McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  In my office I found none other than Binky Watrous sitting in my visitor’s chair. Two adults in my office at the same time gives the space all the comforts of a New York subway car at rush hour. I reminded myself to ask Father to install hanging straps in the event I was ever blessed with two simultaneous visitors.

  “Well, if it isn’t the cellular Paul Revere. One if by the Top Banana and two if by Lolly Pops.”

  “Hi, Archy.”

  “Is that all you have to say? ‘Hi, Archy’? Well, hi, traitor.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing is the matter with me, except that my best friend called everyone in this office to repeat gossip he picked up in a bar. That’s what’s the matter with me.”

  Binky remained unfazed which was his way of dealing with stress.

  “You mean that business with the psychic, Ouspenskaya? Relax, Archy. It’s all over town. And it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s the truth, but in this case, Binky, the truth will not set you free. It will only land you on the unemployment line.”

  “Fitz thinks Lolly Pops is your grandmother,” Binky said with a grin intended to be lecherous but thanks to his doe eyes it came off as a plea for mercy.

  “Fitz,” I accused, “is a helium head.”

  “But what a dish, eh, Archy?”

  “Never mind that, buster. Tend to your own garden, as Mr. Voltaire cautioned. Which reminds me, you must refrain from asking after the health of Joe Anderson every time you converse with the staff here, which I understand is every day.”

  “I don’t wish him ill. I like Joe. But let’s face it, he’s a hundred years old. The old generation passes away and a new one takes its place, Archy. It’s only natural.”

  I sank back in my chair in unadulterated exasperation. Binky quoting the Bible has that effect on me. “And the sun also rises, Binky, and sets, and Joe’s will set when he’s damn good and ready. We’re all entitled to our four-score and ten.”

  “I think Joe is over the limit, Archy.”

  “Shame on you. I suggest you seek gainful employment while awaiting your place on the staff of McNally and Son.”

  Binky looked as if he was about to burst into tears but I knew from experience that he was smiling at me. “I’ve done just that, Archy. I signed up with Temporarily Yours yesterday.”

  “And just what is Temporarily Yours, may I ask?”

  “It’s what it sounds like. A temp agency in West Palm. You register with them, tell them what you can do, and they place you when they get an assignment that fits your skills. The job can be for a day, a week, a month or a year. You never know. Mrs. Trelawney put me on to them. Who knows, Archy, I might end up right back here before Joe retires.”

  Mrs. Trelawney? Didn’t Father tell me Mrs. Trelawney recommended the agency that got us Kate Mulligan? If so, our Kate must be with Temporarily Yours. I thought it best not to tell Binky of this connection in the very likely event that Binky proved to be the most temporary component of Temporarily Yours.

  The old aphorism cautions us never to ask a foolish question because it will only elicit a foolish reply. This said, I asked Binky, “And what did you tell them your skills are, Binky?”

  The boy almost leaped out of his chair. “I’m a mail room pro, Archy. Four weeks in training with Joe Anderson. And I was a bank teller trainee, a cab driver trainee, a pet store clerk trainee, a supermarket clerk trainee and a stage manager trainee.”

  Only the last entry caught me off guard and recalling who the boy had been chinning with the night before last, I thought I knew how it had become part of his curriculum vitae.

  “Stage manager, Binky?”

  “Oh, I guess you haven’t heard.”

  “No, Binky, I haven’t. And I don’t think I want to know.”

  Not taking the hint, he told me. “Buzz Carr, it rhymes with star, is going to be in a play. Arsenic and Old Lace. Fitz is his leading lady and they asked me to stage manage. Isn’t that a gas, Archy?”

  Archy wanted to take gas. “Do you know what being a stage manager entails, Binky?” I asked the foolish boy.

  “Sure, Archy. He’s the director’s right hand. He sees that everything and everyone is where they should be when they should be.”

  “And who told you that? Buzz Carr?”

  “Yeah, Archy.”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace is being presented by the community theater of Palm Beach and Lady Cynthia Horowitz is the Creative Director of the group. She, and she alone, will select the stage manager. Buzz had no right to offer you the job.”

  Sitting high in his chair Binky informed me, “Buzz called me this morning to say that he talked to Lady Cynthia about me for the stage manager job and she told him it was okay with her. What’s the matter, Archy, did you want the job?”

  The Palm Beach Community Theater presents Arsenic and Old Lace, starring Desdemona Darling, with Buzz Carr and Fitz Fitzwilliams, and Binky Watrous as stage manager. What I wanted was a window to jump out of. As I appraised the incipient stage manager something that had been knocking around my unconscious since I saw him sitting in my office suddenly burst into my cerebrum and caused me to proclaim, “You’ve shaved your mustache.”

  “Yeah. How do you like it?”

  The fact that I had not immediately noticed the cleanshaven upper lip of Binky Watrous is proof that when it was there it was as imposing as peach fuzz on a twelve-year-old. Binky’s former pale blond mustache was a sparse and limp attempt at attracting a mate. It turned out to be more of a detriment, perhaps because females viewed it as a harbinger of things to come. “Why did you shave it?” I inquired.

  “Mrs. Trelawney suggested it,” Binky answered.

  “And if Mrs. Trelawney suggested you shave your head, would you do that, too?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting so sore about, Archy. You’ve been telling me to get rid of it for years.”

  Nihil est dictum, quod non est dictum prius. (“There is nothing one can say, that has not been said before.”)

  My ringing telephone distracted me from this apotheosis of absurdity. Picking up the dastardly instrument I was greeted by the one voice I did not want to hear today, tonight and, most probably, tomorrow—Connie Garcia.

  “You are being summoned, sweetheart,” Connie informed me.

  Knowing for whom Connie toiled, I knew who had issued the summons. “What does she want from me?”

  “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

  “Which means you don’t know.”

  “You got it, Archy. She’ll expect you this afternoon. After lunch. She was very specific about after lunch.”

  “I’m with a client, Connie.” Here, Binky looked over his shoulder to ascertain if we were no longer alone. “And I’m busy this afternoon.”

  “As you wish, Archy. Only I thought you would be dying to meet Desdemona Darling. Bye, bye.”

  “Hold on,” I shouted. “Is Desdemona Darling going to be with Lady C this afternoon? On the level, Connie? Don’t toy with me, I’m having a hard day.”

  “We expect La Darling at three. Do you want to change your mind?”

  Indeed I did. I could get to meet the leading lady in my case without blowing my cover and perhaps learn a little more about Serge Ouspenskaya from his most ardent follower. “I’ll be there,” I told Connie. “After lunch.”

  “What are you doing tonight, Archy?”

  “I’m taking Binky Watrous for Tex-Mex. It’s his birthday.”

  “How sweet of you,” Connie said. “Give Binky a birthday kiss for me. See you at three.”

  “Thanks, Archy,” Binky said when I rang off. “But it’s not my birthday.”

  “Then I’m not taking you to dinner. But don’t tell Connie.”

  “I think you’re up to no good tonight, Archy.”

  “Much foofaraw about nothing, Binky my boy. Can I buy you lunch?”

  “The Pelican?”

  “I fear not. T
he longer I get in the tooth, the shorter I get in reasons for taking friends to business lunches. But I know a little joint you will like. It’s a show-biz hangout.”

  “Really, Archy?”

  “Trust me, kid.” And, alas, he did.

  We drove to a pizzeria on Federal Highway, south of the Port of Palm Beach, where we indulged in a pie adorned with broccoli, slivers of artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes and Gorgonzola cheese, atop a thin crust. Two nuns, wearing particularly ornate white wimples, came in for a slice and I immediately pointed them out to Binky.

  “You know them?” he asked.

  “Chorus girls from The Sound of Music” I told him.

  “Wow!” Binky said.

  There are those who say I am devious. I prefer adroit. The difference is subtle but, for the likes of me, momentous.

  Back on Royal Palm Way I consulted the yellow pages in search of psychics and found several listed as Psychic Advisers—all licensed, bonded and not averse to credit cards. I couldn’t imagine what the criteria was for licensing a psychic. Serge Ouspenskaya was not among them but one, Madame Hildegarde Berlin, advertised that she would answer one question, free, by telephone. I was tempted to call and ask Hildegarde if she could name the composer of God Bless America, but stifled the urge.

  I called information and from them learned the telephone number of Mr. Serge Ouspenskaya with an address on Clematis Street in West Palm. Tired of being the ugly stepsister of the Town of Palm Beach, West Palm has been going through a period of gentrification, a word coined by real estate brokers, and Clematis Street was as gentry as West Palm will ever be.

  A young man answered the phone and I asked him if I could speak to Mr. Ouspenskaya.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Archy McNally,” I informed him.

  “One moment, please, Mr. McNally.”

  Several moments later the perfectly modulated voice of Serge Ouspenskaya came over the wire. “Mr. McNally. I thought I would be hearing from you.”

  Would it be considered redundant to tell a psychic he thought correctly? “I was very impressed with your sitting, Mr. Ouspenskaya,” I began.

  “You are a charming liar, Mr. McNally. No offense, please. I meant it as a compliment. Far from being impressed I imagine you paid a visit to the Lake Worth Playhouse the very next day and asked if anyone had been to see them lately regarding the appearance of Freddy McNally some seventy years ago.”

  It was close enough to the truth but, as Nathan Detroit of Guys and Dolls would say, the odds were better than twelve to seven that any nonbeliever out to prove their point would have done just that. “In fact I did, sir.”

  Without a smug “I told you so” retort, he asked me if I was familiar with Greek mythology. “Specifically the story of Narcissus and the poor Echo.”

  “The youth Narcissus, who was the beloved of Echo, saw his reflection in the water of a pond and fell in love with himself. For this, the gods turned him into a flower and Echo, heartbroken, languished until all that was left of her was her voice.”

  “Very good, Mr. McNally. I ask because last night I had a dream that was similar to the myth but in reverse. That is, I dreamed that a lovely narcissus flower turned into a beautiful youth. The youth dove into the pond and swam rapidly away from the shore. I heard the echo of a laugh and turning I saw you, Mr. McNally, watching the swimmer while nibbling on a shrimp.”

  I felt those icy fingers tap-tap-tapping on my spine again. “Have you been speaking to Mrs. Ventura?”

  “No, I have not. Why? Do you find my dream pertinent? Is the lovely Mrs. Ventura involved?”

  He was too clever to be lying. But how did he do it? And had I given away my hand by immediately bringing Hanna Ventura into the picture? Most likely. Serge Ouspenskaya was proving himself more adroit than Archy. “I was merely curious,” I said, “because I paid a call on Mrs. Ventura yesterday.” That was as much as he was going to get out of me.

  “You questioned her about her diamond clip, I presume.”

  “We spoke of many things, sir. One of them being a rumor that Desdemona Darling has put it out that you told me something no one could possibly know—with the exception of Desdemona Darling, to be sure.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Holmes spoke to me about it the very next day.”

  Mrs. Holmes? How formal. “I would like to know what it was that you said, sir.”

  After a long pause he replied, “I would rather she told you, Mr. McNally.”

  “Why, sir?”

  Another pause. “Y is a crooked letter, Mr. McNally.”

  “A child’s response,” I accused.

  “Out of the mouths of babes, Mr. McNally. Out of the mouths of babes. Ask Mrs. Holmes when you see her this afternoon. Three, is it? She’ll tell you.”

  The guy was either tapping my phone or camping out in my back pocket. Or was he for real?

  EIGHT

  AN UNFAMILIAR FACE OPENED the door to me at the Horowitz mansion. “Mr. McNally?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re expected, sir. This way, please.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Marsden?” I asked, following her across an entrance hall whose square footage was on par with the dimensions of a cozy starter house in Suburbia, USA. Mrs. Marsden was Lady C’s regular housekeeper of long standing.

  “Visiting her daughter, sir. I will be attending Lady Cynthia until Mrs. Marsden’s return.”

  I thought of Hanna Ventura’s lament on the transient aspect of help in Palm Beach and concluded that no one was above its bitter sting. My hostess and her friend were in the drawing room seated in brocade wing chairs and looking for all the world like dowager empresses awaiting a gallant knight to deliver them from ennui. Guess who answered the call?

  “You’re late,” Lady C scolded as I entered their presence.

  Lady Cynthia Horowitz is rude to me only when she is enjoying the company of a live-in protégé. The degree of her rudeness depends on the virility of her mate. Judging from her tone this afternoon, I would rate Buzz a seven out of ten. When the lady is footloose and on the make, I am the object of her affection.

  “It’s just three,” I countered.

  “I was early,” Desdemona Darling intervened. “You are Archy McNally. I like a man who’s not timid about wearing lavender shoes. It says he’s all male. The gay men in Hollywood wear army boots. I’m Desdemona Darling.”

  The Golden Girl had retained her beautiful face, if not her figure. Her hair was as white as snow, her eyes a vivid blue, her complexion a flawless pink and, thanks to the excess weight, as smooth as fine porcelain. She wore a black muumuu which covered her from neck to ankle and no doubt concealed a multitude of sins. I don’t like to admit it but, as a perennial fan of the silver screen, I was awed just being in the same room with her.

  Lady C, on the other hand, had retained her perfect figure as well as her ugly face. Her droopy nose and the upward tilt of her chin always seemed in danger of meeting to render her speechless. Both women, I recalled, had had six husbands each, turning marriage into a cottage industry from which they were both still drawing handsome dividends.

  As I compared these septuagenarians of fame and fortune, and for reasons best known to Herr Freud, I could not help thinking of an obscure Tennessee Williams short story entitled “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin”.

  “Pull up a chair, lad,” Lady C ordered, rather than invited. “I’m not offering drinks. It’s too early. And I assume by this time you’ve already had lunch.”

  “I don’t want a drink and I’ve already had lunch because I was told you wouldn’t be serving.”

  “Ha,” Desdemona said with great delight. “That’s telling her. You were right, Cynthia, he’s just what we need.”

  Need? What did that mean? To nip any bit of nonsense in the bud I declared, “I’m not for hire, Ms. Darling.”

  “Please, call me DeeDee.”

  “We don’t want to hire you, lad. We expect you to volunteer,
” Lady C said.

  “In this world, Lady Cynthia, there are no victims, there are only volunteers.”

  “Ha,” Desdemona Darling let one out again. “I like this guy. And the fact that his grandfather agrees with our choice makes it clear that we picked a winner.”

  What goes around, comes around, and what was coming around was Serge Ouspenskaya. I could feel it up and down my spine. “My grandfather is dead,” I told DeeDee.

  “I know he’s dead,” DeeDee said. “If he was alive I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. I never worked burlesque but I dated a few of the comics in my day and you’re safer feasting with panthers, Archy, believe me.”

  The expression was not original, but having been fed lines by scriptwriters and press agents all her adult life, it was only natural that a few should creep into her conversation from time to time. “Has this got something to do with what the psychic, Serge Ouspenskaya, said to me at the Tremaines’ Monday night?” I asked. When dealing with Lady C, I have learned to go for the jugular. It saves a lot of time.

  “It has everything to do with that,” Lady C answered. “Do you remember what he said to you?”

  “Your grandfather, that is, not Mr. Ouspenskaya,” DeeDee interpolated.

  DeeDee’s comment left no room for doubt that she and Lady C firmly believed Freddy spoke through Ouspenskaya and not, as I believed, that Ouspenskaya spoke for himself regardless of who he claimed was doing the talking. I had no choice but to go along with the charade—for now. “He said my parents were in the process of choosing a cruise ship for a proposed vacation. He also said he had played the Oakley Theater, now called the Lake Worth Playhouse, in 1924.”

  “That’s it,” Lady C cried. “The Lake Worth Playhouse.”

  “If you’re referring to the community theater’s production of Arsenic and Old Lace, I knew about it before the night of the sitting.”