McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What was her husband doing locked up with you and the old man yesterday?”

  Were the pater to hear that turn of phrase he would hit the ceiling but he wouldn’t fire Sofia. Father knew the value of a good and dedicated employee. “You are not supposed to know that Desdemona Darling’s husband paid us a visit,” I cautioned our librarian.

  Sofia took a deep drag on her cigarette, which had me clutching the English Ovals in my jacket pocket. I had smoked one at Ta-Boo’ with Fitz last night and a second while writing in my journal before bed. I refrained from lighting one now but found no solace in my restraint. Sofia expelled a long stream of smoke along with the words, “I never saw him.”

  I had no choice now but to ask her what I had come to learn. “What do you know about the psychic Serge Ouspenskaya?” Sofia’s eyeballs, huge behind the thick lenses of her glasses, widened wide enough to tell me she had immediately connected Richard Holmes’s visit to the psychic. I knew she would, but I also knew she would heed my warning and forget my query as she had promised to forget Holmes’s visit. Sofia knew when to ante up and when to fold her hand.

  “I hear he’s the current favorite of the ladies who lunch.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I know,” she said. “That kind of thing is not my cup of tea, love. I deal in the here and now.” With a wave of her cigarette she quoted, “ ‘Yesterday is a memory, gone for good forever / while tomorrow is a guess / what is real is what is here and now / and here and now is all that we possess.’ ”

  “Nicely put,” I complimented, “and here and now I would like you to put your bloodhound instincts on the trail of Serge Ouspenskaya and let me know what you come up with, like where he came from and, more important, quo vadis.”

  Sofia shrugged. “I would imagine he got his start as a traveling carny fortune-teller and he’s not going anyplace as long as the ladies who lunch keep him on their menu.”

  “Never underestimate a man with the conceit of a cat burglar who walked off with the jewel in the crown—and is ready to bargain for its return. I met him last night.”

  “So I heard,” Sofia said. “Lolly Pops? Good grief, Archy.”

  “Who did you hear it from? Mrs. Trelawney?”

  “No. From Binky. He called this morning.”

  When I get my hands on Binky Watrous I am fairly certain I will strangle him. “Is there anyone Binky hasn’t called?”

  “I doubt it. He keeps in close touch with the staff. He begins by asking how I am and ends with wanting to know if Joe is showing any signs of shortness of breath when he brings in the mail.”

  “If I have my way Joe Anderson, along with the rest of the world, will outlive Binky Watrous.”

  Sofia smiled, recalling no doubt the days when Binky brought in her mail. “He’s a good boy, Archy.” Binky and his doe eyes inspire women to talk such gibberish. Older women, that is. Binky doesn’t have much luck with his contemporaries of the opposite sex.

  Relegating Binky to a list labeled extermination, I asked our librarian, “Another favor, Sofia, if I may?”

  “You may.”

  “What do you know about a Mrs. Ventura?”

  “The lady who almost gave her diamond clip to the Goodwill people. Can you imagine the look on the face of the lucky recipient if she had been handed Mrs. Ventura’s slightly used frock?”

  “I see that story has made the rounds of polite society.”

  “It has made the newspapers, thanks to Lolly Spindrift,” Sofia announced.

  “Lolly seems to have taken a shine to Ouspenskaya and I doubt if the psychic is Lolly’s type.”

  “Buzz Carr is more Lolly’s type and I hear, by the by, that Phil Meecham is furious with Lady Cynthia....”

  I held up my hand like a policeman at a school crossing. “Enough, Sofia.” The fancies and foibles of the Palm Beach rich interest me only when they are relevant to one of my cases which, unfortunately, is almost always. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Ventura,” I asked the eyes and ears of McNally & Son.

  “For the record, she’s the second Mrs. Ventura. The first died a few years back and Mr. Ventura, James I believe is his name, married the current Mrs. Ventura, Hanna, before a respectable period of mourning.”

  “How long is respectable?”

  “A year, usually, but six months is the absolute minimum.”

  “And how long did James wait?” I asked.

  “About six weeks.”

  “It borders on the obscene,” I observed.

  “Some say it crosses the line. The loudest objections came from the Ventura boy, William, and are still coming.”

  “How old is William?”

  “Twenty-one, give or take,” Sofia said, poking about for a space in her ashtray to put out her cigarette.

  “What does Ventura’s exchequer look like?”

  “Loaded. New money via Wall Street. But you’re supposed to ask the age of the new Mrs. Ventura.”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Twenty-one, give or take.”

  “Are you implying that she and young William were an item?” I inquired as Sofia’s smoldering cigarette exposed me to the dangers of secondhand smoke—which I greedily inhaled.

  “It’s said that William had some friends in for a party one night and Hanna was among them. For Papa James, it was love at first sight. How close William and Hanna were before Daddy Dearest entered the picture is not known. What is known is that William now hates her and doesn’t even try to hide his disdain. He was his mother’s pet and poor William feels that he’s been usurped as heir apparent.”

  “Does the boy live at home?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sofia nodded. “In fact there were those who believed William had swiped Hanna’s diamond clip for pin money. The boy is usually in debt and begrudges the money his father lavishes on her.”

  “The enfante terrible,” I said.

  “If you like the expression. I think pain in the butt is more descriptive.”

  As I said, Sofia knows how to turn a phrase. She also knows more dish than anyone in Palm Beach. I refrained from asking her if the Ventura men wore briefs or boxers for fear that she would tell me. Instead I thanked her for her time, reminded her to forget everything we discussed, took a final grateful sniff of the polluted library air and fled.

  Another resource of McNally & Son is Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, the chief of our real estate department. Mrs. Sharif is married to a Lebanese gentleman who operates a haberdashery on elegant Worth Avenue. To be sure, McNally & Son does not sell homes or condos but represents our clients at closings, advises on leases and also recommends investments in lots and commercial property.

  Without even consulting the Palm Beach telephone directory I knew that the Venturas would be ex-directory. The only people listed in the Palm Beach directory are those who call people who are listed in the Palm Beach directory. Mrs. Sharif possessed a big black book that not only identified the residents of Palm Beach along with their addresses and phone numbers, but also cited an estimate of the value of their property and its potential rental income, in and off season.

  “Archy,” Mrs. Sharif exclaimed as I entered, “what a surprise. You must want something from me.”

  “A kiss,” I answered.

  “I’m a married woman, Archy.”

  “The British Princes of Wales only courted married women,” I reminded her.

  “You are not any of the Princes of Wales, Archy. So what do you want to know that I probably shouldn’t tell you?”

  “The address and phone number of James Ventura.”

  “Why?”

  “Discreet Inquiries’ business, Mrs. Sharif. Very cloak-and-dagger. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

  Mrs. Sharif mulled this over before stating, “Isn’t Mrs. Ventura the woman who located a lost piece of jewelry with the help of a psychic?”

  “One and the same.”

  “One and the same psychic that raised your grandfather from the dead las
t night?”

  I took a deep breath and counted to ten backward. “You’ve been talking to Binky Watrous, Mrs. Sharif.”

  “In fact, I have.”

  “Well, be assured that you will never hear from him again.”

  “Why not, Archy?”

  “Because I am going to kill him before the sun sets on this accursed day. Did he also inquire after the health of Joe Anderson?”

  “It’s the only reason he calls, Archy. But be kind. Binky is a good boy.”

  I wondered if Binky shouldn’t rent himself out as a pet to rich, middle-aged women and give up waiting for Joe Anderson to throw in the towel. “If I were Joe Anderson,” I said, “I wouldn’t let Binky within gun range of my person.”

  Mrs. Sharif shook her head in dismay. “Binky wouldn’t hurt a fly, Archy.”

  “I agree, Mrs. Sharif, but I’m still going to throttle him. Now may I have the Ventura address and phone number, please.”

  “Do you want to compare notes with Mrs. Ventura on your mutual out-of-this-world experiences?”

  “How did you guess?”

  As surreptitiously as if she were purloining the Dead Sea Scrolls from an ancient crypt, Mrs. Sharif removed the big black book from the bottom drawer of her desk, put on her reading glasses and revealed the Venturas’ address and phone number.

  I made it back to my cubbyhole without encountering another soul who had talked to Binky Watrous that morning, passing only Joe Anderson pushing a shopping cart filled with mail and whistling merrily as he rolled along.

  I dialed the Ventura home and was greeted with a melodious “Hello” by a female I assumed to be the housekeeper.

  “Is Mrs. Ventura in, please?”

  “This is Mrs. Ventura.” The melodious voice took on a southern accent.

  “I’m Archy McNally, Mrs. Ventura, and I’m calling...”

  “Archy McNally! Why, what a coincidence. I mean, this is truly serendipity. I was just talking to Penny Tremaine and she told me about your sitting with Mr. Ouspenskaya last night and I said—I said—‘Why, Penny, I just have to talk to Mr. McNally and compare notes.’ That’s what I said and now—just like that—here you are. We are experiencing something remarkable, Mr. McNally. Can’t you just feel it?”

  What I felt was an assault on my eardrum but if getting to meet with Hanna Ventura was this easy, I would have to admit that, yes, it was very remarkable. “Are you free this afternoon, Mrs. Ventura?”

  “No, sir. I am not. I have an appointment with Mr. Archy McNally. I’ll expect you in one hour and—do you have the address, Mr. McNally?”

  “South County Road,” I answered.

  “Serendipity,” Hanna Ventura cried.

  “Bingo,” I cried back.

  SIX

  THE DOOR WAS OPENED by a uniformed maid and only after I assured her that I wasn’t a born-again zealot soliciting converts, or selling the Encyclopedia Britannica, did she lead the way to her mistress. I followed her down a long entrance hall decorated with land- and seascapes by the school of artists known as California Impressionists, mounted in ornate gilded frames. The hallway led to a screened patio and a rear patio door led to a backyard of green lawn, palms, royal poincianas and the swimming pool. It also contained Mrs. Ventura.

  The lady of the house was seated at an umbrella table and rose as I approached, quickly wrapping a saronglike skirt around a pair of slim hips. I assumed she was covering a bikini bottom rather than bare flesh but I wouldn’t swear to it. The hand, remember, is quicker than the eye. In this case a most regrettable verity.

  “Mr. Archy McNally, I presume,” she said, offering her hand.

  Hanna Ventura was a true blonde with big brown eyes, a bosom that taxed her white bikini top, a tiny waist and shapely tanned legs. It was easy to see how she had turned a grieving widower into an ardent suitor after one brief encounter.

  “Mrs. Ventura,” I said, taking her hand which was still cool from the chilled glass she had been clutching when I arrived. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Oh, let’s not be formal. I’m just plain Hanna to my friends.”

  “And what a lovely name is Hanna,” I answered. “Did you know it’s derived from the Greek? It translates, ‘God has favored me.’ ”

  With a wave of her lovely hand that seemed to indicate her two acres of South County Road real estate and everything on it, she beamed. “He sure did. But how clever of you to know that. Won’t you sit down? That big ol’ pitcher of lemonade is really vodka and tonic so if you are not opposed to an alcohol libation before lunch just pour yourself a toot.”

  As she spoke she removed the cover from an ice bucket and pulled out a glass, filling it with crescent-shaped cubes before passing it on to me. “I told Margaret, she’s the new girl, to bring us lunch after a while. Nothing formal. Just a shrimp salad and warm biscuits. You haven’t eaten, have you?”

  I poured my libation but before I could state that I had not had a bite since breakfast, Hanna went right on. “Margaret is new. It’s so hard to keep help, don’t you think? Most of them are college girls who take jobs down here in season hoping to catch a rich husband. Ever since that Rockefeller boy married the au pair they all want a shot at the brass ring. Well, who am I to talk?”

  Who, indeed? But talk she did. I wondered if I would ever be required to join in. Shaded by the umbrella and enjoying my drink—although I preferred my vodka and tonic with lime, not lemon, but I suspected the lemon wedges were to fool the likes of Margaret—I sipped and listened attentively. I had come to discuss other worlds and found myself in one—the land of Loony Tunes.

  “Now tell me, was last night your first meeting with Mr. Ouspenskaya?”

  Hanna went from subject to subject without benefit of a connecting line or two. Just as well. What Hanna did not need was an extra line or two. I waited long enough to be sure she wanted an answer before answering. “Yes, it was.”

  “And he contacted your grandfather. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Now tell me, Archy—I may call you Archy?—did you ever meet Mr. Ouspenskaya before last evening? Do you have any friends in common? Anything like that?”

  “No,” I told her, “but don’t jump to conclusions. There are many tricks to the psychic trade. My grandfather, as I’m sure Mrs. Tremaine told you, was on the stage. A public figure, easily traceable if one knows where to search for the facts.”

  “But you said you never met Mr. Ouspenskaya. You have no friends in common. Why would he look up your ancestor?”

  I couldn’t tell her what I suspected so I had to confess I didn’t know, but it was becoming very clear that Hanna Ventura wanted to authenticate, not invalidate, Serge Ouspenskaya. “He did know I would be at the séance. I’m told he requires a guest list before agreeing to a sitting, as he calls it.”

  She jumped on this like a duck on a June bug, as they say where Hanna comes from, which my guess was Georgia via Arkansas. “But he didn’t know I would be at the Fairhurst party. He looked right at me and said, ‘Something is troubling you, young lady.’ And before I could answer he said, ‘You have lost something of great value—both financial and personal—is that not correct?’ I said I had, but I never told him what it was. Never. He said I should go straight home and look carefully at a pile of clothing I had put together for the Goodwill people. He said my consideration for the less fortunate would be rewarded. I remember every word, Archy. It still gives me goose bumps.”

  “And you came home and found the diamond clip?” I concluded for her.

  “Not right away. You see, I was certain I had taken the clip off the dress the night I wore it for the last time.”

  Finally, something interesting. “Are you certain of that, Hanna?”

  “I thought I was, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  “Please, tell me what you thought you had done with the clip. It may be important.”

  “You wouldn’t have a cigarette on you, would you?”

  Reaching for m
y English Ovals I proffered them to her. “What are they?” Hanna asked, taking one.

  “English Ovals. You’ll like them. And I’ll join you.” I struck a match, held it for her, and then lit my first cigarette of the day.

  “James doesn’t like me to smoke so I don’t keep them around. James is my husband.”

  “I’m trying to quit,” I confessed. “I have it down to a couple a day.”

  “I mooch whenever I get a chance so I think I smoke more than if James allowed me to keep them in the house.”

  Margaret came through the patio door pushing a tea trolley that held our lunch. As Hanna had promised, the spread consisted of a fresh shrimp salad, warm biscuits in a wicker basket covered with a heated cloth, butter patties and a tray of shiny black olives and celery sticks. This picnic fare was served on fine bone china accompanied by the family silver. Hanna freshened our drinks before we dug in.

  “Bon appétit,” she advised.

  As we ate, I encouraged Hanna to tell me what she thought she had done with her diamond clip.

  “Well, we had been out that night, James and I. Someone who shall be nameless remarked that I had worn the same dress to several parties this season—and wasn’t it lovely. Meow, meow. I decided to get rid of it and a few others on the spot.” Hanna seemed to lose interest in her shrimp salad but not in her alcohol libation.

  “When we got home I thought I took the clip off the dress and laid it on my dressing table. Then I thought that if James saw it, he would scold me and tell me to put it directly in my jewel case which is kept in a hidden safe in our bedroom. Truth is, I was a little tipsy and I didn’t want to look up the combination to that damn safe, so I put the clip in my dressing-table drawer thinking I would put it in the safe in the morning.”

  “And it wasn’t in the drawer the next morning?”

  “No, Archy, it wasn’t.”

  “What did you think happened to it?”

  Hanna shook her blond curly head and exclaimed, “I didn’t know, Archy. I just didn’t know. I was scared and afraid to tell James. Then I had to tell him. We searched all over the house and the car, too. We called the people whose house we were at that night and we even called all the other guests who had been there, and we came up empty-handed every time.” The agony she had gone through over the lost diamond clip was evident in her voice and eyes as she recalled the days following its disappearance.