McNally's Risk (11 page)

The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn't saying.

"And that's all I've got," the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. "What have
you
got?"

I glanced at mon père. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.

"Discretion?" he demanded, looking sternly at Rogoff.

"As usual," Al said.

Father then described the letters Smythe-Hersforth had written Shirley Feebling during a time the two apparently had been enjoying a steamy affair. Later the client had a change of heart, but the woman insisted he honor the proposal of marriage he had made in writing. If not, she vowed to sell his letters to any interested tabloid.

"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "How much was she asking?"

"Archy?" papa said. "You take it from here."

"I went down to Lauderdale to see her," I told the sergeant. "I had just the single meeting and left my business card. She absolutely refused to discuss a cash settlement. She wanted to marry him and that was that."

"Where is the guy now—do you know?"

"His office says he left Monday morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and won't be back until Thursday."

Al had been making brief notes on all this in a fat little notebook he carried. Now he slapped the cover closed and bound it with a wide rubber band. He said casually, "Archy, you got any idea who might have clobbered the woman?"

I had learned to lie convincingly by age four. "Not a glimmer," I said.

"Sergeant," father said, "if inquiries by the Fort Lauderdale authorities prove—as I am certain they will—that Smythe-Hersforth was in New Orleans at the time of this unfortunate woman's death, I will deeply appreciate any assistance you may provide in retrieving our client's personal letters since they obviously will be of no further interest or import in the official investigation."

All that was said in one sentence. It's the way my old man talks.

"I'll see what I can do, sir," Rogoff said, rising, and the two men shook hands.

The sergeant was driving a police car that night, not his personal pickup truck, and I walked him outside. He paused to light a cigar and blow a plume of smoke toward the cloudless sky.

"Nice weather," he observed.

"You don't find it a trifle warm?"

"Nah," he said. "I like the heat. It keeps the juices flowing."

"And how are they flowing on the Hawkin homicide?"

"They ain't," he admitted. "We're going through the drill, talking to everyone. It's what I call an NKN case: nobody knows nothing."

"A double negative," I pointed out.

"The story of my life," he said. Then suddenly: "How about you? You got anything?"

"A crumb," I said. "Mrs. Jane Folsby has left the Hawkins' employ. For reasons the deponent knoweth not."

"Yeah?" he said. "Can't say I blame her for getting out of that nuthouse. Go to bed, sonny boy; I only wish I could. And remember what I said about your business cards. Will you, for God's sake, stop passing them out? Every time you do, someone gets whacked and I have to put in more overtime."

I watched him drive away, reflecting that his warning came too late. The last card I had distributed went to Theodosia Johnson. It was not a comforting thought. I went back inside. The door to father's study was shut, which meant he was deep in Dickens and port. So I trudged upstairs, finished scribbling in my journal, and prepared to crawl into the sack.

I cannot say my mood was melancholy, but neither was it chockablock with joie de vivre. I have never been a victim of presentiments, but that evening I must confess I had a sense of impending doom.

The only way I could calm my quaking spirits was to remind myself firmly that seriousness is a sin. I happen to believe that our Maker is the greatest farceur in the universe. And so sleep came only with the blessed remembrance of the sentiment: "Long live the sun! And down with the night!"

I thought it might be Pushkin. But then it might have been just Archy McNally. No matter. I slept.

And awoke on Wednesday morning revivified, alert, and wondering why I had been in such a funk the previous night. After all, I was alive, reasonably young, in full possession of my faculties (others might disagree), and inhabiting a world that offered such glories as lamb shanks braised in wine and tiramisu with zabaglione sauce. There was absolutely no reason to despair.

I knew exactly what I must do, but of course I had overslept and didn't arrive at my office in the McNally Building until a bit after ten o'clock. Oversleeping, I realized, was becoming a habit I seemed unable to break, and it occurred to me that I might have contracted trypanosomiasis. I have never been to Africa, but a chum of mine, Binky Watrous, had recently spent a weekend in Marrakech, and it was quite possible that, unknowingly of course, he had brought a tsetse fly home with him. It was troubling.

The moment I was behind my ugly desk I phoned Jack DuBois, my pal at the Royal Palm Way bank handling Hector Johnson's checking account.

"Jack," I said, "you told me that when Johnson made his initial deposit with a cashier's check from Troy, Michigan, he presented a driver's license as ID and supplied the names of two Fort Lauderdale residents as references."

"That's right."

"Could I have the names and addresses of the references, please?"

He groaned. "Archy, it seems to me I'm doing all your work for you."

"Jack, there's no such thing as a free lunch."

"Lunch?" he cried indignantly. "You promised me a dinner."

"I was speaking metaphorically," I soothed him. "You shall have your dinner complete with appetizer, soup, entrée, dessert, and whatever else your ravenous hunger and thirst demand. Now let's have the names of Johnson's references."

"Wait a sec while I call them up on my screen," he said. "We've got new software and it's a doozy. When are you going to get a computer, Archy?"

"Give me a break," I pleaded. "I can't even operate a battery-powered swizzle stick."

Eventually I received the information requested. Hector Johnson's two references were J.P. Lordsley and Reuben Hagler. I studied their addresses and reckoned that if I left immediately, I could manage a relaxed drive to Fort Lauderdale, enjoy a leisurely snack, check out both individuals, and be back in time for my daily dunk in the sea.

But it did not happen. My phone jangled ere I could depart, and a feminine voice inquired, "Archy McNally?"

I recognized that coo, and my heart leaped like an inflamed gazelle. "Theo!" I said. "How nice to hear from you."

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," she said. "I know how busy you must be."

"Work—" I said. "It's a four-letter word and I try to avoid it."

"Let me help," she said, her voice positively burbling. "You did offer to show me your home, you know, and it's such a lovely day I was hoping to persuade you to take a few hours off."

"Splendid idea!" I practically shouted. "And as I recall, lunch was also mentioned. Still on?"

"Of course. Daddy is using our car this afternoon, so could you pick me up?"

"Delighted," I said. "Half an hour? How does that sound?"

"I'll be waiting for you, Archy," she said softly and hung up, leaving me to interpret her final words in several ways, not all of them honorable.

I was happy I had worn dove gray slacks and my navy blue blazer adorned with the Pelican Club patch: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet. I also sported tasseled cordovan loafers (no socks) and a mauve cashmere polo shirt, the cost of which had made a severe dent in my net worth.

Thankfully the heat and humidity of the previous day had dissipated and it was a brilliant noontime with a cerulean sky brushed with horsetail clouds, and a sweet ocean breeze moving the palm fronds. I should have been elated by the anticipation of spending a few enchanting hours with Madam X, but I must admit two questions dampened my euphoria.

One: If the Chinless Wonder was correct in stating that he was to become the fiancé of Theodosia Johnson—and commissioning her portrait certainly proved the sincerity of his intent—why did she seem so eager to enjoy a luncheon with yrs. truly? She had to be aware that Chauncey was out of town, and her cozying up to another man in his absence was a mite off-putting.

I was not accusing her of blatant infidelity, mind you, and I had no desire to make a moral judgment. Not me, who believes "connubial bliss" is an oxymoron. But her conduct
was
a puzzle. I concluded she had a motive I could not ken.

The second question was where in the world was I going to take Madam X to lunch. You must understand that Connie Garcia, partly due to her position as social secretary to Lady Horowitz, maintains a network of spies, snitches, close friends, and catty enemies who like nothing better than to relate the behavior of Archy McNally, particularly when I am observed in activities sure to ignite Connie's Latin temper. If I was seen lunching with the nubile Ms. Johnson, it would undoubtedly be reported to the lady with whom I was intimate, and I didn't wish to imagine what her reaction would be. Incendiary, I was certain, and possibly damaging to the McNally corpus.

But all my uncertainties and hesitancies vanished when I rang the bell of the Johnsons' condo and the door was opened by Theo. A vision! Physical beauty, the eggheads tell us, is ephemeral, of no lasting value, and we must admire only the inner virtues. I much prefer a swan-like neck.

She was wearing a slip dress of tangerine silk. With her apricot-tanned shoulders and peachy complexion she was a veritable fruit salad of delight. Once again her beauty had the effect of answering all my questions and banishing all my doubts. Suspect this woman of chicanery? Nonsense! Might as well accuse the Venus de Milo of being a pickpocket.

"Archy!" she said, clasping my hand. "You look smashing. What is that crest on your jacket?"

"The Pelican Club. A private dining and drinking establishment."

"Wonderful. Are we going there for lunch?"

"No, no," I said hastily. "It's a comfortable spot, but regretfully the cuisine is something less than haute. We'll find a place with a more enticing menu. But first let me show you the McNally home."

What a pleasure it was to have that paragon seated alongside me in the Miata as we zipped over to Ocean Boulevard and gazed on the glimmering sea.

Theo was wide-eyed as she glimpsed the mansions fronting the Atlantic. "The money!" she said.

"Playpen of the idle rich," I admitted blithely. "But not all of us. The McNallys, for instance. We work, we're hardly multis, and our spread is relatively modest. My father had the great good sense to buy years and years ago before real estate prices rocketed into the wild blue yonder."

I parked on the graveled turnaround at our three-car garage and led my guest on a stroll through our smallish estate.

"We employ a live-in couple who have their own apartment over the garage," I said. "The greenhouse is my mother's domain. No pool, you'll notice. What's the point with the ocean a short trot away? The doghouse belonged to Max, our golden retriever, but he's gone to the great kennel in the sky. Let's see if mother is at work."

We found her in the potting shed. She stripped off a rubber glove to shake hands with our visitor.

"How nice to meet you, Miss Johnson," she said brightly. "I've already met your father at our garden club. What a charming man he is."

"Thank you, Mrs. McNally. Your home is lovely."

"But you haven't seen the inside yet," I protested. "It's nothing but bare walls and a few hammocks."

"Don't believe a word he says," mum advised.

"I don't," Theo said with more conviction than I liked.

"Archy, will you and Miss Johnson be staying for lunch?"

"Not today, darling," I told her. "We want to see some of the local scenery."

"Well, do come back," she urged Theo. "Perhaps you and your father might visit some evening."

"I'd love that, Mrs. McNally. Thank you so much."

We walked toward the house. "She's beautiful," Theo said. "And so—so
motherly."

"Isn't she," I agreed. "I just adore sitting on her lap."

"You're a nut," she said, laughing.

"And now for the fifty-cent tour," I said. "Let's make it fast because the pangs of hunger are beginning to gnaw."

I showed her everything: kitchen, father's study, living and dining rooms, second-floor sitting room, master and guest bedrooms, and my own little suite on the third floor. All the furnishings were of good quality but obviously mellowed. The interior looked as if everything had been inherited, which was exactly the ambience my father had striven to create when he moved up from Miami.

"It's all so handsome," Theo said, suitably impressed. "So solid and warm and comfy."

I didn't tell her the truth, that everything in the place had been purchased in the past thirty years from decorators, galleries, and antique shops. Our home was a stage set. But it was convincing.

We reboarded the Miata, and I had what I fancied was a minor stroke of genius.

"You know," I said thoughtfully, "there are many fine restaurants in Palm Beach, but it's such a scrumptious day, why don't we take a drive down to Boca Raton along A1A. I know a marvelous place in Boca where we can lunch alfresco."

"Sounds divine," Theo said.

So having reduced the possibility of being spotted by one of Connie Garcia's spies to an absolute minimum, I turned southward. We followed the corniche, and my companion never stopped exclaiming at the glory of the vistas and the wealth displayed by the private mansions and luxury condominiums along the way.

I drove directly to Mizner Park, my favorite mini-mall in South Florida. There we entrusted the Miata to a valet and secured an umbrella table at the Bistro L'Europe. Outdoor dining at Mizner is a charming way to enjoy anything from a boutique pizza to a five-course banquet. But, of course, the main attraction is people-watching.