Lady C jumped on that. “Who told you?” she demanded, no doubt hoping to catch Connie Garcia at betraying a confidence.
“A contact,” I said, “who told me on the promise of anonymity.” I delivered the line in the manner of a Hollywood lawyer which seemed to please DeeDee. To take the heat off Connie I added, “And your protégé, Buzz Carr, told me you had engaged the Lake Worth Playhouse for the run of the play. It was the night he took on Fitz as his leading lady and Binky Watrous as stage manager. Buzz has a big mouth, in case you don’t know it.”
“I hear he’s got a big everything,” DeeDee bellowed with glee. Strange. On the screen she had a voice that could lull a babe in arms to sleep. One never knows, do one?
“Shut up, DeeDee,” Lady C snapped at her buddy.
My, my. It appeared these two old-timers gossiped about more than just old times.
“Mr. Ouspenskaya said something else to you, Archy. Think. What was it?” DeeDee prompted.
I had been thinking ever since both Father and Hanna Ventura told me Ouspenskaya had said something no one could possibly know, with the exception of Desdemona Darling and her pal, Lady Cynthia. I presumed I was about to find out what that was. “Sorry, but I don’t recall what else he said.”
DeeDee dug into the pocket of her muumuu and came up with a piece of notepaper. Holding it at arm’s length, she read, “ ‘You won’t be the first McNally on the bill there.’ That’s what he said, Archy. ‘You won’t be the first McNally on the bill there.’ Now do you recall it?”
In fact I did. However, it was so inane a statement I had simply passed it off as an extra added attraction of Ouspenskaya’s act. Why it had Desdemona Darling so riled up, I had no idea. “It means nothing to me,” I told her.
“On the contrary, lad. It means everything. You see...” This was as far as Lady C got before DeeDee cut her off.
“Let me tell him, Cynthia.”
Lady C shot DeeDee a menacing look but clammed up. DeeDee was too excited to notice, not that she would care if she had, and continued, “What she means is, we have decided to ask you to direct Arsenic and Old Lace at the Lake Worth Playhouse.”
Of all the meshuga ideas I have ever heard this one took the prize. “You’ve got to be kidding?” The banality of that retort is an indication of my dismay.
“A little birdie told me you were involved with the drama society at Yale University,” DeeDee cajoled.
The little birdie in the other chair must have gotten that piece of information from Connie. I was, briefly, a member of Yale’s drama society. Everything I did at Yale was brief due to the brevity of my stay in New Haven. What I did while a member of that group was recite Cole Porter’s “Miss Otis Regrets” to loud applause and fair notices. But direct? This was madness.
“Now do you understand why we’re so excited?” DeeDee exclaimed.
“I hate to be a party pooper, but I have no idea why you’re excited nor do I have any intention of directing anything more than a stiff bourbon and branch water to my parched lips. Good day, ladies.”
“Oh, cool your heels and get back in your seat,” Lady C commanded. “I’ll ring for what’s-her-name and get you something to drink.” She yanked on a bellpull hanging from the wall near her chair and I imagined what’s-her-name in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of coffee and a smoke, leaping to her feet.
“I don’t think you get the full significance of all this, Archy,” DeeDee told me.
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
What’s-her-name appeared and Lady C ordered her to bring us a pitcher of papaya juice, ice and glasses. I wasn’t going to get an eye-opener from the old shrew and she wasn’t going to make a director out of me. I loathe papaya juice.
“What time was your sitting with Mr. Ouspenskaya?” DeeDee asked me.
“I believe he arrived at ten.”
“That’s what Penny told us,” Lady C commented.
“Why would I lie?” I questioned.
“Quiet, lad, and listen,” Lady C cautioned.
“Ten,” DeeDee repeated. “So you sat at ten-fifteen, ten-twenty?”
“Correct.”
DeeDee looked as if she were about to explode which, given her size, could start World War Three. “On Monday night I had dinner with Cynthia, right here. We discussed the play and Cynthia said she wasn’t happy with the man who had been directing at the community theater. As you might know, Cynthia is the new Creative Director and there are those who resent her intrusion into what they consider their personal company. Nonsense. It’s a community theater, not an Actor’s Equity ensemble. But you know how people are?”
I sure do. Especially when they’ve been invaded by the likes of Lady Cynthia Horowitz.
“Cynthia thought, and I agreed, that it would be best to bring in all new blood to revitalize the group. You know, out with the old, in with the new.”
Conquer and divide was a decree of Lady C as well as that of the early Romans. After conquering her six husbands she separated them from their money.
“People like Buzz Carr and Fitz Fitzwilliams,” DeeDee continued. “Isn’t Fitz a beauty? You know I almost got the ingénue role opposite Cary Grant in the film version but it went to what’s-her-name?”
“Priscilla Lane,” I informed her as our what’s-her-name arrived with the papaya.
“Yes,” DeeDee said, “Prissy Lane of the Lane sisters. There were hordes of them.”
“Five, I believe,” I told her.
“And five too many,” DeeDee proclaimed, unkindly.
“You are straying, DeeDee,” Lady C said, pouring out the juice.
“Where was I?”
“Out with the old, in with the new,” I reminded her.
“Yes. After dinner—that would be about nine, right, Cynthia?—we came in here and...”
“And decided to ask you to direct,” Lady C finished. “An hour later Mr. Ouspenskaya told you, via your grandfather, that you would be appearing on the bill at the Lake Worth Playhouse.”
“We did not leave this room until midnight and we did not discuss our choice of you for director with anyone,” DeeDee exploded, vocally. “He’s for real. Mr. Ouspenskaya is for real. Cynthia and I are proof of that.”
“Can you doubt it, Archy?” Lady C asked.
What could I say? Hanna Ventura’s diamond clip was on the dress and Archy was destined to be on the playbill.
“You are being summoned from the grave,” DeeDee reminded me.
I summed up the situation in less time than it took what’s-her-name to pass around the papaya. Richard Holmes had hired me to discredit Serge Ouspenskaya because Holmes believed the psychic was bamboozling Holmes’s wife, Desdemona Darling.
Now, Desdemona Darling was asking me to direct her in a show and she believed her choice of director was sanctioned by Ouspenskaya’s prophecy. If I accepted the job I would be fulfilling the prophecy, validating Ouspenskaya and betraying my client. If I declined, I would be banished by Desdemona and Lady Cynthia who, along with the ladies who lunch, were my most viable links to the psychic. And, more important, I would lose the opportunity of getting to know Desdemona and perhaps learn more about the infamous one-reeler and the man who shot it.
To be their director or not to be their director: that was the question. To suffer the slings and arrows of the husband or the wife: that was the choice. It was pure folly but—to direct the legendary Desdemona Darling in what might very well be her last public appearance—what a way to go!
“I’ll do it,” I heard myself say.
“Of course you will, lad,” Lady C said.
“Cynthia, this juice will give me a sour stomach. It needs a good shot of rum to cut the acid,” DeeDee complained.
Rum and papaya juice? I knew immediately I had made the wrong choice.
Reluctantly Lady C had the girl fetch a bottle of rum and DeeDee introduced a dollop to each of our glasses. “To you, Archy,” she said, raising her drink.
I took the requisite sip and t
o DeeDee’s credit must say it improved the taste of the papaya. “We should be doing this with elderberry wine,” I noted.
DeeDee beamed. “You see. He knows everything.”
“What she means,” Lady C said, “is that as soon as the cast is set I’m giving a reception for the whole company and the press and serving elderberry wine. I’m going to put the Palm Beach Community Theater on the map, lad.”
I had taken it for granted that Desdemona Darling, the star, would portray the lead spinster, Abby Brewster, played by the grand character actress Josephine Hull in the original Broadway production as well as on the screen. Buzz would play their good nephew, Mortimer, and Fitz his fiancée, Elaine Harper. The only other major parts were the second spinster sister, Martha, and the evil nephew, Jonathan.
Playing the director, I asked, “What roles are still open?”
“The other spinster,” DeeDee answered, “but we have a few potentials in the wings.”
“And the evil nephew, Jonathan?” I pressed on.
“You’re familiar with the play.” DeeDee was impressed. “You’re going to do just fine, Archy.”
“Phil Meecham has applied for the role of Jonathan,” Lady C said with little enthusiasm for Phil’s community spirit.
“You know, the guy Buzz used to live with,” DeeDee exclaimed.
“Shut up, DeeDee.” Lady C again castigated her friend.
Let me see. Desdemona Darling had agreed to take part in amateur night after meeting Buzz. I was certain Meecham had applied for the role to be near Buzz and talk him into coming back aboard the yacht. The way Fitz had eyed Buzz at Ta-Boo’ made it clear she had joined the caravan because she wanted to be Buzz’s leading lady on and off the stage. What a merry little company this was going to be. No wonder Lady C was nervous.
“The other minor roles are all cast except for the old man the sisters almost murder. Any ideas, Archy?” DeeDee asked her director.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, fretting that I had more to think about than I cared to think about.
NINE
I ARRIVED BACK AT OUR castle in time for my swim, a quick shower and to dress for my date with Kate Mulligan. The events of the day were so portentous and the amount of information being processed through my brain so momentous I feared I would short-circuit before my debut at the Lake Worth Playhouse.
Therefore, in the interest of self-preservation, I pulled the plug that connected me with the sublime and hooked myself up to the ridiculous. In the words of the tunesmith Johnny Mercer, I was determined to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. To this end I decided to impress Kate with my sartorial splendor. I selected a dove-gray suit of summer flannel, a blue-and-white French-cuffed shirt and a silk cravat in matching navy entwined in a Windsor knot. I shod myself in a pair of black wingtips and was ready to step out with my baby when the phone rang.
“Archy here.”
“Lolly here.”
I almost dropped the instrument. “Lolly Pops?”
“No, Archy, Lolly Spindrift, but thanks to you there’s a rumor going around that I was named after your grandmother.”
“The lady is not my grandmother and anything appearing in print to the contrary will be dealt with legally.”
“Touchy, touchy. I’m calling to say congrats on your appointment as director of our community theater. I couldn’t wish it on a nicer guy.”
Did I detect a tad of malice in the seemingly friendly gesture? I did, and it meant Lolly wanted the job for himself. “So the news is already out.”
“Lady Cynthia called me the minute you left her and told me everything, including the delicious fact that Desdemona Darling herself will be the show’s star. Of course I knew it ages ago, thanks to Buzz Carr’s nonstop babbling about his debut, but I refrained from using it until Lady Cynthia made the formal announcement. She doesn’t like to be upstaged. I pass this on as a cautionary measure to the new director.”
“Tell it to Buzz,” I said, wondering what a delicious fact tasted like. “I intend to keep a low profile. You know your pal Phil Meecham is going to read for the role of the evil nephew.”
“Typecasting, Archy, believe me.”
This meant Lol was not speaking to Phil, a circumstance that occurred with the regularity of our ocean’s tides.
“Desdemona Darling lending her name and talent to the community theater makes this year’s production front-page news. Sorry I can’t say the same for your addition to the crew, old boy.”
“Fool’s names like fool’s faces often appear in public places—like gossip columns.”
“Can I quote you, Archy?”
“Only if you attribute it to Mr. Anonymous.”
“Do you know Desdemona Darling married at least three of her directors? Careful, Archy, this gig might cost you your independence, if not your virginity.”
“Desdemona is now a married woman,” I said.
“That never stopped her before, Archy. Ta, ta.”
“Before you ring off can you tell me in twenty-five words or less what you know about Serge Ouspenskaya?”
“I could write volumes on the man. I met him at Lady Cynthia’s ‘who-done-it,’ where he selected me as the victim.”
I wonder why? I pondered.
“He also named the murderer and was right on both counts. Have you heard about Hanna Ventura’s diamond clip?”
“I have.”
“There have been rumors of other amazing incidents attributed to Ouspenskaya but nothing as exciting as Hanna’s clip until he called up your grandfather and predicted your involvement with the community theater, which has come to pass.”
“Lady C is already spreading the word,” I said.
“Is she ever. And can you blame her? Between Ouspenskaya’s prediction and Desdemona Darling’s appearance, she’s going to have the SRO notice posted for the run of the show.”
“What do you think of Ouspenskaya, Lol?”
“I think he makes good copy and that’s what pays the rent and gets me invited to dinner parties six nights out of seven. What’s your interest, Archy?”
“Nothing special. He seemed to focus right in on me at the Tremaines’ and I’m curious to know why. I also hear he’s very thick with Desdemona Darling and Lady C.”
“You suspect collusion between your creative director, your star and the psychic?”
“Drop your pen, Lol. Like I said, I’m only curious.”
“But you’ll keep me posted?”
“Only if you promise to do the same, Lol.”
“Oh, I will. Ta, ta, Archy.”
A hint of scandal dropped into Lolly Spindrift’s ear was like depositing money in an interest-bearing account and with a nemesis like Ouspenskaya I needed all the help I could get.
Rather than face Father with the complicated news of my involvement in the community theater, I popped into the kitchen and told Ursi to inform the pater and Mother that I had a date and would see them anon. The stars were just about to show themselves when I hopped into my Miata and the moon was rising over the ocean. I took this to mean the gods were smiling down on my evening with Kate Mulligan.
Her pad was in a condo complex of two-story garden apartments, with mini-balconies in the rear overlooking a pool and tennis courts. A cookie-cutter Florida establishment.
Having not been told what to wear, she opted for a knee-length black slip-style skirt, a satiny white blouse with a V-neck of just the right depth and strappy black sandals with a wedge heel. All in all, not bad.
“Don’t you look spiffy,” she welcomed me.
“Not as spiffy as you.”
“I couldn’t decide between chaps or a serape so I settled for the basics,” she said.
“Good choice. I like your place,” I lied. It had all the charm of a Holiday Inn.
“It needs work to make it a home. I haven’t had a chance to put my stamp on it. It came furnished with the basics and cries out for tchotchkes.”
The “basics” were
items of furniture once referred to as “Danish Modern,” which I doubt any thinking Dane ever bought into. “A few tchotchkes are fine. More than that and it becomes a secondhand emporium,” I advised. “How long have you been here? Palm Beach, that is, not the apartment.”
“A few months in both places.”
She didn’t offer to say where she had come from and I thought it rude to ask too many questions too soon. “Do you feel like taking a bit of a ride? The restaurant I have in mind is in Fort Lauderdale.”
“If you promise to put the top down on the Miata.”
“Oh, it is, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink other than a glass of the designer water I have in the fridge. I haven’t had a chance to stock the place for entertaining.”
“I’m doing the entertaining tonight, Kate. Grab a shawl, it’ll be breezy driving down the coast.” She added a head scarf to keep her hair in place—very Grace Kelly—and we were off on our first date.
One of the perks of a long drive before dining with a stranger is that by the time you arrive, you’re old friends. Without asking, I learned that Kate Mulligan was born in New York, New York, did time, as she called it, in Las Vegas working as a showgirl (with those legs I could believe it) and “ended up a magician’s assistant in a lounge act when they kicked me out of the chorus for the heinous crime of growing old.”
“That was their loss.” In the early evening light, with the scarf framing her oval face and a complexion that needed nothing more than a touch of lipstick, she was the embodiment of a sexy lady in her prime.
“Why thank you, kind sir. How gallant.”
“Did the magician saw you in half?”
“No, he married me. Then he sawed me in half.”
That needed no response so for the next few miles we drove in silence. I was basking in the pleasure of speeding along the A1A with the top down on the kind of night featured in Moon over Miami, and if the lady next to me wasn’t Betty Grable, you couldn’t prove it by her legs.
When the silence became more intrusive than serene, I asked, “When did you get interested in gardening?”
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