“And Malcolm is satisfied that the boy is Lance Talbot, heir to the late Mrs. Talbot’s fortune?” Thus spoke my father, the lawyer.
“He is,” I answered, “and I believe Mr. MacNiff is relieved.”
It took the three of us seconds to see that the small toe on the right foot walking toward us was missing. Did Lance see us looking? Did he suspect that this was the reason Helen MacNiff had forced him into a pair of trunks that were dangerously too large? I really can’t say. He made a joke of the baggy boxers, saying if they went any lower, the resulting photo might exceed Mrs. MacNiff’s promotional expectations.
After that the party took off in a most indecorous manner, or as indecorous as this crowd ever gets. It was as if a weight had been lifted from the shoulders of our host and hostess, who joined in the fun, determined to accentuate the positive and eliminate the aura of doom and gloom that Jeff Rodgers’s murder had cast over their domain. Their exhilaration appeared to be infectious. The guests began to line up for the eats and Todd, elated after his chat with Max Sterling, was happily filling requests for beverages. Nifty’s words, “We’re here not to mourn,” became the order of the day, not mere rhetoric.
Even Lance Talbot went meshugah. He romped in the pool with Jackson Barnett to the joy of Lolly’s photographer. The obnoxiously pompous Talbot was now the clown, clutching his trunks as if fearing they would fall, and at one point swimming to the far end of the pool where he could be seen waving the swim suit over his head. The crowd loved it.
Holga and Claus von Brecht now mixed and mingled with the common folk, the ladies buttering up to Claus and the gentlemen attending Holga.
Observing the Swiss trio I was reminded of the old saw, People don’t change, only the roles they choose to play change.
And whoever would have thought that for want of a little toe I would lose a client?
“It’s him, Archy,” Nifty said as Lance walked off to have his picture taken. “I appreciate your help.”
“Mrs. MacNiff did it,” I answered modestly.
“But the party was your idea,” Nifty responded.
I deferred to my host. Helen MacNiff could not have gotten Lance into the pool if I hadn’t arranged the party and brought my trunks. Any thoughts of offering Nifty a discount were banished. I told Nifty that the von Brechts had admitted to me that Jeff Rodgers was blackmailing Lance and that they had counseled him to open up to Dennis Darling. “You may have noticed that Lance and Darling had a long private chat shortly after Lance and the von Brechts arrived.” I gave Nifty a brief account of what I had learned from Holga and Claus.
He listened politely and then repeated, in theory if not verbatim, what Helen MacNiff had said to me earlier. “What those boys had gotten up to, Archy, is no concern of mine. I have enough to keep me busy for a month of Sundays just doing Aunt Margaret’s bidding as executor, and blackmail and murder are not on my agenda. That’s a matter for the police, or you if you want to pursue it on your own. I hired you to prove Lance Talbot was Lance Talbot and you did. Now I can get on with my job.
“If Jeff was a blackmailer, there’s no telling who else he had his mitts into. We know Lance didn’t kill him, and I’m sure none of my guests did either, and that’s that. My money is on one of the catering staff.”
“The king is dead?” I questioned.
Nifty shook his head as if this were no longer germane to his dealings with Lance Talbot. “Archy” he said, “a lot of kings bit the dust in Aunt Margaret’s lifetime. The medication had her indulging in a remembrance of things past, as some writer put it.”
Proust, if my brief but memorable stay at old Eli served. I recalled a classmate who had actually read Proust. For penance he served four years, graduated summa cum laude, and made millions as a pioneer in waste disposal. I read The Power of Positive Thinking and am now eking out a living counting toes. Is there a lesson to be learned in this?
One down and two to go. I had lost Nifty but, as far as I knew, was still on Denny’s and Talbot’s payrolls. Or was I? If Denny was satisfied as well as uninterested with Lance’s explanation of the blackmail scam, would he check out of the GulfStream and look to more fertile pastures for sin and corruption? And now that Lance had written a check and gone skinny-dipping in honor of his old friend, would he concentrate on collecting his half-billion bananas and return to the snowy Alps with Holga and Claus?
Well, folks, Archy is staying right here and going after Jeff Rodgers’s murderer with or without the reporter and the playboy. I am many things but a Discreet Inquirer manqué is not one of them.
Todd was all over me like a cheap suit when I went for seconds. “I’m going to send Max my credits and head shots, Mr. McNally. He’s a second unit director and he’s here to do the screen test of Jackson Barnett, which he says is all pure hype.”
My, my. Five minutes with Max Sterling and he’s talking Hollywoodese. “Don’t get your hopes up, Todd. Guys like Max Sterling invented hype.”
Unheeding, Todd rambled on, “And he invited me to come to Mr. Meecham’s yacht tomorrow to watch the crew work. What do you think I should wear?”
“A chastity belt.”
“You’re a cynic, Mr. McNally, but a gentleman. Thanks for putting Max on to me. If there’s ever anything I can do to help you, just holler.”
For the second time in as many days, Edward (Todd) Brandt and I exchanged words that would play a vital role in the final solution to an old lady’s dying pronouncement.
“What do you think of ‘Rick’?” he asked.
“I don’t know him.”
“For me,” Todd said. “Max thinks ‘Todd’ sucks.”
“What about ‘Edward’?” I proposed.
“Cute, Mr. McNally. Real cute.”
On my way in search of Denny, I ran into the real Lance Talbot, of all people.
“I understand this potato sack belongs to you, Archy,” he kindly reminded me.
“It must have stretched in the laundry,” I apologized.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Archy. You have a fine physique for a man of your age. Even Holga thinks so.”
And she should know. I decided not to lose sleep over the wily dig at my age. After all, he may yet be a client and the executor had just validated his claim to the Talbot fortune.
“I had a talk with Mr. and Mrs. von Brecht. They told me that Jeff was leaning on you but refused to say why.”
“They respect my privacy,” he said. “I have told the reporter, Darling, all the facts and I will tell you when next we meet. Now is neither the time nor the place.”
“Agreed. And I trust you will also tell the police. You realize it puts you in a rather awkward position. When a blackmailer is murdered his mark is usually suspect number one, and for good reason.”
“Do you really think I engaged you to hunt me down? Or do you think it was a not so clever ruse for the guilty party to initiate an investigation into the crime? Really, Archy. I did not kill Jeff Rodgers.”
“I know you didn’t. “You were in plain sight of me and a hundred other tennis players when the murder occurred, but that doesn’t prove you weren’t implicated in the crime.”
“You are a trusting soul,” he said. “I know no one in Palm Beach other than the MacNiffs, and I challenge the police to connect me with any accomplice. Also, I had no reason to kill Jeff. If his offensive gossip were made public it would prove an embarrassment, but nothing more. That’s why I would not give in to his foolish demands. Ask Mr. Darling. He assured me the disclosure wasn’t worth a drop of printer’s ink. Am I glad Jeff is dead? As a matter of fact, I am.”
Feisty guy, I must say. There he stood, holding up my trunks, and telling me, the police, and the horse we came in on to get out of his face. Too, I couldn’t fault his case.
If he told Denny, and was willing to tell me and the police, what Jeff had on him, why would he kill Jeff to silence him? As Nifty had so eloquently put it, “and that’s that”—if Lance Talbot was telling the truth. It a
lways came down to his word against the word of a dead man.
“Then you have nothing to fear but losing your pants,” I assured him. Wondering if client number two was discharging me, I asked, “Do you want me to continue my investigation into the murder?”
“But of course,” he answered. “Perhaps I spoke too quickly and too rashly. You must understand that Jeff was overbearing. He was insolent as a child and never grew out of it. As the French say, he had the idee fixe that I was the reason for his lot in life. I offered to make amends but he wanted more than I was willing to give. Jeff Rodgers wanted to be me. No, I’m not happy that he’s dead and I apologize for saying so. I want you to find his killer.”
How touching. Did this guy never run out of convincing excuses for his harsh words and furtive actions? If I hadn’t come upon the connection between him and Jeff Rodgers, and if Denny hadn’t come here in response to Jeff’s call, would Lance Talbot have publicly acknowledged the relationship or given a damn about Jeff’s murder? Doubtful. Would he tell the police what he knew if I hadn’t coerced him into it? Never.
“Now that I’ve lost my chief suspect, I have very few leads to go on,” I said, hoping to vex him, and succeeded.
“Your humor escapes me, Archy. Perhaps I’ve been out of the country too long.” Pointing to our bartender, he said, “That young man was also working here the day Jeff was killed. Is he the friend of Jeff’s who gave you the information about Jeff and me?”
“Yes, he is. Would you like to meet him?”
“No. But perhaps you should question him further. He seems to know so much about Jeff that I wonder if he knows even more than he’s saying. In your quest for leads, why not start where you began—with him?”
With that he hoisted his trunks and marched off to the changing pavilion. Only my upbringing and respect for the MacNiffs prevented me from giving him a good, swift kick in the arse.
I joined Denny at the buffet table where he was putting together a plate (china, not paper) of lobster salad, potato salad and cole slaw. “You’ll O.D. on mayonnaise,” I warned.
“One thing about this crowd, Archy, they know how to put on a good spread. If I hang around much longer I’ll fit into your trunks.”
“Everyone is a comedian. Who told you the trunks were mine?”
He added a pickle and a few olives to his already crowded plate. “It seems to be common knowledge, and stop looking so put upon. The kid is half your age and as slim as a reed. How come you were so anxious to get him into the pool?”
Nothing escapes Denny’s notice, which is the art of his trade. Remembering my vow, I went for a dollop of crabmeat and the mixed greens. “How did you get here?” I asked.
“Taxi, why?”
“I’ll give you a lift to the hotel and we can exchange notes.”
“You’ll tell me why you wanted to get the kid in the pool?”
“Only if you tell me why Jeff Rodgers was blackmailing him.”
“You got a deal, McNeil.”
“McNally. The name is McNally.”
We hung around just long enough not to be faulted for eating and running. Izzy, thankfully, was surrounded by Jackson and the Hollywood crew, so I managed to get away without being harangued by the young lady. We did pay our respects to the MacNiffs, von Brechts, and assorted pillars of society before becoming history. Holga von Brecht gave me a warm handshake and a reminder that she was counting on me. Well, well!
The bridge was up, which happens, and as the Miata idled, Denny told me that Lolly had invited him to a reception at the home of Lady Cynthia Horowitz. “He said Barnett and the von Brechts would be there.”
“And he told them that you would be there,” I expounded. Wise to the ways of Lady C and her chief gofer, I surmised that Lolly saw a chance to ingratiate himself to our hostess-with-the-mostest and put the cart before the horse, if you’ll excuse the banality. First he extended bids to this season’s most sought-after VTPs, telling each that the others had already accepted, after which he would tell Lady C he had them on tap, and she would toss the party. What a pair. “Are you going?”
Not looking very enthused, he said, “Depends on how long I’ll be here. What would I miss if I skipped it?”
“An old lady trying to get Barnett to seduce her, von Brecht to inject her and you to write about her.”
The bridge lowered, traffic moved and Denny thought about packing his valise.
We sat on the hotel’s terrace, fanned by a refreshing breeze coming off the lake. The lunch crowd had long gone and the cocktail imbibers had not yet arrived. A waiter asked us if we wanted anything, hoping we would say no, and we obliged.
Lance had told Denny very much what the von Brechts had told me, adding only Jeff’s supposed threat.
“Jessica Talbot was a drug addict. She smoked dope in front of the boys and on more than one occasion snorted coke in their presence. Under the influence, she told Lance his father was either of Italian descent, Irish descent or a titled Englishman.”
This corroborated what Jeff’s father had intimated. “Not very pretty,” I noted.
“Not very newsworthy either,” Denny said, obviously disappointed.
“Do you believe him?” I prodded.
“No,” he replied.
“Good. Neither do I. What’s your rationale, Denny?”
“Jeff said that he had information that could ruin Lance Talbot. The fact that his mother was a promiscuous junkie could embarrass him, but certainly not ruin him. Jeff was a hip kid, like they all are today. When was the last time you went to the movies? Drugs and sex are the rule, not the exception. He was also a reader of Bare Facts so he knew it would take more than that to whet my interest. Presto, Talbot is lying.”
I told Denny I agreed and added, “We didn’t want to get Lance into the pool, we wanted to get him out of his sneakers.”
When I finished with that disclosure, Denny accused, “You were holding out on me, Archy.”
“Client confidentiality,” I pleaded.
“I’m your client, too.”
“Yes. But Mr. MacNiff is by far a richer client.”
“You’re a tart, Archy.”
I did not report this last observation to the sire, who was nodding thoughtfully as I spoke. When I was done, he asked, “And where does this leave your investigation, Archy?”
I told him I was no longer concerned with Lance Talbot’s identity, but still determined to learn the nature of Jeff’s secret and who murdered him. “Denny is going to stay in Palm Beach a while longer and see if he can still muster a story out of this. He thinks the blackmail scam and the murder are connected.”
“What you mean, Archy, is Dennis Darling hopes there is a connection as it will provide the story he came down here to get. Please don’t allow this to color your investigation. Lance Talbot did not commit the crime. That’s a fact. He has given you a plausible explanation of the blackmail threat, which you and Darling arbitrarily refuse to believe. Perhaps it is time to focus your attention elsewhere.”
Father was protecting his new client, which was only right. To say I had a gut feeling that Talbot was a liar would never hold up in Father’s eyes, or in a court of law. Instead I promised to broaden my inquiries in the direction of Jeff Rodgers’s social set, adding, “I intend to see Al Rogoff tomorrow and tell what I’ve learned to date. Hopefully, he’ll share with me. Maybe the police are on to something, or someone, that has completely escaped my notice.”
Father stroked his moustache. “Good. Now what’s this I hear about a Battle in our midst? You said she was at the MacNiff gathering.”
At cocktails all the talk was of the pool party and Dr. Claus von Brecht. “They say he’s as handsome as a film star,” Mother informed us. They, of course, were Maria Sanchez and our Ursi. I played the devil’s advocate and gave them a blow-by-blow of the event, leaving out the toe count and the baggy boxers. With Ursi serving, it would be all over Palm Beach before the cock crowed.
What Ursi served wa
s a fillet of salmon done on the outdoor Weber, which is fired with hickory chips. Her trick is to grill the fish, never turning it, until the under-skin is dark and crusty and the interior rare. At just the right moment it’s removed from the fire and placed in a warm oven.
As the salmon slowly bakes from rare to medium, the family is attending to starters, which tonight was a vichyssoise garnished with fresh herbs and accompanied by crusty chunks of a hearty French loaf. When Leroy put this fine potato and leek soup on the Pelican menu, many diners sent it back to the kitchen for heating. Well, it could be worse. Binky once ordered his steak tartare medium rare.
The salmon was served on a heated platter, surrounded by wedges of lemon and sprigs of parsley. The vegetables were chilled beets and steamed green beans in a spicy ginger dressing, and new potatoes in their skins, split and splashed with olive oil and sprinkled with black pepper and fleur de sel. Father went to the wine cellar and emerged with an ’84 Graves that was the perfect complement to our simple fare. The baggy boxers were still so vivid a memory, I eschewed a slice of Ursi’s Black Forest chocolate cake in favor of a tea biscuit with my coffee.
“Isadora Duhane,” I told Father, “is a Kalamazoo Battle. She is currently the inamorata of your mail person.”
“Binky Watrous?” Father almost choked on his port.
“One and the same,” I said, before giving him the details but sparing him the Skip McGuire association. Father is of an age and I wasn’t sure how much of this his heart could tolerate.
“How extraordinary,” he muttered.
“We must all be nice to Binky,” I apprised, “as we may all be working for him in the near future.”
I left Father tugging on his whiskers and retired to my penthouse digs where I undressed, washed, brushed and donned a silk kimono in white with a scarlet obi. This was presented to me by a lady friend who was a Shintoist. I was a convert for the duration of our relationship, which was conducted on a mat. She left me for a karate instructor who came with his own mat, and I was left holding the kimono.
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