McNally's Dare

by Lawrence Sanders

  “That’s where I got it,” Georgy admitted. “And it’s as much as I know. It’s out of my jurisdiction and unless we’re called in that’s where it’ll stay. State troopers don’t get involved in murder cases unless we happen to stumble over them. Remember?”

  Indeed, I did remember. The sad truth was that the murder of a young waiter would not be given top priority by our men in blue. The venue, not the crime, was the reason Jeff’s had been given television coverage and newspaper headlines. If no one was charged after a routine investigation it would go into the “open cases” file where it would remain till Lake Worth froze over. However, if the police and the press knew there might be a Talbot involved in the crime, the top brass and the national press would be all over it like ants at a picnic. Dennis Darling was very wise to distance himself from the affair, thereby avoiding a media stampede to southern Florida.

  Right on cue, Georgy girl asked, “How come Dennis Darling invited you for drinks? Is he going to write about the murder for his rag?”

  “He’s here to write about Palm Beach and I’m on his list of tourist attractions.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “Why would Dennis Darling get involved in what appears to be a vendetta between the young and reckless of the working classes?”

  “Spare me the minutiae of our caste system, McNally. That tennis party was crawling with big guns, like the hunk Jackson Barnett. He would interest Dennis Darling, especially if Barnett was interested in one of the waiters.”

  Not a bad guess, I thought, proud of my Georgy girl. She was in the right church, if the wrong pew, which was fine. For the time being, let them all think what they wanted as long as Lance Talbot wasn’t on their most wanted list. “Jackson was asked not to leave town, as we all were,” I said, “and is presently stowed away on Phil Meecham’s yacht, but Lady Cynthia has invited the pro to play on her court.”

  “That,” Georgy said, “is like being caught between the proverbial hard place and a brick wall.”

  “No, my dear. It’s like being trapped between two flesh-eating creatures—speaking of which, shall we eat?”

  We rose, kissed and headed for the kitchen. Georgy suddenly stopped, took hold of my elbow and exclaimed, “Don’t open the oven.”

  “For Pete’s sake, why not?”

  “I just remembered, I forgot to put the mushroom soup in the casserole.”

  “What?”

  “You came in just as I was about to open the can and distracted me,” she wailed. “It’ll be congealed.”

  “Congealed? Georgy girl, it will be cement.”

  She ran to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a stack of colorful menus. “Lee Wong’s Chinese Take Out, Mama Mia’s Italian Take Out, Julio’s Cuban Take Out...”

  “Stop it,” I shouted. “You’re making me ill.”

  “Lee Wong’s is not bad,” she recommended. “Excellent sesame noodles.”

  “Your landlady doesn’t like it when strangers call on you after dark,” I reminded her.

  “Lee Wong a stranger? You must be kidding, McNally

  Georgy girl is living proof that the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach.

  NINE

  BREAKFAST NOT BEING AN option at Chez Georgy, I stopped at a diner on the way south and treated myself to scrambled eggs, sausages and toast, telling the waitress to go easy on the hash browns. Lee Wong’s chicken and snow peas do not stick to the ribs. Georgy would pick up a container of coffee and a buttered roll at the troopers’ favorite pit stop on the way to work. How she maintained that figure and flawless complexion on a diet of fast food and breakfasts on-the-go could only be attributed to youth and good genes. Georgy girl had an abundant supply of both.

  I arrived at the McNally manse in plenty of time to get into a change of clothes and make a few notes in my journal before going to work on behalf of my two clients. Ursi was in the kitchen, removing the remains of breakfast; Father had left for the office and, so Ursi told me, Jamie and Mother were off in Mother’s coveted wood-paneled Ford wagon in search of orphaned begonias in need of TLC.

  “I made beef bourguignon last night and those crispy roasted potatoes you like so much,” Ursi informed me. “We missed you.”

  “Not as much as I missed you, I’m sure.”

  “I take it you were out on business,” she said, puttering around the sink as if she wasn’t curious to know where I had spent the night. The family had reconciled themselves to the fact that Connie and I were no longer seeing each other and I had told them about Georgy girl, but to date had not invited her to the house. Fools rush in, as they say, and I was no fool. Well, not most of the time.

  Knowing how to divert our housekeeper from probing into my love life, I said, “A mix of business and pleasure, Ursi. I had drinks with Dennis Darling, as a matter of fact.”

  “The reporter for the scandal sheet,” she exclaimed. “I hear he’s come to Palm Beach to make trouble. What did you tell him?”

  “Read all about it in Bare Facts magazine.”

  “Will they quote you, Archy?”

  “I doubt it, as I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know” I poured myself a cup of coffee, which I intended to take to my room while I changed. The leader of the Ocean Boulevard domestic brigade would spread the word that I had met the enemy and vanquished him without firing a shot. “What’s new with the rich folks, Ursi?” That stopped her from fussing over the sink.

  “Well, that tennis player, Jackson Barnett, spent two nights on Phil Meecham’s yacht, and isn’t that a scandal? Mrs. Marsden tells me that Lady C has been on the ship-to-shore phone trying to get Mr. Meecham to turn Barnett over to her. Whatever happened to quality folks, Archy?”

  Mrs. Marsden is Lady Cynthia’s housekeeper and our Ursi’s best friend and confidante. Also, Meecham’s yacht is berthed in a first-class marina on Lake Worth, so the ship is not very far from the shore. “Quality folks, Ursi, have gone the way of the horseless carriage and the divorceless marriage. What do you hear about the boy who was drowned at the MacNiff party?”

  “Poor child,” Ursi said. “Who knows what those kids have gotten up to? Mrs. MacNiff is doing nicely, so Maria tells me. She’s been in touch with the boy’s father—Mrs. MacNiff, that is, not Maria—and the MacNiffs are paying all funeral expenses, though Lord knows they aren’t obligated.”

  As happens in the land of unaffordable housing, sympathy had already shifted from poor Jeff to those his murder had inconvenienced, with the MacNiff’s show of noblesse oblige garnering all the attention and applause. Well, I care about Jeffrey Rodgers and I don’t give a damn who knows it. I vowed there and then to bring his killer to justice regardless of whose toes I stepped on along the way. (Which reminded me, did Lance Talbot have nine or ten of those digits?)

  Sitting at my desk I could indulge in an English Oval while sipping a cup of Ursi’s home brew, after banishing the return of Joe Gallo to the nethermost regions of my mind. As a rule I am not opposed to competition, but I never play by the rules.

  “The King Is Dead,” I began, writing in black ink with my silver Montblanc pen. I must say I liked the title.

  First question: Were these words the ranting of an old woman under the influence of a strong narcotic, administered to make her exit from this world as peaceful as possible, or was she trying to tell Malcolm MacNiff something about her newly returned grandson and heir?

  Answer: To be determined.

  I recorded what I had seen and heard at the MacNiffs before and after the young waitress discovered Jeff’s body in the pool, noting that Denny and I agreed Lance Talbot had not gone near the pool that afternoon. Here, I jotted down the name Holga von Brecht because she was linked to Lance Talbot. Recalling the daggers Vivian Emerson had directed at Holga across the net, I added her name to my roster which, in turn, got Joe Gallo on the list.

  Next, I penned what I had learned during my lunch with Malcolm MacNiff and from my meeting with Dennis Darling. Putti
ng it in writing, I find, is a good way to sort out the facts, refrain from jumping to conclusions and plan my next move, which, in this case, would be my first move.

  I am not a believer in coincidences; therefore, if Jeff boasted he had something on Lance Talbot and was murdered, the odds were a million to one that Jeff was silenced because of what he had on Talbot. But even those odds did not rule out the possibility that Jeff was killed for reasons having nothing to do with Lance Talbot. Given similar odds, people do win lotteries and hit the jackpot playing one-armed bandits in casinos from Monte Carlo to Las Vegas and all stops between. In short, assume nothing.

  Be that as it may, if Denny and I were correct, one had to assume Lance Talbot was not the culprit, which was a pity as he was the most likely suspect. All good detectives, from Sherlock Holmes to dear Miss Marple, advise us to know thy victim. I didn’t know Jeff Rodgers but I knew someone who did. A visit with Todd, born Edward, would be where I would begin my search for a dead king.

  I pulled into our underground garage where Herb, our security guard, was on duty inside his glass kiosk. He waved me in with one hand while the other dialed Mrs. Trelawney’s extension to report my arrival at the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. She would record the time in her little pink book covered with forget-me-nots, a fitting symbol of Mrs. Trelawney’s ability never to forget a thing she could use against me.

  In my windowless glorified closet, the little red light was aglow and blinking on the machine I distinctly remember unplugging yesterday. Binky Watrous, our mail person, had no doubt wandered in to deliver my paltry assortment of fast food menus, adverts for recording devices one could hide in a hearing aid and envelopes that stated they were not to be opened by persons under eighteen. Binky reported the unplugged machine to Mrs. Trelawney—they work as a team—and she told him to reconnect me with the outside world.

  Reluctantly I pressed the message button, which indicated I had two calls waiting.

  “Archy. It’s Denny. I’m having dinner with Lolly Spindrift tonight. He agreed as long as I didn’t ask him any questions about Palm Beach socialites. I told him I used to cover Hollywood for the magazine and that we might swap stories one would never see in print. He said he could be persuaded. Cafe L’Europe at eight if you care to join us. Have you found out anything?” Click.

  No, I would not care to join you and, no, I have not found out anything. I hit the vile button again.

  “Connie here. Why didn’t you return my call? Lady C is having temper tantrums. They say Meecham had a party on the Sans Souci last night that broke up at sunrise with everyone bedding down on the upper deck in sleeping bags. Two to a bag according to Lolly, who is taking delight in keeping Lady C posted on Jackson’s layover in Palm Beach. You know Jackson was supposed to report to the coast for some kind of screen test but now we hear that the picture crew is coming here to accommodate him and Meecham has invited them all to stay on the Sans Souci. Lady C wants you to torpedo Meecham’s yacht and deliver Jackson to her for safekeeping. Ta-ta.” Click.

  We’ll see who gets torpedoed, Ms. Garcia. I dialed Connie, who presides over a communication system at the Horowitz mansion that would be adequate to service some small countries.

  “Lady Cynthia’s residence.”

  “Tell your lady boss that procuring is not only illegal, it’s also immoral.”

  “Oh, simmer down, Archy. Madame just wants to make our visiting celebrity comfy.”

  “He seems perfectly comfy on Meecham’s deck in a sleeping bag built for two.”

  “Who shared Jackson’s bag?” Connie gushed.

  “Didn’t Lolly tell you?”

  “No,” she cried.

  “Well, maybe you could speculate on it the next time you sit down with Georgy for a heart-to-heart.”

  Being a quick study it took Connie a beat and a half to come back with “Joe Gallo.”

  “Exactly. And how did you know Joe Gallo and Georgy were once engaged?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  “Georgy told me, that’s how.”

  She certainly wasn’t cowering under my interrogation, but then cowering wasn’t Connie’s style. She was a lovely Spanish spitfire who could make a ninety-year-old Buddhist monk rethink his vows. “I didn’t know you and Georgy had become so chummy,” I said.

  “Just girl talk, Archy. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your shortcomings.”

  “I wasn’t aware of any shortcomings on my part,” I told her.

  “Well, compared to Alex...” She had the temerity to giggle.

  “Alex is ten years younger than me.”

  “So is Georgy,” she responded, none too kindly.

  Being a gentleman I refrained from reminding her that she was just a year or two younger than me, hence a number of years older than Alex. Instead I suggested we should refrain from double dating. “It only seems to exacerbate the difficulties we were having with our so-called open relationship.”

  “The only thing open, Archy, was my door, and you walked out of it.”

  “And met Alejandro Gomez y Zapata coming in. Let’s face it, Connie, you should have installed a turnstile.”

  “If I wasn’t a lady I would tell you where to go, Archy McNally”

  “I will get there without your guidance, thank you. Give my best to Alejandro and tell him I hope his invasion fares better than the last one.”

  “I will, Archy. And you give my regards to Lila Lee.”

  Click.

  The woman was insufferable, but I got in the last word by pulling the plug on my answering machine. Then I pulled open the bottom draw of my desk and removed a pile of mail I had never bothered to read. I was shocked to discover a pack of English Ovals beneath the rubble. I lit one, expediting my way to where Connie wanted me to go if she wasn’t a lady, and felt immediately better.

  I called the Pelican Club and heard the reassuring voice of Simon Pettibone. The Pettibone family is the mainstay of the Pelican. Patriarch Simon is our general manager, bookkeeper, maître d’, bartender and bouncer. His wife, Jasmine, is our den mother, and their children, Leroy and Priscilla, are chef and waitress, respectively. Mr. Pettibone is a tall, regal African American who bears a striking resemblance in looks and stature to the late performer, Paul Robeson.

  “What can I do for you, Archy?” he graciously inquired.

  “I need the phone number of the boy who comes in on Saturday nights to help Priscilla. He calls himself Todd, I believe.”

  “Has this anything to do with the young man who was drowned at the MacNiff benefit the other day? I believe Todd was there when it happened.”

  I have never had any reservations about confiding in Simon Pettibone, who was blessed with the tact of an ambassador-at-large. “It does, Mr. Pettibone.”

  “A terrible business, Archy. Hold on while I get my address book.”

  A moment later he was back on the line. “His name is Edward Brandt and I have a contact number for him in Lake Worth.”

  Edward Brandt was a fine name and Eddy was surely better than Toddy, but, as the Bard said, What’s in a name? I called the number Mr. Pettibone had given me and was connected with a young lady who emoted “Hello” as if we were on intimate terms. I didn’t know if I should pity or envy Todd, but leaned toward the latter.

  “May I speak with Todd, please?” I asked.

  “Is this about a job?”

  “No. It’s a personal call. I’m a friend. Tell him Mr. McNally would like to speak to him.”

  When Todd came on the line he didn’t waste a moment on pleasantries. “Is this about Jeff, Mr. McNally?”

  “Yes, it is, Todd. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “The police have had us all on the hot seat for two days, Mr. McNally, and I can’t tell you any more than I told them because I don’t know anything about what happened to Jeff.”

  “How well did you know Jeff, Todd?”

  “We were pretty tight,” he said. “We teamed up about ten years ago when he left the Da
y School and got into my class here in Lake Worth.”

  “The Palm Beach Day School?” I blurted, unable to mask my surprise. “What was Jeff Rodgers doing there?”

  “Going to school, of course,” he mocked, and rightly so. “You mean, What was the likes of Jeff Rodgers doing at the posh and most expensive prep school in Florida?”

  I was impressed with Todd’s quick wit and politically incorrect approach to life in Palm Beach. “Okay,” I said, “what was the likes of Jeff Rodgers doing at the Palm Beach Day School?”

  “It’s a long story, Mr. McNally.”

  And one I wanted to know. I was getting a tingle down my spine that told me I was on to something and I wasn’t about to let it go. “You see, Todd, you know more than you think you know. Answers that shed light on a case are prompted by the right questions. Did you tell the police that Jeff had once attended the Day School?”

  “They didn’t ask,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Look, Todd, your friend is dead and a lot of people, including the police, think the murderer was one of Jeff’s friends. Someone in your crowd.”

  “No way,” he shouted into the phone.

  “I agree. Help me and you’ll be doing all your friends a service and maybe even get Jeff’s murderer off the streets.” At the time I didn’t know how prophetic that statement was.

  “What do you want me to do, Mr. McNally?”

  “Give me a few minutes of your time, that’s all. If I can come to your place now we can wrap it up in an hour.”

  He hesitated, then told me to hold on. I imagine he was discussing my request with his roommate. She must have agreed because when he returned he gave me his address.

  “Have you guys had lunch?”

  “What’s that?” Todd answered with that fetching bit of mockery in his voice. I wondered if he had actually studied acting or if he possessed a natural talent for cajoling an audience. Either way, I thought Todd Brandt had star quality. I would have to remember to talk him into changing his name to Edward.

  “Lunch is what happens between breakfast and dinner. How about a large pizza, half anchovies, half pepperoni, and what’s your choice of beverage? I bet the police didn’t treat you like this.”