She laughed and turned to me. “Cat and mouse, Archy?”
It was the response I was hoping for. Kate Mulligan did not disappoint. “You don’t know a damn thing about gardening,” I amended my question.
“I know any respectable garden needs a little sun and a little water to survive.”
“And with that Temporarily Yours took you on?”
“Give me a break, Archy. I knew you were on to me when you told me how you noticed my missing wedding ring. I figured you must have seen the label on that big plant as clearly as I had.”
“Not that day. I knew my mother usually labeled her plants so I went back to the greenhouse the next morning to have a peek. But still, you couldn’t have known it was an Eyelash if it wasn’t labeled.”
“Now what makes you so sure I couldn’t.”
“Las Vegas chorus lines and lounge acts. They don’t add up to Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow.”
“I needed the job,” she stated. “Temporarily Yours advertised and I applied, but there didn’t seem to be any openings for middle-aged chorines or magician’s assistants. I can type with two fingers but I discovered that the typewriter is hardly a high-tech piece of office equipment these days. I don’t know a word processor from a toaster oven and the only computer I’m familiar with is an adding machine. In their listing of job titles I spotted Gardeners and Gardener Helpers...”
“And you told them that gardens need sun and water and they took you on. Remarkable.”
“Okay, I lied a little.”
“How little?”
“I told them I worked for the botanical gardens in Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas doesn’t have botanical gardens.”
“I know that and you know that, but Temporarily Yours doesn’t know that.”
She started to laugh and it proved infectious. I went along with the joke, if you could call it that. “Are you going to report me?” she said, placing her hand gently on my thigh.
“No. My mother likes you.” Not to mention my thigh.
“She’s lovely, Archy. And she’s so particular about her begonias she won’t let me do anything but watch her work. All I do is make notes to follow when she’s gone. But trust me, I’m a quick study.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
Of course there was a lot still unexplained. For instance, the new VW and the condo. She might have gotten a cash settlement from the magician but her pay at Temporarily Yours wouldn’t cover the upkeep of either the pad or the car. I didn’t press the issue because I liked the lady and didn’t want to give the impression I was moonlighting for the Internal Revenue Service. She had guts. She wasn’t afraid to dirty her hands, literally, to make an honest living and if she had to tell a few lies along the way, well, that’s sometimes that makes the world go ’round. And, Mother liked her. So did Archy.
The restaurant wasn’t the Waldorf but neither was it a Taco Bell. The hostess seated us at a corner table and presented us with menus before taking our drink order. Kate went for a margarita and I went along to keep her company. They arrived in stem glasses large enough to hold a mama goldfish.
“Your health,” Kate toasted.
“Skoal,” I responded.
“Perfect,” she said, after taking a dainty sip. “And what a lovely place. Do you come here often?”
“Only when I crave heartburn.”
“Are you ever serious, Archy?”
“Only when I crave heartburn.”
Our waiter was more Tex than Mex and he told us the evening’s special was a vodka-basted loin of pork in an ancholime crust, accompanied by a black bean tortilla topped with a pineapple salsa. “Hot?” I asked.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” he answered. Kate liked that one.
She turned down the vodka-basted pork on the grounds that it might clash with the margarita. I approved of her reasoning. She went for a shrimp and crab fajita in a Creole sauce that came with sautéed onions and peppers.
I ordered the jambalaya along with black beans in an inflammatory sauce. For starters we sampled the basic chili pot, which rendered our stomachs impervious to what followed.
“What would you like with your entrées?” our waiter asked as we sampled the chili.
“How about a fire extinguisher.”
Ignoring my wit, he proffered a wine list. As I perused it Kate said, “Let’s go all the way and have the sangria.”
I winced. Jug wine loaded with fruit and ice cubes. I would lose my sommelier palate but the thought of munching on an ice cube between the chili and the jambalaya made me throw caution to the wind and I went along with the sangria. Besides, I like a lady who suggests going all the way.
We ate con gusto and somewhere along the way Kate asked me what I did for a living. “A little bit of this and a little bit of that,” I told her.
“You’re not a lawyer?”
“No. Father is the lawyer at McNally and Son. Archy gathers information and assists in cases where the law needs a helping hand.”
“You’re a shamus,” she exclaimed.
“My dear girl, you’ve tarried too long in the desert sun.”
But Kate was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes. “I think it’s thrilling. Do you carry a gun?”
I could have answered that one with a famous, or infamous depending on your scruples, Mae West line but thought it best to leave the caliente in the sauce and out of the conversation. “If I did I would probably end up shooting myself in the foot.”
Looking at me with a mixture of awe and fascination, Kate said, “I still think it’s exciting. I’ve never dated a detective before tonight. Are you working on a case now?”
“Of course. The case of the Gardener’s Assistant. Very potent stuff. Missing wedding bands, magicians, begonias and botanical gardens flourishing in the desert.”
“Oh, be serious. Are you?”
“Nothing I can talk about, I’m afraid.” So why didn’t I practice what I preached? Because—a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, a beautiful woman and—Archy, the fool. “Tell me, Kate, in the realm of show biz do psychics fall into the same category as magicians?”
With her fork in midair she gave this a moment’s thought.
“Not really. You see, magicians amaze their audience while defying them to guess how they pulled the rabbit out of the hat. What I mean is, magicians don’t pretend to be miracle workers, including the famous Houdini.”
“And psychics do,” I put in.
Kate nodded. “Right. They want you to believe they have the gift, as some of them refer to their psychic powers. If they don’t have the gift, they’re labeled fakes. Magicians don’t have that problem. Everyone knows they’re tricksters.”
As the bus person cleared the table our waiter recited the dessert list. Stomach pumps not being among the offerings, we settled for coffee.
“Did you know any psychics in Las Vegas, Kate?”
“When you work a lounge act in Vegas, you meet all kinds. Yes, I knew several.”
“Any you believed were the genuine article?”
Kate put a drop of cream into the coffee our waiter had placed in front of us—no sugar—and as she stirred the brew she said, “I’ll put it this way, Archy. In Las Vegas, the seer’s stock in trade is promising to make you rich. You know, the winning lottery numbers, blackjack, roulette, the sports pools and even faro, which, as I’m sure you know, requires as much skill as learning to chew gum. If these guys know all the answers, why are they hitting on the rubes for peanuts when they could be cashing in their own chips?”
Smart lady, Kate Mulligan.
The ride up the coast was as enchanting as the ride down. Kate turned on the radio and my easy listening station delivered Nat King Cole crooning “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” Kate and I joined the King and when done I exclaimed, “You knew all the words.”
“It’s my kind of music,” Kate informed me. And I was beginning to believe Kate was my kind of girl.
“If I had the
necessary components I would invite you in for a drink,” she said, as we entered West Palm.
“I could pick up a bottle of brandy if you could supply the snifters.”
“I think brandy snifters are some of the few items I salvaged from my trousseau. But I never heard of a P.I. who drank brandy. Isn’t two fingers of bourbon their drink of choice?”
“You’re thinking of Sam Spade. I’m Archy McNally.”
“I know. And isn’t that nice.”
The snifters were real crystal and I lit my first English Oval of the day to celebrate the fact. “You don’t mind?” I asked Kate.
“No, go right ahead. I gave them up years ago.”
“So did I.”
She put Frank Sinatra on the CD player and we danced cheek to cheek until Kate kicked off her pumps and rested her head against my chest. I removed my jacket—Frank’s lyrics encourage this sort of behavior—and when we had removed all our inhibitions Frank told us that music leads the way to romance. And he was right.
TEN
I TORE MYSELF AWAY FROM Kate after midnight but before dawn. Hobo elected not to leave his canine abode when I pulled into our driveway. Our sentry was a heavy sleeper. All was dark in the Olsons’ apartment over the garage and ditto our house. Archy had to find his way to his third-floor aerie by touch, a feat I had performed too many times to count.
Mark Twain wrote of man’s inhumanity to man. As I lay sleepless in the eerie predawn light, guilt had me contemplating man’s inhumanity to women. Namely, Consuela Garcia. To soothe my febrile brow I fingered my worry beads to the mantra that I had made no promises to Connie and was true to her in my fashion. Unfortunately, it was not a fashion that suited Connie. This seemed to prove, to me at least, that open relationships work only when the liberated couples are endowed with an abundance of forgiveness and a paucity of guilt.
Connie, I fear, had exhausted her supply of forgiveness, while the older I got the less I dallied. This should have fostered a period of détente between us but all it had me doing was counting the years instead of sheep. Number forty was on the horizon along with the new day and I still subscribed to Cole Porter’s certainty that “raising an heir could never compare with raising a little cain.”
I gather my rosebuds while I may and when I feel the sting of a thorn I remind myself that the trick of life is learning to live with our ills, not trying to cure them. (Thank you, A. Gide.) And if I’m a bit of a fop, well—Archy, the Scarlet Pimpernel of Palm Beach. With that I fell into a dreamless sleep and awoke bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about the time the nine-to-fivers were taking their first coffee break.
Ursi asked me if I would be agreeable to a scrambled omelette and I told her there was very little in the way of food to which I was not agreeable and especially so to a l’omelette brouillée, as the French call this manner of preparing eggs. I inquired as to whether a Brie filling was possible. It was, praise be.
My father had left for the office and as Ursi broke eggs into a bowl she told me Jamie was off with Mother and Kate Mulligan in search of the perfect begonia. In lieu of orange juice I was presented with half a grapefruit which I literally dug into, feeling a bit of relief at not having to face Kate in the bright light of day. I knew there had to be a morning after, but it didn’t have to be the very next morning.
“Late night,” Ursi stated rather than asked.
“Sometime after midnight,” I said. “Rye toast please, Ursi. I feel a health binge coming on.”
“Three hours after midnight,” she proclaimed, scrambling the eggs to a perfect consistency before folding them over the Brie.
“How do you know?”
“I heard you.”
“Not even Hobo heard me,” I said.
“I think Hobo is deaf,” Ursi proclaimed, moving the omelette from pan to plate.
Great. We now had a former chorus girl and magician’s assistant tending our garden and a deaf watchdog guarding our home. I would speak to Father about increasing our insurance coverage. As Ursi poured my coffee I sampled the omelette. The dear woman had added bits of diced ham to the Brie. Superb.
When I arrived at the garage beneath the McNally Building, Herb returned my wave with his forefinger pointing at the ceiling. This did not mean that he was mimicking the Statue of Liberty but that he had been alerted by Mrs. Trelawney to tell me to report directly to our president and CEO upon my arrival. In Monopoly-speak it meant go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
Before ascending I asked Herb if he had ever done any acting.
“You mean like Marlon Brando, Archy?”
“Yes. Or even Raymond Navarro.”
“As a matter of fact, I did, once.”
Well. This was interesting. I may have found our Mr. Gibbs, as I believe the old potential victim of the Brewster sisters is called. “When was that?”
“In the sixth grade, I think it was. I had one line to recite in the class play.”
“And how did you do, Herb?”
“I was so scared, I upchucked all over the stage. Why do you want to know?”
“No particular reason, Herb. No particular reason.”
Upstairs, Mrs. Trelawney warned me that Mr. Richard Holmes was with Father and had been with him since nine o’clock—waiting for me. This did not bode well. When I entered Father’s office I found Mr. Holmes pacing the floor and Father tugging at his mustache.
“Finally!” Mr. Holmes exploded. “Where the hell have you been?”
Where I had been was none of his business, so I had no qualms in answering, “Keeping Ouspenskaya’s office under surveillance. I want to know what time he arrives, when he leaves and where he goes when he leaves. Also, I’m interested in learning if any familiar faces visit him on a regular basis. Informants, if you know what I mean.”
This stopped Holmes’s pacing and Father’s tugging. Did I even detect a trace of a smile on the master’s lips?
“It’s worse than ever, Archy,” Holmes complained. “DeeDee is convinced that Ouspenskaya is for real, thanks to you.”
“I can hardly be held accountable for one of Ouspenskaya’s predictions, sir. In fact I attended the séance on your behalf. The man said some remarkable things, all directed at me, which makes me believe he knows you put me on his tail.”
“How is that possible?” Holmes demanded.
“That’s what I’m trying to learn, sir.”
“And now you’ve got yourself involved in this damn show. I hope you’re not doing it on my time, young man.”
I glanced at Father. The smile had been replaced by a frown. Thanks to his roots and his pomposity Father had an aversion to show business as either a career or avocation. As much for him as for my client, I carefully explained why I had accepted the position of director for the community theater, fulfilling Ouspenskaya’s prophecy. “I will be working with your wife, sir, and in a position to gain her confidence without showing our hand. Through her I can become a member of Ouspenskaya’s inner circle and what better place to learn where the guy is coming from?”
“But you think he’s on to you,” Holmes insisted.
“I know he is.”
“He’ll be on his guard.”
“I’m sure he will be. But his ego is the size of an elephant’s behind and he won’t be able to resist dazzling me with his cleverness. The more risks he takes, the greater the chance of his tripping over himself. When he does, I’ll be there to watch him fall.”
Holmes’s jowls quivered like jelly on a plate but I was sure he was starting to see the wisdom of my maneuver. “You’ve seen the guy in action. What’s your take on him, Archy?”
“I was impressed. Did Father tell you about the cruise ships?”
“I did,” Father said.
“How does he do it, Archy?” Holmes asked again.
“There are tricks to every trade, sir. But tell me, if Mrs. Holmes is convinced of Ouspenskaya’s powers, how does she explain the fact that he has not located that can
of film and the guy who owns it?”
With a gesture of despair Holmes began, “He claims to be the radio, not the broadcaster, so he has no control over what comes through.”
I was familiar with the routine, which seemed to be Ouspenskaya’s standard megillah.
“But get this, Archy,” Holmes continued, “like the con artist Ouspenskaya is, he has the brass to blame his failure on DeeDee.”
The radio blaming the listener for what was being broadcast? Here was a turn of the screw worthy of a plot by Henry James. “What’s his rationale, sir?”
“Ouspenskaya says that DeeDee is so fearful of the film being made public and so intimidated by the guy who sends the letters that she is subconsciously denying their existence. Meaning, during the sittings she’s tuning them out instead of in.”
“So he dabbles in psychoanalysis on the side,” I concluded.
“Archy,” Holmes said, “when DeeDee tells me what some of the ladies discuss with Ouspenskaya, I blush. It’s embarrassing.”
Being familiar with the distaff half of Palm Beach’s upper crust, I could believe this. “Due to Mrs. Holmes’s subconscious reluctance to tune in to her blackmailer,” I observed, “I guess Ouspenskaya has to try and try again. Correct?”
“Right,” Holmes concurred. “At five hundred bucks a pop. Now do you see why I want this guy stopped?” As if overburdened by this financial loss, Holmes sank into Father’s visitor’s chair.
“Mr. Holmes, you told us that Ouspenskaya knew what your wife was seeking before she told him. Does he know the nature of that short film?”
“I may have misled you on that one, Archy,” the man confessed. “What he said was, ‘You are seeking something related to your career in Hollywood.’ I think that’s how it went.”
How ingenuous people are, and especially actors. Ouspenskaya may have heard rumors of Darling’s one-reeler and had come up with a sentence that said nothing and everything at the same time. “Have you ever attended a séance, or sitting, as Ouspenskaya calls his radio show?” I asked Holmes.
“Me?” Holmes shouted. “Never. I ain’t that balmy.” Giving this some thought, he recanted, “Not yet, anyway.”
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