McNally's Secret (12 page)

“One,” I said. “You.”

I do believe she blushed, but it may have been the rosy glow coming from the Tiffany lamp on the table. I helped myself to more Absolut. I couldn’t serve Jennifer; her full glass was untouched.

“I did everything I could,” she continued. “I loved Tom, I really did. He could be a splendid husband: kind, gentle, understanding. Except he had this terrible sickness.”

“I had a friend who was like that,” I said, lying but trying to be sympathetic. “And it is a sickness.”

“Things began to disappear from our home,” she went on. “Crystal, silverware, a few of my antiques. He was selling them. He was involved with loan sharks, and rough men began coming to our house or parking outside all night. I really couldn’t take any more of it so I filed for divorce. He wept and begged and swore he would stop betting. But he had done that a dozen times before, and I knew it was no good. I think the final straw was when I realized he was stealing money from my purse. So I divorced him. And a year later he went to prison.”

“A sad story,” I said.

“A soap opera,” she said with a strained smile. “It happens all the time, all over the country. I talked to a counselor who specialized in treating addictions, and he said no improvement could be expected until the addict acknowledged he was out of control and sought help voluntarily. Tom wouldn’t do that.”

There was silence awhile. She sat with her head lowered, and I hoped she wasn’t going to cry. I’m an absolute klutz when it comes to dealing with weeping women.

“Something I haven’t asked you,” I said. “Any children?”

“No,” she said, lifting her chin to look at me, and I saw she was clear-eyed; her calm, direct gaze had returned. “Do you think it would have changed Tom if we had?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Who can predict human behavior? Did you say he’s out of prison?”

“Yes. He was released about a month ago.”

“Did you visit him while he was inside?”

“No.”

“Write to him?”

“Not really,” she said. “Just birthday and Christmas cards. But he wrote me frequently. He said being behind bars had made him realize how he had screwed up his life, and mine. He swore he was a changed man, and when he was released he’d never gamble again as long as he lived.”

“Do you believe him, Jennifer?”

“No.”

“Has he called you since he’s been out?”

“Four times.”

“And he wants you to take him back?”

Her eyes grew round. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Because that’s exactly what I’d do if I were in his place. Will you take him back?”

“Never!” she cried. “Archy, have you ever had nightmares?”

“Not often. Perhaps a half-dozen in my lifetime.”

“Well, I had a nightmare that lasted almost four years. I don’t want to go through that again.”

I asked, almost idly, “Where did he call you from—Boca?”

“No,” she said, “he’s living in Delray Beach.”

I think I stared at her with a look akin to the wild surmise of the men of stout Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien. Although how they managed to spot the Pacific Ocean from Connecticut I’ve never been able to understand.

“Delray Beach?” I repeated, and my voice sounded like a croak. “What’s he doing there?”

“He says he has a good job selling hurricane shutters, mostly to people who live in high-rise condos. He claims his boss knows about his prison record but is willing to give him a chance. Tom says he makes a small salary but does well on commissions. I believe that. I told you he’s a super salesman.”

I nodded, thinking that Jennifer was probably his toughest prospect. She leaned forward and took my hands in hers.

“Archy,” she said, “I’m sorry to dump this on you. I realize it’s depressing. But I know how people talk, and I wanted to tell you myself rather than have you hear it secondhand.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

She sat back and slumped. “I feel wrung-out. Just talking about it brings back so many memories. All of them painful.”

“I can understand that,” I said. I stood up. “I suppose you want me to go.”

Finally, finally, she took a sip of her vodka, then looked up at me with that cool, level gaze. “Whatever gave you that silly idea?” she said.

There was something demonic in her love-making that night, as if she sought to exorcise thoughts, feelings, perhaps those painful memories. I profited shamelessly from her anguish.

Popular wisdom has it that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Don’t you ever believe it.

I
BANISHED ALL MY
problems for the weekend and lived the life of a blade-about-town. On Saturday I played tennis at a friend’s private court. After he scuttled me in straight sets, he phoned a couple of jolly ladies. They came over, and we all frolicked in his pool, had a few drinks, and laughed a lot.

On Saturday night after dinner (tournedos with foie gras), I headed for the Pelican Club. I found a few of my cronies already in attendance, and I won five dollars throwing darts. That made me the big winner, and I had to stand a round of drinks that cost me twenty.

On Sunday I took my ocean swim early, then drove out to Wellington where I watched a polo match from my father’s box. I had brought my Tasco zoom binocs along, but I saw no one in the stands who excited my interest. Jennifer Towley, I decided, had elevated my taste. How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?

On Sunday night my parents and I made a short trip down A1A to a Palladian-style mansion owned by a wealthy client of McNally
&
Son. Along with thirty other guests we enjoyed a boisterous cocktail party and cookout that featured Maine lobsters and Louisiana prawns. The grill was presided over by a uniformed butler wearing white gloves and a topper.

But Monday rolled around all too quickly, and then it was back to the Sturm und Drang.

You may think a detective’s best friend is his revolver, magnifying glass, or bloodhound. Wrong. It is a telephone directory—the handiest aid to any inquiry, discreet or otherwise. I looked up the home address and phone number of Kenneth Bodin in Delray Beach, and scrawled them on the inside of a book of matches. Then, just for the fun of it, I tore out the Yellow Pages listing places that sold hurricane shutters. There were a lot of them, but most seemed to be located north of Boynton Beach. I found only a few in the Del-ray-Boca Raton area.

By ten o’clock I was on the road again, and it was not a day that would bring a prideful smile to the mug of Florida boosters. The sky had the color and weight of a wet army blanket, not a wisp of air was moving, and even the palm fronds looked dejected. It was an oppressive atmosphere, as if a storm was lurking nearby and might pounce at any moment.

I stopped for gas in Delray Beach and made my phone call to Kenneth Bodin’s residence from the station. As I had hoped, a woman answered.

“Hello?” she said in a squeaky little voice.

“Sylvia?” I asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“My name is Dooley, and I’m in South Florida for a convention. I threw my back out, and I need a massage. A friend suggested you might be able to help.”

“Yeah?” she said suspiciously. “What friend?”

I named the most active roué I knew. “Phil Meecham,” I said. It worked.

She squealed with delight. “What a crazy guy!” she said. “How is Phil?”

“Sitting up and taking nourishment,” I said. “How about that massage?”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Dooley, but I’m not in that line of work anymore. My boyfriend won’t let me.”

“Well, I can understand that,” I said. “But is he home right now?”

“No. He works up at Palm Beach.”

“Well, then...?” I suggested.

“No can do,” she said firmly. “I gave him my sacred promise. And besides, he might come home unexpectedly.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, sounding disappointed. “Then I guess I made the trip for nothing.”

“Listen, Dooley,” she said. “I’m working as a cocktail waitress at a lovely place on the beach. The joint opens at noon. Why don’t you stop by, have a few drinks, and maybe we can work something out.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, and she gave me the name of the lovely place on the beach and told me how to find it.

I killed an hour by driving around to stores that sold and installed hurricane shutters. I hit pay dirt on the fourth. Yes, Thomas Bingham worked there, but at the moment he was out estimating a job. I was relieved to hear it, having absolutely no idea of what I would have said to him if he had been present. I think I just wanted to size him up, see what a man looked like who would sacrifice Jennifer Towley for the sake of a dog race.

I left no message for Bingham but said I’d stop by again. Then I headed for Sylvia’s place of employ, wishing I knew what the hell I was doing. But sometimes chance and accident prove more valuable than the most detailed plan. That’s what I told myself.

At least I had sense enough to park my car a few blocks away and walk back. I had no desire for Sylvia to remark casually to Bodin, “A young buck stopped by today, driving a flag-red Miata.” His porcine ears would have perked up immediately.

When I entered Hammerhead’s Bar & Grill, I was tempted to do a Bette Davis impersonation: flap my elbows, suck an imaginary cigarette, and utter those immortal words: “What-a
-dump!
” I suppose I was being elitist, but it was a bit of a culture shock, after that deluxe weekend at Palm Beach, to be faced by so much Formica with naked fluorescent tubes flickering overhead.

The bar was crowded with what appeared to be a fraternity of construction workers and commercial fishermen. I took a bandanna-sized table in the corner, and in a moment a zoftig blond lady came jiggling over to me. She was wearing a hot-pink miniskirt and a hot-green tank top that may have been sprayed on with an atomizer.

“Hiya,” she said.

“Sylvia?” I said. “I’m Dooley.”

“Well!” she said, giving me a really nice smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure. In town for long?”

“Oh, maybe a week or so,” I said. “I’m staying in Boca with a friend.”

“Man or woman?” she asked, leering at me.

“Man,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

“Maybe we can do something about that,” and she actually winked at me. “What can I bring you?”

I know that in a place like that, the only safe choice would be something with a cap on the bottle. But I feared if I asked for nonalcoholic beer, the proprietor and patrons might toss me to the sharks skulking offshore.

“A bottle of beer, please,” I said. “Do you have Heineken?”

“Of course,” she said. “This is a high-class joint.”

She brought my beer and a bowl of salted peanuts. Then, unbidden, she took the chair opposite me, and I was aware that a few customers at the bar glanced at me enviously.

“You’re awfully young to be a pal of Phil Meecham,” she said.

“You know Phil,” I said. “He never discriminates because of age, sex, color, creed, or country of national origin.”

“You can say that again,” she said, laughing. “Once I saw him try to make a chimpanzee. Can you believe it?”

“Easily,” I said. “May I buy you a drink?”

“Maybe a diet Coke,” she said. “Okay? I’m trying to lose weight.”

“Don’t you dare,” I said.

“Oh
you!
” she said.

She came back with her drink and then dug into my bowl of peanuts.

“What time do you get off work, Sylvia?” I asked.

“Well, that’s the problem,” she said. “I leave around eight when the night girl comes on. Then I have to go right home or my boyfriend will have the pip. Or sometimes he comes in here when he gets off work, and then we go home together. He keeps me on a short leash.”

“What’s doing there?” I asked her. “Wedding bells?”

“Maybe,” she said, scoffing more peanuts. “It depends on my mood.”

“So really the only time you have free is in the mornings?”

“That’s about it,” she agreed. “Ken leaves for work early to beat the traffic. And I have to get up early to make him breakfast.”

“I’ll be around awhile,” I said. “May I call you some morning?”

“Of course you can, Dooley,” she said. “We could take a ride down to your friend’s place in Boca.”

“Good idea,” I said, and finished my beer. “I’ll give you a ring.” I stood up. “How much do I owe you, Sylvia?”

“It’s on the house,” she said. “Maybe you’ll come back. You’ve got class; I can tell.”

“Thank you,” I said, and slipped her a ten for her keen discernment. I waved and started away. Then I had one of my wild ideas that always shock me because I can’t understand where they come from.

“By the way,” I said, turning back, “my friend in Boca lives in a high-rise condo, and he’s thinking of installing hurricane shutters. You know anyone around here who sells them?”

“Sure,” she said. “Tom Bingham. He drops by almost every evening when he gets off work.”

“Fine,” I said. “The next time you see him, will you get me a business card?”

“A pleasure,” she said. “Tom’s a good guy. Him and Ken and me spend a lot of time together.”

See what I mean about chance and accident? But sometimes you have to nudge them a bit.

I drove home through a darkling day. It hadn’t yet started to rain, but the sky pressed lower, and gulls were straining to beat their way against a freshening wind. Where
do
gulls go during a storm?

But I had more on my mind than the homing habits of sea gulls. I was computing that if Kenneth Bodin, girlfriend Sylvia, and Thomas Bingham were buddies, maybe all three—or at least the two men—had planned and carried out the theft of the Inverted Jennies. My main reason for considering this a distinct possibility was that Bingham had served time for stealing fifty thousand dollars.

That may sound prejudicial to you, but law enforcement officers the world over know that if a former felon is anywhere near the scene of a crime, the odds are good that he or she was actively involved. It’s not bigotry; it’s a knowledge of recidivist rates. Leopards don’t change their spots, and ex-cons rarely change their stripes.

You may smugly believe that I had a more personal reason for suspecting Bingham, that I hoped to end what I thought was a determined effort on his part to win back the affection of his ex-wife. And if you ask if that was indeed my motive, or an important part of my motive, I plead the Fifth Amendment—the one dealing with self-incrimination.