McNally's Secret (25 page)

“On my way,” I said.

I sped to her home wondering at the cause of her distress. Something to do with her ex-husband, I had no doubt. The realization was growing that she was as hooked as he—but on different habits, of course.

I knew at once she had been weeping: eyes swollen, tissues crumpled in one fist. We sat in her shadowed living room, leaning toward each other. She offered no refreshment, and I wanted none. I was unsettled by her mood and appearance. I had always thought of her as a marmoreal woman, and learning a statue could suffer and cry was a stun.

“I lied to you,” she said at once. “I didn’t spend the evening with a client. I had dinner with Tom and then we came back here for a talk. Just a talk. He left only a few minutes before you called.”

“He wants you to take him back?”

“Yes,” she said. “Archy, he cried, he actually cried. He sat where you’re sitting right now and sobbed his heart out.”

“And you did, too,” I pointed out. “A weepy meeting.”

“I didn’t cry until he left,” she said. “I was proud of keeping control while he was here. But then, after he was gone, I lost it. Dear God, I don’t know what to do.”

“Jennifer, I can’t tell you. No one can. It’s your decision to make; you know that. Did he say anything about his gambling?”

“He said he hadn’t made a bet since he was released. He was so forceful about it, so anxious that I believe him.”

“And do you?” I asked, realizing that Thomas Bingham was indeed a demon salesman.

“I don’t know what to believe. My mind is going like a Cuisinart. Everything is all chopped up. Archy, help me.”

I reached forward to take her hand. I knew then I was in a no-win situation. If I told her that her ex was gambling as heavily as ever, she’d probably ditch him—but I don’t believe she’d ever forgive me. She’d think I had acted out of jealousy (a reasonable assumption) and that I had robbed her of possible happiness. For what had I to offer?

And if I didn’t tell her that Bingham was still a compulsive gambler, she would probably take him back and her nightmare would begin again.

If I had drawn up that blueprint of my moral code, as I intended to do but hadn’t, I doubt if it would have given me any clues on how to resolve this dilemma.

It had been a gloom-and-doom kind of day, and I was stressed-out, physically and emotionally.

“Jennifer,” I said finally, “I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s a heavy, heavy decision. It’s your life and you must decide how you want to live it.”

She tried to smile. “Yes,” she said, “of course. I’m acting like a simpleton. It’s my responsibility, isn’t it?”

“It surely is,” I said. “And you must decide on the basis of what is best for you. Be completely selfish. Don’t even consider the wants and needs of Thomas Bingham or Archibald McNally or anyone else. Decide what you really want—and then go for it.”

She nodded dumbly and I stood up to leave.

There was just nothing more to say.

Hours later, lying awake in bed, waiting for sleep that was slow in coming, I suddenly remembered that weeks ago Lady Cynthia and Connie Garcia had warned me that Jennifer Towley would be a problem. How did they know? How do women
know?

I
RECALL THOSE LAST
few days of the Inverted Jenny Case as taking on a momentum of their own, whirling toward a resolution no one could have predicted, least of all me. Events governed, and neither I nor the police nor anyone else could control them. We all had to sit back, as it were, and watch with fascination as everything unraveled.

It began with a telephone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff on Wednesday morning while I was having a late breakfast in the kitchen with Jamie Olson. It was then about ten o’clock.

“Hiya, sherlock,” Al said, sounding jubilant. “I think we fell in the crapper and came up with a box lunch. I just got a call from a stamp dealer up in Stuart. Early this morning, right after he opened, a bimbo breezes in and tries to sell him a block of four Inverted Jenny stamps. He described her as young, blond, pretty, with all her doodads in place. Sounds like our pigeon—right?”

“Right,” I said. “It’s got to be Sylvia.”

“She’s asking a half-million for the stamps. The dealer told her he’d have to see if he could raise the cash and to come back around noon. She said she would. I’ve got a car on the way with three heavies. I just changed to civvies, and I’m taking off. I’ll play a clerk in the store, and the others will be backup. How’s it sound?”

“Sounds great. Good hunting, Al, and give me a call as soon as it goes down. Or I’ll call you.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ve got something else to tell you, but it can wait. Keep your fingers crossed, old buddy.”

He hung up, and I finished my breakfast. Rogoff was a brainy cop, and I was confident he’d grab Sylvia in the act of trying to sell stolen property. But then what? Would she talk or wouldn’t she? I reckoned she had enough street smarts to cut a deal with the SA. I hoped she’d rat on Kenneth Bodin in return for a slap on the wrist.

I had time to kill before heading for The Breakers to pick up Roberta Wolfson, so I wandered out to the greenhouse, where my mother was wielding a watering can and humming contentedly.

“Good morning, Mrs. McNally,” I said. “Sorry I overslept. Did you rest well?”

“Splendidly,” she said, “just splendidly. Now give me a kiss.”

She held up her tilted face, and I kissed a velvety cheek.

“There!” she said, beaming. “Now wasn’t that nice? I always say one should start the day with a kiss. It brings good luck.”

I laughed. “Who told you that?”

“No one,” she said, giggling. “I made it up. Archy, are you still seeing that nice lady you told us about, the interior decorator?”

“She’s really an antique dealer, and yes, I’m still seeing her.”

“Oh my,” mother said, going on with her sprinkling chores. “Is it serious?”

“It is with me,” I said without thinking, and then suddenly realized it was the truth: I
was
serious about Jennifer. “But I’m not sure how she feels about me. She’s also seeing someone else.”

“Have you told her how you feel?”

“No, not really.”

Mother stopped her work and turned to face me. “Oh Archy,” she said sorrowfully, “if you are serious about her, you should tell her. Isn’t there some saying about unspoken love?”

“Love unspoken is love denied,” I said.

“Exactly,” mother said, nodding. “Who said that?”

“I did,” I said, “just now. You’re not the only one who can make things up.”

“Well, it’s completely true. You simply
must
tell her how you feel.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “If you don’t, you’ll lose her.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “I’ll think about it. Thank you for the advice.”

“That’s what mothers are for,” she called gaily after me.

I did think about it—thought of what a dunce I had been not to have realized it myself. A sincere, passionate avowal of love, followed by a marriage proposal, might very well solve Jennifer’s problem and my dilemma.

There was only one thing wrong with that scenario: I wasn’t sure I was up to it. I did love the woman, I really did, but I could not decide if I wanted to give up the life of a happy rake for a till-death-do-us-part intimacy with one woman. After all, I was the man whose pals had considered nominating for a Nobel Prize in philandering.

In other words, I dithered.

When I arrived at the hotel, Miss Wolfson was waiting outside, still clutching that gigantic catchall. I slung the bag into the back of the Miata, and she made a little yip of protest.

“Do be careful,” she said. “Angus is in there.”

“What?” I said.

“Well, I thought the urns at the funeral parlor were in dreadful taste. Angus would be horrified. I’ll find something more suitable in Boston.”

“I see,” I said. “And what are the ashes in now?”

“A mason jar,” she said. “May we go?”

She was unusually voluble on the ride to the airport. She said it was her first trip to semi-tropical climes, and the weather, flora, the dress of inhabitants, and the colors of homes were all new to her. I found her comments quite discerning. She even noted the pace at which pedestrians moved along the streets, so much slower than in the northeast.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time, of course. We checked the gate number of her departing flight, then found a nearby cocktail lounge for a farewell drink. I had a vodka gimlet, and she ordered a glass of her usual.

“Thank you,” she said, “and please thank your father for me. You both have been enormously supportive. I also intend to write a letter to the mayor of Palm Beach commending the diligence and sympathetic assistance of Officer Tweeny Alvarez.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “I’m sure the letter will go into her file and may help her career.”

“I believe in giving credit where credit is due,” she said sternly. “I also have no hesitation in voicing criticism when it is deserved.”

I could believe that. I would not care to be a waiter who served lukewarm coffee to Miss Roberta Wolfson.

“I am only sorry,” I said, “that we have met under such unhappy circumstances. What a shame that your brother’s holiday ended as it did.”

I swear that’s all I said. I wasn’t prying. I didn’t intend to ask any questions. I was merely trying to express a conventional sentiment to an elderly lady who, despite her courage, had obviously been under a strain. But what my comment elicited was a shocker.

“Oh, Angus wasn’t on a holiday,” she said casually. “It was a business trip.”

That was my first alert, and no way was I going to let it pass without learning more.

“A business trip?” I said, trying to be as casual as she.

“Yes,” she said, sipping her wine primly. “Lady Horowitz had sent him some old stamps she owned. She wanted Angus to have an appraisal made in Boston. I believe she intended to find a private buyer or put them up for auction.”

“Oh?” I said. “And did Angus have an appraisal made?”

“He didn’t have to. My brother was an antiquarian and very talented in his field. He saw at once that the stamps Lady Horowitz had sent him were counterfeit.”

“Goodness gracious,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding. “They were forgeries and completely worthless except as a curiosity. Whatever profit that unpleasant woman expected simply went out the window.”

She uttered those words with some satisfaction, and I saw that even to a proper Bostonian revenge is sweet.

“So Angus came down here to return the stamps to Lady Horowitz and give her the bad news?”

“May I have another glass of sherry?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said, “and I shall keep you company.”

We didn’t speak until our fresh drinks were served, and then she took up her tale again. Please don’t blame her for speaking so openly to a comparative stranger. She did so innocently; she had no knowledge of the theft of the Inverted Jennies and knew nothing of the roles her brother had played and I was playing.

“Yes, he came to Palm Beach to return the stamps and tell Lady Horowitz they were fakes. Poor Angus was in a funk. He knew that woman’s terrible temper and feared she would blame the messenger for the news.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can imagine.”

“However,” she went on, “everything turned out well. Angus phoned me a few days after he arrived down here. He said he had already told Lady Horowitz her stamps were forgeries, and she had accepted it with little fuss. In fact, Angus said, she had invited him to stay a week or two and try to recover his strength.”

“Thoughtful of her,” I said. “Miss Wolfson, I believe I just heard the first call for your flight. Perhaps we should move to the boarding gate.”

“Let’s,” she said, and polished off her second sherry like a longshoreman downing a boiler-maker.

“Ma’am,” I said, “I travel occasionally and may get to Boston one day. If I do, may I call you? Perhaps we might have dinner together?”

“I’d enjoy that,” she said, smiling. “You are a very dear young man.” And she swooped to kiss my cheek.

I watched her stalk away from me, indomitable, head high and spine straight. And still lugging that enormous bag containing Angus Wolfson in a mason jar.

I drove back to the McNally Building in a broody mood, trying to assimilate what Roberta Wolfson had told me. Vital stuff. Some of those oddly shaped pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had frustrated me for so long were beginning to snap together with an almost audible
click.
The picture they formed was not a sweet one—not something you’d care to hang over your mantel in place of that Day-Glo portrait of Elvis Presley on black velvet.

The problem with the scenario I envisioned was that, if proved valid, it was going to leave my father with an ethical dilemma as racking as the one I faced with Jennifer Towley. The future did not promise a million laughs for the McNallys,
père et fils.

I arrived back in my office to find a message from Al Rogoff asking that I call him immediately. That I hastily did without even removing my panama.

“Got her!” he said exultantly. “Full name: Sylvia Montgrift. And guess what? She’s got a sheet. Did you know that?”

“No,” I lied, remorseful that I had neglected to tell him. “What’s she done?”

“She was running an unlicensed massage parlor. The West Palm Beach cops closed her down. She got off with a suspended sentence. Hey, she’s a real looker.”

“Not my type,” I said. “I suspect she may be a closet Hegelian. Al, may I come over?”

“Sure,” he said, “but don’t butt in. We’re waiting for her lawyer to show up. Lou Everton. You know him?”

“Of course,” I said. “Six-stroke handicap. He’s skunked me many times. And he’s also a very smart apple.”

“He is that,” Al agreed, “but I’ve worked with him before, and he’ll cut a deal. He likes fast-food justice as much as I do. He’ll tell her to talk and cop a plea. If he doesn’t we’ve got a problem. I mean what if she insists she found the stamps in the gutter. Then where are we? No way can we prove burglary.”

“Well, if she talks,” I said, “there’s something I’d like you to ask her. I’m on my way.”