McNally's Puzzle (12 page)

“Oh?” I said, and took another sip of Presidente. It was emboldening.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” he said, speaking rapidly now. “Your father is Hiram Gottschalk’s attorney. And you are your father’s assistant. Correct?”

“More or less,” I said. “But I am not a lawyer. If this concerns a legal matter I suggest you speak to my father.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It hasn’t come to that. Yet. But I think you should know Hiram has been acting crazy lately.”

“Acting crazy? In what way?”

“He thinks someone has a grudge against him. Smashing his phonograph records, slashing an old photograph, even strangling Dicky, the mynah he owned. It’s all a crock of course. Strictly in his mind. What’s left of it.”

“Is he becoming senile? Alzheimer’s perhaps?”

Chrisling shrugged. “Who knows? But the trip he and I just made to Orlando was hard to take. I mean he just wasn’t talking sense. Even the wholesalers noticed it. A few of them asked if he was sick.”

I was silent. Ricardo took a gulp of brandy that drained his glass.

“His son,” he said. “Peter. Have you met him?”

I nodded.

“Then you know he’s off-the-wall.” His laugh was harsh. “Maybe it runs in the family. Anyway, I thought you might want to let your father know how Hiram’s been acting.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, and finished my own Presidente. “He should be informed.” I struggled from the armchair’s embrace and stood. “Thank you for the transfusion. I better be on my way.” I realized he had nothing more to say to me. He had accomplished his purpose.

“Wait a sec,” he said, and left. He reappeared a moment later bearing an unopened bottle of Presidente brandy. “For you,” he said with his tight smile. “Enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” I said, startled. “It’s very generous of you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, but I didn’t think it was.

I drove home slowly. It was a reasonable hour, not yet midnight, and I was reasonably sober. And so I was capable of totting up what I had heard the last few days.

1. The twins, Judith and Julia, had told me of their father’s nuttiness.

2. Yvonne Chrisling, housekeeper, had told me of Hiram’s conduct.

3. And now Ricardo had told me of his employer’s erratic behavior.

A chorus of harpies.

There were, I decided, two possibilities. One: Judith, Julia, Yvonne, and Ricardo were joined in a conspiracy to convince me—and through me, my father—that Hiram Gottschalk had gone off the deep end and his mental capabilities were no longer to be trusted.

But if it was a conspiracy, what could be their shared motive? And if such a motive existed I could not believe the members of the cabal would have decided to attempt to enlist my support not once, not twice, but thrice. That, I was certain they would recognize, would be overkill. These were not stupid people.

The other possibility, I had to acknowledge, was that each separately, without knowledge of the others, was speaking the truth, and Hiram Gottschalk had flipped his wig. My father had warned me from the outset the client was eccentric. Perhaps what
mein papa
saw as eccentricity was or had evolved into something approaching lunacy.

My wisest course of action, I concluded, was to have a personal meeting with Hiram as soon as possible. After all, we had only met twice. A one-on-one interview would help me judge his mental condition. If I thought him normal, even if idiosyncratic, I would suspect a vile plot existed involving his children and employees. If he exhibited obvious symptoms of paranoia, then I would certainly suggest to my father that Mr. Gottschalk be urged to consult Dr. Gussie Pearlberg.

Having untied the knot of my doubts and insecurities, I regained the safety and comfort of my own snug den with a feeling of relief. My cave was, I admitted, somewhat grungy compared to Chrisling’s immaculate apartment. But my sanctuary is
me
, completely mine, and I grin every time I walk in.

Before I retired I opened the Presidente brandy Ricardo had given me and had a taste. It was nice enough but lacked the punch of marc. But then what doesn’t?

I fell asleep wondering why he had gifted me a bottle. I didn’t think he was a Greek but I could not forget Virgil’s warning.

M
Y PARENTS WENT TO CHURCH
on Sunday morning, as usual. And, as usual, I did not accompany them. I attended only when my sins become unendurable—a rare occurrence since I customarily find virtuous reasons for misdeeds, as I’m sure you do as well.

They returned and we all piled into mother’s nicely restored 1949 Ford station wagon, familiarly known as the Woody. It really is a charming antique, fully operable, with a V-8 engine and side panels and tailgate of finely grained wood.

Father drove since he has an absurd notion that I am a speed demon. I am not, of course, and even if I were I can’t see a ’49 Ford wagon competing in the Daytona 500, can you? Mother insisted we bring along the collar and leash formerly the property of Max. I agreed because I didn’t wish to cause dissension, although I knew Max’s collar would go about Hobo’s neck at least twice.

June August greeted us at the dog shelter and I introduced her. I think my parents were favorably impressed and I’m sure she was, since they were still wearing their Sunday-go-to-meeting uniforms, the picture of puritan rectitude. We all repaired to the cage harboring Hobo and stood in a semicircle observing him.

He was curled into a ball, sleeping soundly. But becoming aware he had an audience, he opened one eye, examined us, then rose to his feet, yawned, stretched, and pressed his nose against the door of his cage.

“Hiya, Hobo,” I said. “Have a nice snooze? I’ve brought some friends to meet you. Could we have him outside, please, Miss August?”

She opened the door; he immediately jumped to the ground, had another luxurious stretch, and then looked at us more closely. And you know, the villain picked out the one of his four visitors who would determine his fate. Tail wagging, he sidled up to mother and gave her an affectionate ankle rub.

“Why, Hobo,” she said, obviously enchanted, “you
are
a friendly pooch, aren’t you?”

She leaned to scratch the top of his head and tweak his ears. He writhed with content. That kid must have studied method acting. I looked at father.
Both
his hairy eyebrows were hoisting aloft. He knew Hobo had conquered.

“Would you like to see him run?” June August asked.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said, and looked to my parents for approval. They nodded and we all returned to the office to sign papers and ransom Hobo.

Twenty minutes later we were on the way home. As I had guessed, there was no need for collar and leash. Hobo bounded readily into the Woody and sat rather grandly between mother and me, making no fuss but viewing the passing scene with calm curiosity. I think father was amused.

“Not a very excitable beast, is he?” he said.

“No, sir,” I agreed. “But deep. Definitely deep.”

We arrived at the McNally manse and alighted. Hobo leaped down, shook himself, and looked around at his new surroundings. Ursi and Jamie Olson came from the kitchen to join us and examine the latest addition to our household.

“What a cute doggie!” Ursi said.

“Um,” said Jamie.

The five of us were standing there, staring at the terrier, when suddenly he took off. I mean his acceleration was incredible. One moment he was still, the next he was a brown-and-white blur. He raced away from us, ears laid back, tail horizontal, and dashed into the wooded portion of our mini-estate.

He reappeared, circled the garage at full speed, and disappeared again. We caught glimpses of him darting through the underbrush, charging around the entire McNally domain, apparently never pausing to take a sniff.

“He’s not running away, is he?” mother asked anxiously.

“Of course not,” I said, praying my faith in Hobo would be justified.

Finally the scoundrel came skidding to a stop in front of us. He flopped onto his side, panting mightily, tail thumping. I think we were all astonished and puzzled by his behavior.

“Now why did he do that?” Ursi wondered.

Father pressed a knuckle to his bristly mustache, probably to hide a smile. “I suspect he may have been celebrating,” he said.

I think it occurred simultaneously to all of us that we had made no preparations to feed and water our adoptee. It was decided a wooden bowl of water would be temporarily provided along with leftovers from our Sunday dinner and supper. Hobo would not suffer from malnutrition for one day, and mother and Ursi promised to go shopping for him on the morrow. They planned to purchase everything a healthy hound might desire: a supply of food, bowls, brush, comb, flea-and-tick spray, and perhaps a rawhide bone to exercise his molars.

“And some treats,” mama said happily. “Little biscuits and nibbles. Things like that.”

“But no gumdrops,” I warned.

She stared at me. “Archy,” she said, “I never know when you’re joking.”

“All the time, darling,” I said, and hugged her.

My parents and Ursi went indoors. Jamie and I introduced Hobo to his new condo, beckoning him forward to examine the doghouse formerly occupied by Max. The strange dwelling didn’t spook him at all and I was convinced the kid was fearless. He poked his head through the doorway, looked around a moment, then slowly entered. I leaned down to see what he was doing. Just sniffing, inspecting the premises he had inherited. Then he came bouncing out, tail wagging.

We took him on a tour of the McNally domain and he followed along happily, occasionally frisking ahead. He explored the garage, potting shed, and greenhouse. Apparently he found nothing to which to object. We have a low stone wall bordering Ocean Boulevard and he could have leaped it easily. I pointed to the traffic speeding by and said, “No! No!” as sharply as I could. I hoped he understood he was not to venture onto the highway to chase cars.

We returned to the main house and I left him in Jamie’s care. The two seemed to have formed an instant rapport, and I wondered how long it would be before Hobo was smoking a pipe and drinking aquavit.

I went up to my snuggery to relax before dinner. I was happy the adoption of Hobo had been glitchless. I hadn’t mentioned it but I did hope the others would not attempt to teach tricks to our new family member. I mean it’s quite sensible to train a dog to obey simple commands such as Stay, Heel, and Sit. Even Fetch. But when it comes to such things as Shake Hands and Play Dead, I object. It’s an insult to a dog’s dignity, making him exhibit his total serfdom. If your boss commanded you to lie down and roll over, what would be your reaction? Exactly.

Dinner was short ribs of beef, which everyone agreed was a fortuitous choice. The bones, rinsed free of a delightful red wine sauce, would keep Hobo content for the remainder of the day. I even added a single small macaroon just to convince him he had arrived at a canine Ritz.

I postponed the usual après-Sunday dinner nap to add a few lines to my journal describing the curious conversation with Ricardo Chrisling the previous evening. I also jotted a separate note to remind myself to call Mr. Hiram Gottschalk the first thing Monday morning to set up a meeting.

I finished those minor chores and was about to collapse onto the mattress for a few hundred welcome winks when my phone destroyed that hope. Ah-ha! I thought. Connie Garcia is calling to apologize for her unseemly behavior. Not quite.

“Archy McNally?” A sultry female voice.

“I am indeed. And you?”

“Judith Gottschalk.”

A short, shocked pause. Then I said, “Judith! How nice to hear from you.”

“I got your number from daddy. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Listen, you live on the beach, don’t you?”

“Practically in the sea.”

“It’s such a gorgeous day I’d love to take a dip.”

“Of course,” I said bravely. “And Julia?”

“She’s got the sniffles or something. Maybe the flu. She plans to spend the day in bed.”

“What a shame,” I said, resisting the urge to ask, “With whom?”

“Could I pop over for an hour or so? Just long enough to get wet.”

“Come along,” I said, not terribly enthused at the prospect.

“Got any bubbly?” she asked in a tone implying that if I didn’t I was a hopeless dolt.

“I think I might be able to find a bottle,” I said, a bit miffed by her peremptory demand.

“Do try,” she said. “See you in thirty minutes or so.”

She hung up and I sighed. But then I reflected that an afternoon with one of the twins might prove more productive than entertaining both at the same time. Encouraged, I went downstairs to the pantry, found a bottle of Korbel brut, an excellent wine, and popped it into the freezer for a quick chill along with two plastic cups. Then I climbed up to my aerie again.

I changed to swimming trunks imprinted with portraits of the Pink Panther and added a cover-up of aubergine terry. I slid my feet into flip-flops and picked up a beach towel.

I flip-flopped downstairs and waited at the kitchen door until I saw the blue M-B come charging into our driveway, skidding to a halt with a scattering of gravel. Judith Gottschalk alighted, then leaned back inside to retrieve a beach bag and an enormous pagoda-shaped hat of fawny linen. She was wearing a gauzy cover-up beneath which the eagle-eyed McNally discerned the world’s tiniest bikini, in a calico pattern. If my father had observed her arrival from his study window I reckoned his eyebrows had ascended to his hairline.

I plucked the Korbel and plastic cups from the freezer and went out to greet her. She gave me an air kiss and then examined my offering.

“But it’s
domestic
,” she said in a snippety tone approaching outrage.

I refused to be offended by her pettishness. I glanced at the label. “Jumping Jehoshaphat, so it is!” I exclaimed with shocked chagrin. “I could have sworn I selected a bottle of an ’83 Krug. Well, it’s chilled, so I’m afraid we’ll have to make do. Shall we go to the beach?”

She pouted. I don’t think she was accustomed to having her desires thwarted—or even diluted. The Gottschalk twins, I decided, were enamored of the lush life and expected it as their due.