean out wasp nests and things like that.”

In spite of the subject matter I applied a few dabs of dressing to my salad and dug in, not realizing how hungry I was until I did so. Pop dressings, like pop music, are irresistible.

“I’m more interested in how it got in the victim’s glass than in how the murderer came to possess it,” Al continued.

“So you think it was murder?”

“What do you think, pal?”

“I agree.”

“And you think Ouspenskaya is suspect
numero uno
?” Al finished the salad on his plate and I told him to take what was left in the bowl and he did. Al Rogoff is not shy.