McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  I picked up the morning edition Jamie had left behind and saw myself and Joe Anderson kneeling over the body of Richard Holmes. The headline blared ACTRESS’S HUSBAND SUCCUMBS AT THEATRICAL GALA. Lolly Spindrift got the byline.

  “A terrible thing,” Ursi went on. “Your father knew all about it this morning.”

  “I told him about it when I came in last night, Ursi. Have you heard anything?”

  “With Mrs. Marsden away, I have no connection at Lady Cynthia’s. All I know is what I read in the morning newspaper and what your father told me.”

  “You don’t know the woman who’s taking Mrs. Marsden’s place while she’s away? Her name is Annie.”

  “I don’t know her, Archy.”

  That was unusual. The domestics up and down the A1A were as close as pages in a book and their grapevine one step ahead of the people who employed them. “Where did Lady C get her from?” I wondered aloud.

  “I hope I’m not intruding.” Kate Mulligan was standing in the kitchen doorway. “I came for a cup of coffee.”

  “You’re not intruding at all,” I said as Ursi served my breakfast. “Please, have a seat and join me.”

  “If I ate like that I’d be as big as Desdemona Darling. I was shocked when I saw her picture in the paper this morning—and your picture, Archy. I didn’t know you were a socialite.”

  “I’m not. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the story of my life.”

  Kate took the cup of coffee Ursi offered her, but didn’t sit. “When Desdemona Darling was a regular at the clubs in Las Vegas, she had a figure that could rival any gal in the chorus. Now look at her.”

  “I’m losing my appetite, Kate.”

  She laughed, crinkling her nose and setting the freckles there in motion. “I doubt that. And you didn’t tell me you were a director.”

  I was painfully aware of Ursi being forced to listen to our conversation from which she would conclude, rightly, that my mother’s garden helper and I had more than just a nodding acquaintance. Ursi wouldn’t breathe a word of this to my parents but if her pal, Mrs. Marsden, was not away she would certainly mention it to her. Such were the unwritten edicts of domestic engineers. And, from Mrs. Marsden’s lips to Connie Garcia’s ears. Did I say Buzz Carr liked to live dangerously? For the present, Mrs. Marsden’s absence saved me from a fate worse than death. Looking at Kate, I decided to enjoy the day for tomorrow I might be warbling Un Bel Dì for a living.

  This resolve did not immune me from feeling a tad uncomfortable when I answered, “I’m not a director. It’s community theater and except for Desdemona Darling there’s not a professional actor in the cast. I never expected the show to make the front pages of our local gazettes.”

  “It’s a shame about Desdemona’s husband. They say it was a heart attack.”

  “That’s what they say.” I refrained from passing on the more current news, feeling Ursi had enough fodder to pass along Ocean Boulevard for one morning. “Won’t you sit?” I asked Kate once more.

  “No, thank you. I must get back. If you don’t mind, Ursi, I’ll take the coffee with me.”

  “Help yourself, dear,” Ursi answered as she placed a warm scone and a pot of apricot preserves before me. “Nice woman,” she added when Kate had departed, “and your mother likes her.”

  “For which we are all grateful,” I said, and seeing an opportunity to do a little missionary work I explained to Ursi, “I ran into Kate in West Palm the other day and we had a drink together.” Subterfuge is like a bottomless pit. There’s always one step further down you can go.

  “That’s nice,” Ursi said.

  I went out to the greenhouse to see Mother, hoping to get in a few words with Kate in private. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Oh, Archy,” Mother exclaimed, looking up from one of her clay pots. “Kate told me you were having breakfast.” I bent to kiss her as she went on. “What a tragedy at Lady Cynthia’s last night. And you were right there, giving him resuscitation. It’s in all the newspapers.”

  “Actually, he was beyond being resuscitated, Mother, but I was there.”

  Kate was puttering around the potting table doing absolutely nothing as far as I could see. I caught her eye and executed what I intended to be a meaningful nod. “I just stopped by to say hello before going to my labors. Enjoy your morning, ladies, it looks like we’re in for a bit of rain this afternoon.” Florida weather is unpredictable, as witnessed by the brilliant morning sun fast giving way to dark clouds scudding in from over the Atlantic. The sun could be back out in two hours or we might not see it again for two days.

  “The tourists may not like it but the garden needs the rain,” Kate said, sounding very professional.

  “Yes.” Mother nodded approvingly. “That’s just what I was saying earlier. You have a good day, too, Archy, and I like your shirt. I have a budding begonia coming in just that color. You know the one I mean, Kate?”

  “Yes, Mrs. McNally, I do,” Kate answered, picking up her coffee cup. “I’m going to run this back to the kitchen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  “Oh, Archy can take it,” Mother volunteered my services.

  “Well,” Kate began hesitantly, “I would like to visit the powder room.”

  Poor Mother blushed scarlet. With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, I gave her glowing cheek a goodbye kiss.

  “I’ll carry your cup,” I offered.

  “Thanks. But I can manage.” Walking back to the house Kate opened with, “I got the distinct impression that you weren’t exactly thrilled with our conversation in the kitchen.”

  “You make it sound as if I were annoyed with you. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve never mentioned our dinner date to the family. Our prattle must have seemed a bit odd to Ursi, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I see. The boss’s son and the lady who helps in the garden.”

  “Come on, Kate. It’s nothing like that and you know it. What’s got into you, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was seeing your picture in the newspaper and learning you know all those society ladies. I thought you were just a detective.”

  “Those society people are my father’s clients, which makes them the bosses and me the hired man’s son.” We were nearing the kitchen door and I slowed down purposely so as not to end our talk on this note. “Can I call you tonight?”

  “Sure. It’s your dime.”

  “Don’t give me a hard time, Kate. I had a lousy night and this morning wasn’t much better. There’s a problem with Richard Holmes’s death.”

  That stopped her cold. “A problem? What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure myself.” Then I told her everything I knew. “I’m on my way to the office to see if Father has heard anything more.”

  “Are you telling me he was murdered, Archy?”

  The M word had finally come out of hiding. “Don’t start rumors, Kate, please. It could all be much ado about nothing. I don’t know what the day will bring but keep tonight open in case I’m free.”

  “Make contingency plans, Archy, in case I’m not free.”

  I deserved that.

  “Richard Holmes died of arsenic poisoning,” Father announced without fanfare as I entered his office.

  I sank into a chair. “Is that official, sir?”

  “When I got Lady Cynthia’s call this morning I dispatched Saul Hastings to the police station. He called me ten minutes ago with the news.”

  “Has anyone been arrested?”

  Father shook his head. “No, Archy. Lady Cynthia and Desdemona Darling were questioned for almost two hours. They’ve been released and Hastings is on his way back here. We’ll get a full report when he arrives.”

  “Was the arsenic in the wine the women were distributing, sir?”

  “Hastings told me it had to be. It’s a very fast-acting poison and according to both Lady Cynthia and Desdemona Darling, he died minutes after drinking the wine.”

  What did Joe An
derson say last night? Life imitates art. The media was going to have a field day with this one. Lady Cynthia would have to call off the show. It would be obscene to go ahead with it now. “Unless his death was self-inflicted, sir, I don’t see how anyone could have tampered with his wine. There were at least thirty people present, all watching as the women poured the wine and handed it out.”

  “So you told me, Archy. Where were you standing at the time?”

  “I was with Lady Cynthia and Desdemona. Remember, Lady Cynthia had just finished her speech. The crowd was all huddled in a group, facing us.”

  “And where was Holmes?”

  I had to think a moment. “The patio was lit with lanterns and hurricane lamps. Visibility was poor to say the least.” I was recalling how Al Rogoff had called for the powerful police flashlight the minute he came on the scene. “In the front row,” I finally said. “He was in the front row.”

  “Are you sure, Archy?”

  “Positive, sir. He came forward seconds after the toast had been given. He couldn’t have done that if he wasn’t right up front.”

  “And who was near him, Archy? Can you recall?”

  I saw myself, a little embarrassed, staring at the audience. It was like looking at a picture taken without sufficient light, dark and murky. Then I remembered. “Binky, Connie and Joe Anderson. It had to be them. You see, sir, they were helping set up the wine table and when the ceremony began they stepped back a few feet and joined the onlookers. They had to be in the front row, too.”

  “Of course the caterers removed all the glasses and the wine decanters, so any evidence concerning where the arsenic came from will be circumstantial,” Father said in the vernacular of the legal fraternity.

  “But scientific,” I put in.

  “To be sure,” he agreed. “And everyone present will be questioned, including and especially you, Archy, thanks to your vantage point. A pity our friend Ouspenskaya contacts ghosts by radio and not television. It would be interesting to see a rerun of last night’s events.”

  “Ouspenskaya!” The bulb went off. “Where was he standing?”

  “He was there?” Father questioned.

  “Thanks to Lady Cynthia. He’s now her personal rabbit’s foot. Did I tell you Richard Holmes told me he had read Ouspenskaya the riot act yesterday afternoon?”

  “No, Archy, you didn’t.”

  “Because when I spoke to you last night it didn’t seem relevant to Holmes’s death. But now...”

  “What exactly did Holmes tell you?”

  “That if his wife continued to see Ouspenskaya she would have to do so with her own money. Holmes would no longer finance her sessions with the psychic.”

  “And he told this to Ouspenskaya?”

  “He did, sir.”

  “Do you have any witnesses to the statement?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “Then it’s hearsay of the purest nature, Archy. Pity. What do you intend to do now?”

  “I’m going to try and see either Lady Cynthia or Desdemona Darling and get a firsthand account of what they learned at the police station. After you speak with Hastings, we’ll compare notes. Between us we should be able to put together a comprehensive picture of what the police have learned and are thinking.” Al Rogoff would be my main informant, if I could get to him, but I didn’t want to share this with father until I knew how much Al was willing to share with me.

  “This puts a different slant on your investigation of the seer,” father said.

  “Different, sir?”

  “Of course. The death of Richard Holmes. From what you just told me it’s clear that Ouspenskaya is our most likely suspect. If he would commit such a heinous crime to keep a paying client, what might he do to someone who was committed to exposing him as a fake?”

  This had occurred to me but I didn’t agree that Ouspenskaya was the only person who found Richard Holmes inconvenient. “What about Desdemona Darling, sir? She might have wanted to remain in Ouspenskaya’s camp as ardently as he wanted her to stay. If she didn’t have the money to do so while her husband was alive, she does now.”

  “That would depend on two suppositions, Archy.”

  “Did she know that her husband had threatened to cut off Ouspenskaya?” I said.

  “Correct. And did she serve him the wine?”

  “If she didn’t, sir, Lady Cynthia did. And where does that leave us?”

  “Ruminating, which we have no right to do. You’ve met Desdemona. Do you think her capable of such a thing?”

  “She’s loud and a bit vulgar, sir, but a murderer? I think not. However, I thought my friend Ouspenskaya was nothing but a con artist until today.”

  “Watch your step, Archy.”

  “I will, sir.” I opened the door, remembered James Ventura and closed it. Turning to Father, I said, “Mrs. Trelawney told me James Ventura was here this morning. May I know what he wanted?”

  “With all this other business going on I almost forgot to tell you. He wanted you. I told him you would call him. He left a contact number with Mrs. Trelawney.”

  Déjà vu all over again, in the words of Yogi Berra.

  When I left father Mrs. Trelawney told me Connie Garcia had been trying to get me all morning. “No message, Archy, she just left word for you to call her as soon as you got in.”

  I rode up to my glorified rabbit hutch but before I had a chance to call Connie, Joe Anderson made an appearance. “Rumors are flying all over the office, Archy.” Joe looked a bit shopworn after last night’s perturbation.

  “Who’s saying what, Joe?”

  “Maggie, Saul Hastings’s secretary. She says Hastings was sent to the police station first thing this morning to represent Desdemona and Lady Cynthia. Why did they need a lawyer to help them ID the body?”

  “He wasn’t representing them, Joe, not in the legal sense. He went to advise them.”

  “Cut the bull, Archy. There’s something fishy about that guy’s death. Am I right?”

  Quickly calculating the situation, I figured that the police would issue a statement as soon as they had finished interviewing Desdemona and Lady Cynthia, giving the evening editions their headlines as well as supplying television anchormen with their lead stories. Based on that, I gave Joe a preview of the six o’clock news.

  The poor old man looked more upset than had the widow last night. “Who did it, Archy?”

  “For all anyone knows he did himself in, or it was a grotesque accident. Forget it and let the police puzzle it out.”

  “Was it in the wine, Archy? Like in the play?”

  “It was in something Richard Holmes ingested last night. I think that’s all anyone can say right now.”

  “It was no accident, Archy. Poison doesn’t get passed around at a friendly party like pot or coke. The guy was done in,” Joe stated, looking very distressed by the fact.

  “It was a bad night for all of us,” I told him. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest. The mail can wait a day.”

  “Thanks, Archy, but I’ll be okay. The news is worrying my nerves, that’s all.”

  “It has us all a bit jumpy. Sudden death from unnatural causes tends to stimulate our imaginations.”

  “I didn’t imagine that I was standing next to Richard Holmes when the ladies passed out the wine.”

  So that was it. “Who was on his other side, Joe? Do you remember?”

  He shook his head. “Binky, maybe. Or Connie. No— no—it was the beauty they call Fitz.”

  “And did you all take your wine from the same tray?”

  “Sure.”

  “And who served you, Joe?”

  “Lady Cynthia Horowitz, that’s who.”

  SIXTEEN

  BEFORE CALLING CONNIE I dialed Lolly Spindrift’s cell phone number as I had promised him I would and got a busy signal for my troubles. An educated guess told me the police had issued a statement to the press and Lolly was on with his editor, turning a terse press release into a saga.

>   When reporting, Lolly never lied, but he never told the truth either. He was a master of insinuation and innuendo. Our purveyor of all the news that’s barely fit to print would never win a Pulitzer, but that wasn’t his aim. Remaining a fixture on the Palm Beach “A” list, scoring extra dough for society obits, and competing with Phil Meecham for the local beefcake trade were his métiers and he excelled at all three.

  Next I called Connie and got her.

  “Archy, what do you know?”

  If one more person asked me that today I’d jump out the window—if I had a window to jump out of. Has anyone ever jumped out of an air-conditioning vent?

  “Brace yourself, Connie. Richard Holmes’s heart did not cease to function because of his cholesterol count. He was poisoned.”

  I could hear Connie gasp before she cried, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Archy. He knew! He knew!”

  “Take it easy, Connie. Who knew what?”

  “Ouspenskaya, that’s who. He felt something wasn’t kosher when he woke up this morning. He had a dream. That’s what he said. It came to him in a dream.”

  Connie was not the hysterical type but right now she was fast losing claim to that distinction. In contrast, I spoke as slowly as possible, hoping to put the brakes on her babbling. “Tell me what he said and take it one step at a time, starting from the beginning. When did you see Ouspenskaya?”

  Another gasp and Connie exclaimed, “Every extension on my board is blinking at me, Archy. The world is trying to call Lady Cynthia. This is crazy.”

  She was referring to her “telephone,” which consisted of a panel of red and green lights similar to something Mission Control would use to send a man to the moon. “The word must be out,” I told her. “Pay them no mind, Connie, I’m sure Lady Cynthia is not ready to make a statement.”

  “They can all leave messages on the voice mail system,” she answered.

  “Good. Now tell me when you saw Ouspenskaya.”

  “I didn’t see him, Archy. He called me twice.”

  She was revving her engine again. “Connie, take a deep breath, count to ten backwards and pick up from when you got out of bed this morning.”