McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Have you ever met him?” Father asked, no doubt anticipating where this was leading.

  “Several times,” Holmes told us, “and I wasn’t shy about expressing my views on psychic phenomena.”

  And people wonder how practicing psychics know what they do. We tell them, that’s how. When I turned up at the Tremaines, Ouspenskaya didn’t have to consult his tarot cards to tell him who had sent me. Holmes was the psychic’s number-one critic, but Holmes’s wife was Ouspenskaya’s number-one promoter. The self-styled seer had to sustain a very delicate balance to keep one at bay and the other happy, and it was my guess that Serge Ouspenskaya welcomed the challenge.

  Looking at his watch, Holmes said, “I have to go. I’m picking up DeeDee at Cynthia’s—Say, is that Cynthia really a lady?”

  “With a capital L,” I told him. “Her last husband was knighted for devoting his life to watching beetles mate.”

  Holmes’s jowls did a freeze. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Afraid not, sir.”

  “And I thought all the kooks were in southern California.” Dressed in yellow linen slacks and a lime-green blazer, Richard Holmes had brought a touch of southern California to Florida’s east coast. “Well, keep me posted, Archy, and I didn’t mean to hassle you. In my business we go for the kill and tie up the loose ends before the five o’clock whistle blows. Thanks for your time, Prescott.”

  If Holmes was referring to pork bellies, I refused to even imagine the killing and tying out of respect for my l’omelette brouillée.

  Opening the door, the man stopped and turned, saying, “I almost forgot. There’s a cocktail party at my place tonight for everyone involved with that theatrical production. You’ll get a call from Cynthia’s secretary. Pretty gal, she is.”

  “Consuela Garcia,” I informed him.

  “Latin! Nothing like a little cha-cha-cha to keep the blood flowing. About seven, Archy. See you.”

  When the door finally closed, Father breathed a sigh of relief. “Insipid man,” Father said. “I’ve had him in here since nine this morning.”

  This was the sire’s way of telling me I was late but that wasn’t the true purpose of his ire. “Must you get involved with that damn theater group?” he protested. That was the true purpose of his ire.

  “I’m afraid so, sir. As I explained, I didn’t want to make an enemy of both Desdemona Darling and Lady Cynthia by refusing. I want to gain Darling’s confidence and, if I may remind you, sir, Lady Cynthia is a very valued client of this firm.”

  Father opened his arms and shrugged his shoulders. “If it has to be, it has to be.” His ceding to the inevitable was based more on Lady Cynthia’s lucrative business than on my need to cultivate Desdemona Darling. “But I must say, Archy, the more I learn about this Ouspenskaya, the less I like him.”

  “Having met him, sir, I agree with you.”

  “Richard Holmes is very angry and will do everything in his power to thwart his wife from continuing to consult with the psychic. If one can believe Holmes, it’s his money that pays for Desdemona’s indulgences. Holmes could cut off the flow, which would result in a great financial loss for Ouspenskaya.”

  “Do you think Ouspenskaya will do everything in his power to stop this from happening?”

  “What do you think, Archy?”

  “I think, sir, that Serge Ouspenskaya is too smart to commit murder, if that’s what we’re talking about, to retain a client. My hunch is that he’ll string Desdemona Darling along as far as he can, for as long as he can. I intend to shorten the distance, the time and his profit by half.”

  “I hope you’re right, Archy. And may I ask a favor?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Be a competent enough director to appear bright, but inept enough so that you don’t get invited back next year.”

  “I’ll try my best, sir.” I wondered what our lives would be like if Alfred Hitchcock’s father had requested a similar favor from his son. For a change of pace, I asked, “Have you decided what ship you and Mother will cruise with?”

  “I think we’ll go with the Pearl of the Antilles,” Father announced.

  “That was Grandfather’s recommendation, sir.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Archy.”

  “And I’ll pretend I didn’t say it, sir. When does she sail?”

  “Two weeks. Your mother is very excited and, I admit, so am I. Mother is pleased with the woman the agency sent to oversee her garden. I trust you’ll keep an eye on her while we’re gone.”

  “You have my word, sir.”

  “Good. Now I have work to do. We missed you at dinner last night and I assume you’ll be out again tonight.”

  “Duty calls, but I’ll give Desdemona Darling your regards.”

  “Please do. By the way, what does she look like these days? Have the years been kind?”

  “They’ve been generous, sir. Let’s say that even off the screen Desdemona Darling is still larger than life.”

  Joe Anderson was just putting my mail on the desk when I got to my office. “Hello, Joe. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going and at my age that’s all that matters.”

  “Have you heard Binky has signed with a temp agency in West Palm?”

  “So he told me. And he called this morning to say he got his first assignment at an animal hospital in Delray Beach.”

  I could only be thankful that it wasn’t a people hospital. Binky would add veterinarian trainee to his long and weary list.

  “I expect to see Binky tonight. ...” And a light bulb went off in my head. “Say, Joe, have you ever acted?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m directing at the community theater this season and I need a man your age to...”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace” Joe said.

  “How do you know?”

  “It was in Lolly Spindrift’s column today. Starring Desdemona Darling. Binky tells me he’s the stage manager. I take it you want me for the lonely old codger the spinster sisters try to do in.”

  “You know the play?”

  “I know the movie. I’m a genuine old codger, Archy. You won’t believe this, but I was a child actor in the early days of talkies. I even did a few turns with Mickey McGuire before he made it big as Mickey Rooney.”

  I had struck gold. “How did you end up in this line of work?”

  “You know the old show-business saw, Archy. One child actor in a thousand makes the transition to adult roles. I was number nine-nine-nine.”

  “If you take the role, Joe, you can claim to have done a turn with Desdemona Darling.”

  “If I say yes, when do I get to meet her?”

  “This evening, at her home for cocktails.”

  “You serious?”

  I grabbed a pencil and tore a sheet off a note pad and scribbled on it. “Here’s her address on Via Del Lago. Seven this evening. Binky will be there, too. Is that serious enough?”

  Joe is tall, painfully thin and a casting director’s dream for the role of Mr. Gibbs. Score one for Archy. Joe leaned against his mail cart for support. “I’m going to meet Desdemona Darling,” he chanted.

  “In person, Joe.”

  “Will she be wearing that pink bathing suit?”

  “That would be stretching a point, Joe, believe me.”

  ELEVEN

  THE GUESTS ARE MET, the feast is set: May’st hear the merry din.

  But it wasn’t the Ancient Mariner who broke up the shindig. It was Archy, resplendent in jodhpurs, riding boots and Stetson and brandishing a megaphone.

  Desdemona Darling announced my entrance with a scream that would have knocked Fay Wray off her pins and sent King Kong running for cover. “Blessed Mother of Maude Adams,” Desdemona cried, “I thought it was my old buddy, Mr. DeMille. You know he wanted me for Samson and Delilah but he had to settle for Hedy Lamarr.”

  In this evening’s formal muumuu—white, appliquéd with iridescent silver and gold spangles—Desdem
ona could have played the Mount of Olives as well. “Everyone, everyone,” she went on, waving a martini glass in the air, “this is our director, Archibald McNally.”

  As I took a bow to thunderous applause someone in the sea of faces before me shouted, “Speech, speech.” It sounded very much like Connie but before I could digest that startling fact others took up the cry. Could I deny my adoring public? Never.

  I raised the megaphone and spoke into it. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight marks the first step on our journey to theatrical history.” Applause. “I will work you harder than you’ve ever been worked before.” Groans and boos. “But when you need a shoulder, I’ll be there.” Applause. “I expect you to be on time for rehearsal and to know your lines.” Groans and boos. “With Desdemona’s star to guide us, we ain’t got nothing to hit but the heights, so let’s all go out there and break a leg.” Great applause and a kiss from the hostess.

  “Archy, you’re a ham,” DeeDee said. “Where did you get the outfit?”

  “From his closet. It isn’t a masquerade, he always dresses this way.” It was indeed Connie, elbowing her way into the conversation.

  “Oh, you two know each other,” DeeDee said. “I’m so glad. Connie is going to be our prompter. I insisted. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “This is news,” I said to Connie.

  “I called you last night to tell you but you weren’t home.”

  “I was out with Binky, remember?”

  “Of course, I forgot. How was the Tex-Mex?”

  “Hot.” Now I had to get to Binky before Connie did. I spotted him across the room in deep conversation with Joe Anderson.

  I turned to DeeDee. “Did you meet Joe Anderson, the man I took on for the role of Mr. Gibbs?”

  DeeDee’s still-beautiful face smiled up at me. “I did and he’s a peach. He came with the boy, Binky, who’s going to be our stage manager. Joe told me he worked bit parts in films when he was a kid. But that was before my time.”

  About five minutes before, I judged. Glancing around the crowded room I saw Fitz talking to Buzz and—was I seeing things?—William Ventura. “Is that the Ventura boy?” I said, rudely pointing.

  “It is,” Connie answered. “He’s playing one of the policemen. Isn’t he cute?”

  “You should really meet all the cast, Archy,” DeeDee said, “or as many of them as we have to date, but first I want you to meet my husband. Excuse us, Connie.” DeeDee took my arm.

  “I’ll amble over and talk to Binky,” Connie said. It sounded dangerously like a threat to me.

  “Before you do, Connie, would you check my megaphone. I think I’ve made my point.”

  “And your entrance.” Connie took the cumbersome thing from me.

  “Give it to Jorge or put it in one of the bedrooms if you can’t find him. Lord knows, I never can,” DeeDee advised her.

  The Holmeses’ winter rental on Via Del Lago was a generous ranch on a good acre, comfortably if not elaborately furnished. The great room where we were gathered lived up to its name. I could see a portable bar set up at the far end with a bartender officiating and there was a girl in uniform passing around pigs in a blanket and mustard dip.

  Jorge must be the houseboy who had let me in and whom I surmised to be of Philippine extraction. Most folks in Palm Beach employed a housekeeper but leave it to the visiting firemen from Hollywood to set up shop with a houseboy in black trousers and a starched white shirt.

  “There he is. Richard. Richard,” DeeDee called. “Come and meet our director, Archy McNally. He’s dressed just like Mr. DeMille who wanted me for Samson and Delilah.” What I had suspected was now evident. Our hostess and star attraction was tipsy.

  “Nice to know you, Archy,” Holmes said, extending his hand.

  As I reached to take the offered hand a white blob appeared in the corner of my vision and when it came into focus it took the unmistakable form of a turban. Ouspenskaya was standing next to none other than Vance Tremaine and Arnold Turnbolt. Blessed Mother of Maude Adams, indeed. All the usual suspects were gathered in the same place at the same time. This wasn’t supposed to happen until the finale and we hadn’t even brought up the curtain on Act One. Had DeeDee cast the psychic as the play’s lunatic Dr. Einstein? That would be too good to be true.

  “How do you do, sir,” I said to Holmes, playing my part.

  With a sly grin on his moon face, Ouspenskaya was telling me from across the room that he wasn’t fooled for a moment.

  “Grab yourself a drink, Archy,” Holmes invited. “The bar is that way.”

  “Thank you. It’s just want I need.”

  “No, DeeDee,” Holmes said, hanging on to his wife’s elbow. “Archy can find his way and you should circulate. They’ve all come to see you, dear.”

  “They can hardly miss me.” DeeDee sighed.

  On my way to the bar I steered a clear path around Ouspenskaya, Vance and Arnold; got a peck on the cheek from Fitz, a slap on the back from Buzz and a nasty look from William Ventura. I saw Connie, minus the megaphone, heading for Binky and I beat her to him by half a minute. “We had Tex-Mex last night, Binky. Hello, Joe.”

  “We did, Archy? Where?”

  Good question. “That dreadful place near Deerfield Beach, south of Boca.”

  “How was it?” Binky asked.

  “I thought it was lousy, but you loved it.”

  “What did I have, Archy?”

  Connie was upon us. “Improvise,” I told him.

  “What the devil is going on?” Joe pleaded.

  “Hello, Binky. How was the Tex-Mex last night?” Connie plunged right in.

  “Archy hated it, but I loved it.”

  “It’s like a Marx Brothers routine,” Joe observed, but he seemed to be enjoying the show.

  I left Binky to introduce Joe to Connie and continued my trek to the oasis. The bartender was young and good-looking, so guess who was hanging all over the portable bar. “Hello, Phil,” I greeted Meecham. “Lolly says the part of the evil brother was made for you.” I like to play the devil’s advocate with Phil and Lolly; it keeps them out of more serious trouble.

  “Lolly is fuming because he wanted to direct, so watch your back, Archy. Et tu Brute, if you get my meaning. Now what’s your poison? This charming young man makes a mean martini. His name is Victor.”

  I asked Victor if he stocked Sterling vodka and got a negative response. It was a foolish question seeing as the pâté de maison was mini-franks. I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks with a splash. “Cheers,” I said, turning to Phil, only Phil was gone and Serge Ouspenskaya had taken his place.

  “Cheers, Mr. McNally.”

  He was holding a champagne flute filled with the bubbly. Now where did he get that? Certainly not from Victor. Did Holmes know the guy was imbibing carbonated wine with the hot dogs, or was Ouspenskaya being fed, as well as watered, differently?

  “I see you have taken your grandfather’s advice and joined Lady Cynthia’s charming group.”

  “Let’s say I was drafted as opposed to enlisting.”

  “How we fulfill our destiny, Mr. McNally, is of no consequence. That we do so is all that matters.”

  Ouspenskaya talked like the Dalai Lama, looked like Turhan Bey and drank like Diamond Jim Brady. If he wasn’t a man for all seasons, who was? I took a good swig of my bourbon, I needed it, before saying, “And have you joined Lady Cynthia’s charming group?”

  “Me?”

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I thought this gathering was for active members of our community theater.”

  “But it is, and I am here at the request of Mrs. Holmes. As an observer, as it were.”

  Checking our vibes, no doubt, to determine who stays and who goes. This had to be an all-time first. A clairvoyant as casting director. “And are you going to predict what the critics will say about us before we take our final bows?”

  “Never, Mr. McNally. If I predicted success, no one would work very hard. If I forecast failure, no one
would work at all. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  I might be the director but Ouspenskaya was making it clear, once again, that he was the puppeteer pulling the strings. I motioned to Victor to freshen my drink. “I saw you talking to Vance Tremaine and Arnold Turnbolt. Have they joined the community theater this season or are they, too, observing?”

  “I think they are part of the group, Mr. McNally, but you should know that better than I.”

  If Vance and Arnie had volunteered it had more to do with the presence of Fitz and Buzz, respectively, than with a burning passion to serve the community of Palm Beach. Add in DeeDee, Lady C and Phil Meecham and I would have to quell raging hormones as well as stage fright to put this show on the road. I didn’t need Ouspenskaya to tell me I should collect my megaphone and go home. Not heeding my own advice, I said, “I’m the new kid on the block so I think I had better make the rounds and meet my cast and crew.”

  Ouspenskaya smiled his best condescending smile and said, “And I noticed you have already met Mr. Richard Holmes.”

  The guy was playing me like a trout at the business end of a slippery hook and I decided to end the charade. “Mr. Ouspenskaya, you know damn well Richard Holmes and I met before this evening.”

  “Bravo!” He raised his champagne flute just enough to spill a few drops. The sloppy gesture took a little of the bite out of his retort. Maybe the tide was turning in my favor. “So, we are through with this tiresome artifice and I am pleased. We lay our cards on the table, like the dummy in bridge, and play out our hands. You agree, Mr. McNally?”

  “And which of us is the dummy, Mr. Ouspenskaya?”

  “That, my friend, remains to be seen, but the fact that Mr. Holmes has hired you to expose me as a charlatan gives you a cutting edge to the title.”

  In the interest of propriety I refrained from telling him to go suck a lemon. “I didn’t say Mr. Holmes had hired me to do anything.”

  “No. I did.”

  No one had come up to the bar for a refill and I found this disquieting. There was the steady hum of chatter and the occasional peal of laughter all around us but this didn’t stop me from thinking every eye in the room was on us. “How are you privy to Mr. Holmes’s private affairs?”