“We all know who he is, Officer,” Lady Cynthia snapped back.
“Who he was, ma’am. Good night.”
Al’s partner had retreated with the high-powered flashlight he had played on the supine body to assist Al and the medics. The sight appeared more gruesome in its harsh glare than it had in the flickering glow of the Chinese lanterns. As Al took his leave the onlookers broke their silence as they sheepishly returned their wineglasses to the table and surrounded Lady C with words of consolation. A few, including Joe Anderson and Binky Watrous, headed for the bar where I would have liked to join them but took the opportunity to chase, unnoticed, after Al Rogoff.
The ambulance had gone and the young officer with Al was sitting in the squad car. “As soon as I got the nine-one-one call to this fancy address I knew I would find Archy McNally here rubbing shoulders,” Al said as he saw me approaching. “What can you tell me?”
“Nothing more than Lady Cynthia told you. I’m sure it was his heart. But for the record, and now that it doesn’t matter, Richard Holmes was my client. He’s the guy who hired me to investigate the seer, Serge Ouspenskaya.”
“Was he here tonight? The Ouspenskaya guy, that is.”
“He was and still is. He took the new widow into the house to calm her.”
“Why did the deceased want this Ouspenskaya investigated?”
“He thought the guy was bamboozling his wife but it doesn’t make any difference now. She can lean on Ouspenskaya all she wants with her husband’s checkbook and without his interference.”
“Some dames have all the luck,” Al speculated. “You have any idea why she consults this Ouspenskaya?”
“Can I speak in confidence, Al?”
“Like always, Archy, I won’t repeat it unless it becomes police business and is pertinent to the case.”
“Fair enough. Desdemona Darling made a naughty one-reeler in her prime and the lucky cinematographer has been blackmailing her ever since. She wants Ouspenskaya to find the guy and the can of film.”
“Blackmail? She should have reported it to the police years ago. It’s a felony.”
“In this case the felon doesn’t ask for money, Al. He just threatens to release the film to your friendly neighborhood video shop and the thought drives the lady bananas.”
“With what you can rent today at any video store it wouldn’t make a ripple,” Al noted.
“True. But the lady is adamant about preserving her image.”
“The camera guy might be dead after all these years,” Al said.
“It would be easier for Ouspenskaya to contact him if he were dead than if he were alive.”
Al shook his head. “They’re all nuts, Archy.”
“You’ll get no argument out of me on that score, Sergeant.”
“What was the party for tonight? I saw a few beauties in the dim light of those paper lamps.”
You had to admire Al’s professionalism. He had taken in the entire scene as he gathered information from Lady Cynthia and no doubt he was referring to Fitz, and perhaps Hanna Ventura. Al, and the rest of Palm Beach would read all about it tomorrow morning, so I gave him a quick briefing on the community theater and my involvement in it.
Al pulled a half-smoked cigar butt out of his breast pocket and began to chew on it. “You’re the director? What have you ever directed?”
“You can peruse my credentials in the early editions.”
“I never believe anything I read in the newspapers.”
Al Rogoff was many things, from intellectual to uncouth, but a fool he was not. Many a nefarious punk who judged him solely by his mannerisms and grammar had lived to regret it.
“So you’re going to direct Desdemona Darling. Tell me, Archy, is she still a stunner?”
That was an interesting supposition. Was I going to direct Desdemona Darling? Would the show go on? Perhaps the show would, but would the Widow Holmes? “She’s aged well, except for a few extra pounds,” I conceded to Al.
“How many is a few?”
“If you’re thinking of carrying her over the threshold, Al, you might want to get fitted for a truss first.”
“I get the picture, Archy. See you around, and try to stay clear of falling bodies.”
“Let me know what the medical examiner has to say, Al, please.”
“It’ll be in all the papers, pal.”
“I like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
“Screw you, Archy.”
I could hear the party breaking up as I talked to Al under the porte cochere. I ducked into the house just as they began making their way to the parking area. The housekeeper who was filling in for Mrs. Marsden told me Mrs. Holmes was resting in one of the bedrooms and being attended to by Mr. Ouspenskaya. I made my way to Connie’s office where I found her, Binky and Joe Anderson.
“Quel mess,” Connie said as I entered.
“What’s happening?” I asked the trio.
“Madame is upstairs with Desdemona and Ouspenskaya,” Connie answered. “I hope they’re not talking to Mr. Holmes.” She gave a noticeable shiver as she verbalized the thought.
“That’s macabre, Connie.”
“So is what happened tonight.”
“Binky told me the cop is a friend of yours, Archy. What did he tell you?” Joe asked me.
“Nothing. It was me who did the talking. Once the medical examiner gives his report the police will be done with the whole business.”
“You think it was a natural death?” Joe went on.
Interesting question. Why would anyone think otherwise? “What’s your take on it, Joe?” I asked.
“I guess it’s the damn play,” Joe said. “We get served elderberry wine and life imitates art. It gives me the creeps.”
“Do you think the play will go on?” Binky wanted to know.
I noticed the scripts, in blue plastic folders, piled all over Connie’s desk and work space. Having performed his first chore successfully, Binky appeared reluctant to take early retirement from the stage-managing profession. “I wouldn’t give up walking your ambulatory patients just yet, Binky,” I counseled.
“The play will go on,” Connie said with certainty. “There is nothing Lady Cynthia likes better than a challenge and that’s just what getting this show on the road is proving to be. And it’s not just for her boy, Buzz. From the beginning I suspected she wanted to get into the act herself and that’s why she chose a play with two pivotal roles for older women. Vanity, thy name is Lady Cynthia Horowitz. If Desdemona Darling hadn’t come out of the woodwork this season, Madame would have given herself the bigger role, believe me.”
It was true. If Lady Cynthia was thinking only of advancing the career of Buzz Carr I could think of a dozen plays with roles more suitable to showing off the charisma of a handsome young man. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof came immediately to mind. With Fitz as Maggie in that white satin slip we would go down in the Guinness Book of Records as the longest-running show in community theater history.
The thought of Fitz in her frilly lingerie prompted me to light an English Oval. The fact that none of my cohorts commented on the gesture was an indication of how preoccupied they were with the evening’s unexpected finale. “I see you didn’t give out the scripts as planned,” I said to Connie.
“Under the circumstances I thought it wise to hold off. If I know my boss, and I do, there will be another formal announcement, most likely naming a replacement for Desdemona Darling, and then we can hand out the scripts.”
“Do you think Madame will step into the starring role now that Desdemona is prostrate with grief?” I speculated.
“That might be a little too ghoulish even for Lady Cynthia, but you can be sure Serge Ouspenskaya will be consulted every step of the way. Did you all hear about Liz Haberstraw?”
As Connie let Binky and Joe in on the intimate details of the pending Haberstraw divorce, I was thinking that my friend Ouspenskaya had insinuated himself into the lives of our matrons as had no other Palm Beach
passing fancy. Now, without Richard Holmes to run interference, the seer was free to run amok. Was it Archy to the rescue, or should I consider the case and my stint with the community theater finis?
The new housekeeper stuck her head in the office door. “The caterers are just finishing up,” she told us, “and I’m going to bed.”
“Fine, Annie,” Connie said. “What’s happening upstairs?”
“Lady Cynthia has retired and Mr. Ouspenskaya and Mrs. Holmes have left.”
“We’ll be history in a few minutes, too, Annie. Good night,” Connie said.
When the door closed behind Annie I asked Connie, “Where did Annie come from?”
“I have no idea,” Connie told me. “Mrs. Marsden is in charge of the domestics and she arranged for her own replacement. She seems nice enough and Madame has no complaints.”
When Binky and Joe departed I said to Connie, “If you didn’t have your car I’d drive you home, Connie.”
“Thanks anyway, Archy. We’ll talk in the morning. I imagine Madame will have a lot to say.”
We folded our tents as the curtain came down on Lady Cynthia’s event—as well as the life of Richard Holmes.
I could see a light under the oak door of Father’s study so I knocked gently and got a “Come” for my troubles. Was Prescott McNally the last man alive to lounge before bed wearing a proper two-piece pajama set, with drawstring trousers and buttoned top, under a vermilion silk robe (from Sulka, if you please) and velour bedroom slippers? I believed he was.
Father was seated behind his big leather-topped desk reading one of the volumes from his set of Dickens, a glass of port in front of him. I think Dickens is all he reads for pleasure and I must say I admire his perseverance. He even remembers all the plots, a feat I doubt even Charlie could have performed. “You’re home, Archy.”
“Yes, sir. And I fear I’ve lost a client.”
“Richard Holmes has withdrawn from the case?”
“Richard Holmes has withdrawn from life, sir. He’s dead.”
One of father’s eyebrows ascended. He removed his reading glasses and placed them on his desk. “When? How?”
“This evening, sir, at Lady Cynthia’s party for the community theater. A heart attack is the consensus of opinion, thanks to Mrs. Holmes, who told one and all that his cholesterol count was higher than his bank balance.”
“You’ve had a night, Archy. Would you like a glass of port?”
“Thank you, sir, I would.” I went to the liquor cabinet and helped myself to a generous measure before collapsing into one of the leather club chairs. “Would you like a full account now, sir?”
“Please, Archy,” he said, reaching for one of the expensive cigars he kept in the top drawer of his desk. As he performed the ritual of snipping and lighting, I helped myself to my second English Oval of the day and then gave him a précis of my late client’s final hours in this vale of tears. When I mentioned Joe Anderson’s presence at the gathering Father’s eyebrows remained still. This told me that he was aware his mail person had been bitten by the acting bug. No happening at McNally & Son escaped the master’s notice, thanks to Mrs. Trelawney. No doubt I had been fingered as the heavy who led Joe astray.
“Will this put a stop to the play being performed?” Father asked hopefully.
“Knowing Lady Cynthia, I doubt it, sir. But Desdemona Darling is likely to drop out.”
“And this business will put an end to your investigation of the psychic?”
“With your permission, sir, I would like to continue with the case, pro bono I’m afraid.”
“Why, Archy?”
“Because Ouspenskaya used my grandfather’s name and occupation to ridicule the McNally family, sir.”
Father sipped his port, stroked his mustache thoughtfully, and when a smile appeared on his lips he uttered, “Permission granted, Archy.”
FIFTEEN
I DREAMED THAT ONE of my silk berets, the puce actually, turned into a turban, which I donned, and then I began sawing Connie in half—lengthwise. I awoke in a cold sweat, attributing the nightmare to retiring on an empty stomach. I doubt if Palm Beach’s resident psychiatrist, Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, would agree but I had no intention of asking her.
I slept late, yet again, showered and shaved. I once bought one of those mirrors that are coated so as not to fog in steamy atmospheres and, imitating the smiling guy in the advert, I attached it to my shower wall with waterproof cement so I could shave while sluicing and save all of ten minutes every morning. On my first attempt I noticed a red hue in the water swirling about my feet and aborted the procedure before drawing the razor across my throat. The experiment having failed, I removed the mirror, plucking out a tile along with it. If there is a lesson to be learned in all of this, it escapes me.
I rinsed with witch hazel, the best aftershave known to man, brushed my pearly whites and dabbed a bit of the smelly onto the nape of my neck. I tell all who ask that my scent is Royal Copenhagen, but it’s a lie. Actually, it is a very expensive blend whose name I refuse to divulge because I don’t want every man in Palm Beach who can afford it—which is every man, believe me—dousing themselves with my trademark.
I pulled on a pair of red briefs (the Chinese color of mourning) and a white T-shirt. This was as far as I got before my phone told me I was being hailed by someone fooling around with a similar instrument.
“Archy here.”
“What do you know, Archy?” It was Lolly Spindrift, already out gathering grist for his gossip mill.
“I know my stomach is gurgling. I haven’t had a proper meal in twenty-four hours.” People who call before breakfast should be hanged by the thumbs.
“I’m on my cell phone, outside the police station.”
People who call before breakfast from a cell phone should be hanged by the cojones. However, in Lolly Spindrift’s case, he might enjoy it. “Why are you calling me from outside the police station on your cell phone, Lol?”
“Because something el weirdo is going on inside the station house, that’s why.”
This conjured up all sorts of images, like our men in blue dancing cheek-to-cheek as the felons looked on approvingly. “You have ten seconds to tell me what this is all about, Lol, and then I’m hanging up. One—two— three...”
“Desdemona Darling and Lady Cynthia Horowitz arrived here at nine this morning and were met by the paparazzi who had been camping outside the station house since dawn.” Lolly spoke as if trying to get it all in before I reached ten. “Desdemona gave the boys a statement prepared by her flack in Hollywood.
“They went into the station house and have not been seen or heard from since.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The truth of the matter was, I had forgotten all about Al Rogoff telling Lady C to have Desdemona report to the police first thing this morning to ID her husband’s body.
“It means they’re being detained and haven’t, as yet, left for the morgue to ID Richard’s body.”
“Detained?” I shouted. “Lolly, you don’t mean they’ve arrested Desdemona Darling and Lady Cynthia Horowitz?” That was more el weirdo than if he had told me Tweeny Alvarez and Al Rogoff were doing a pas de deux in tutu and leotard.
“They’ve been in there for over an hour. The police spokesperson refuses to make a statement and just when the press was getting bored a lawyer arrived and was hustled into the station house, pronto. Now, only an earthquake will oust the press from the station house steps.”
“Who’s the lawyer, Lol? Do you know?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Archy my love. The solicitor is from McNally and Son. Give Lol the scoop, Archy, and I’ll tell you about the most indecent romance going on in Palm Beach right under everyone’s unsuspecting nose.”
Fearing he was talking about me, I swore to him that all I knew was what he had just told me. “I’m standing here in my B.V.D.’s, Lol, and haven’t spoken to a living soul since last night. Give me your cell number and I’ll call you when I
learn what’s going on.” He did—reluctantly, but what choice did he have?
First I called the palace and asked to speak to Sergeant Rogoff. The desk sergeant told me Al was busy at the moment. I asked when he might be free and was told, “I don’t know. You wanna leave a message?” No, I did not, but I had learned what I wanted to know. Al had pulled the graveyard shift last night and would not be in the station house this morning unless he had been summoned. Al was the officer who had responded to our distress call last night and now he was locked up with Lady Cynthia and Desdemona Darling. I didn’t even want to think what this might mean.
I called my father’s office and got Mrs. Trelawney. “We’re all as curious as you, Archy,” she told me when I asked what she knew about a lawyer being dispatched to the police station.
“We got a call from Lady Cynthia about an hour ago and she requested that a lawyer who knew something about criminal law join her at the Palm Beach police station. That’s all she said. Your father would have gone but he was with a client. James Ventura, as a matter of fact. That’s all I know but you had better get yourself here ASAP.”
Criminal law? I started thinking about what I didn’t want to think about as I pulled on a pair of chinos and a lavender Lacoste. Argyle socks and a pair of tan bucks left from my brief tenure at Yale completed my outfit. I left my perch reflecting on James Ventura’s visit to McNally & Son. Exit Richard Holmes. Enter James Ventura. I felt like I had just turned a corner and met myself coming the other way.
In the kitchen I told Ursi I was starved but I didn’t have much time. “I can warm you a healthy portion of the Roquefort quiche I prepared for lunch and give you a helping of hash browns and sausages to go with it.”
I didn’t find a thing wrong with that. I helped myself to a glass of Ursi’s fresh-squeezed orange juice before pouring a cup of black coffee. “You made all the front pages, Archy,” Ursi said as she busied herself at the stove.
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