McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  I wanted to tell DeeDee that I would mix my own drink but that would be pushing the envelope one push too far. I put together an outfit that suggested authority with a hint of mystery. Black pants with pleated front. White silk turtleneck. Madras jacket. Designer sneakers. In lieu of a hat I placed a pair of dark glasses atop my dome and was set to take over the reins of the community theater, a company consisting of one unnatural death and a dozen suspects.

  Father was assembling the paraphernalia for the evening cocktail hour when I stopped by the den on my way out. Mother had not yet arrived, which was just as well, as I didn’t want to report my meeting with James Ventura in her presence. When I finished my summation Father nodded pensively but I didn’t know if that was because of Ventura’s plight or the dark glasses nesting in my hair. The cheaters had his eyebrows and eyeballs bobbing up and down in perfect sync. Amazing.

  “I thought as much,” Father said, “when I spoke to him. What do men who marry children expect, Archy?”

  “A little more lead in their pencil at best and fidelity at the very least,” I answered honestly.

  “Don’t be vulgar, Archy.”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s just a manner of speaking.”

  When I told him my plans for the evening he asked if I had learned anything more about the demise of Richard Holmes. “Nothing, sir, but I’m hoping his wife will shed more light on the subject. You’ve heard about the accident theory?”

  “Hastings told me. How do you think it will play?”

  “Like a snowball in hell, but I don’t know how the poison got in his glass and why he chose that particular glass when the tray was presented to him. Al Rogoff thinks the accident theory might be the only explanation.”

  Father had finished lining up the vodka, vermouth, olive jar, liquid measuring glass and stirrer. Now he proceeded to place ice cubes in the silver pitcher, one at a time. Was a precise number of ice cubes as vital to his ritual as the ratio of vodka to vermouth? I believed it was.

  “Hastings said Lady Cynthia told the police she believed she had placed four or five glasses on her tray. When she got to Richard Holmes, there was only one glass left. In other words, Archy, he had no choice.”

  And that made the cheese more binding. “So the point is not why did Holmes take that glass, but why didn’t anyone else? The more we learn about the distribution of the wine the more of an enigma the case becomes.”

  “You thought of the possibility that if it is indeed murder, the intended victim might not have been Richard Holmes,” father offered.

  “I did, and I discussed it with Al Rogoff. We’re still left with the two essentials. How did the poison get in the glass and how did the murderer expect to match the glass with the victim? It’s a conundrum, sir.”

  “Are you working on the case with Al Rogoff, Archy?” Father asked.

  “Unofficially, as usual. Thanks to my position with the community theater I’ll be tongue-and-groove with all the suspects for the next month, at least. I intend to keep my eyes and ears open, sir.”

  “And watch your back, Archy. Poison is a coward’s weapon.”

  “And a woman’s weapon,” I added with a glance at my watch. Mickey’s hands were telling me I would be late if I didn’t leave immediately. “I’m off to the wars, sir.”

  “One thing more, Archy,” Father said. “The police will question everyone who was at the party that night. Should they require a lawyer to be present at the interrogation, we can be of service.”

  Remarkable man, Prescott McNally. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  “Something else, Archy,” he suddenly remembered.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I prefer the silk berets. Even the one in puce.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  I met Mother coming downstairs and paused long enough to give her a kiss. “Why, Archy,” she exclaimed, “you look just like a movie star.”

  “Bless you, Mother. Bless you.”

  TWENTY

  JORGE, IMPECCABLE IN HIS black trousers with their razor-sharp crease and white shirt with its starched collar, led me to La Signora, who received me in the great room. Wanting a few dozen partygoers, the room looked cavernous but served to render its sole occupant less imposing than her bulk otherwise demanded and pathetically vulnerable, if not demure. It was a scene a director of film noir might create to elicit pathos for his character. I’m sure this did not escape Desdemona Darling’s notice.

  For our meeting she chose one of her formal muumuus in black with a white satin border around the collar and cuffs. “My condolences,” I said when I entered. She was seated in a club chair and opened her arms to me as I approached. I bent to kiss her cheek and became engulfed in a bear hug. Theater people become kissing cousins in less time than it takes them to become mortal enemies—which is a very short time, indeed.

  “Oh, Archy,” she cried, “you don’t know what I’ve been through. I was just coming to terms with the fact that Richard was dead when the police told me how he died. Can you believe it? Poison, just like in the play.” She touched her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief, careful not to disturb the dusting of face powder that covered her flawless complexion.

  I assumed she refrained from complimenting my outfit and the dark glasses affixed to the top of my head because she was accustomed to being surrounded by movie stars. “I know how you feel,” I said. “We’re all in a state of shock. Are you sure you want to go on with the play? No one, including Lady Cynthia, will fault you if you back out.”

  “I’m sure, Archy,” she began, then as if suddenly remembering her manners she exclaimed with great fanfare, “Help yourself to a drink. All Jorge can mix is a tequila daiquiri, which tastes even worse than it sounds.”

  A credenza held the necessary bottles, mixers, ice bucket and glasses. “Can I freshen yours?” I asked, indicating the glass that sat on what I believe is called a TV table—a tray on a folding stand—within arm’s reach of the actress.

  “Just add some vodka,” she said, “it’s gone a bit watery.”

  If it started out as vodka over ice it was going to become vodka over vodka. I put together a light vodka and tonic for myself and replenished Desdemona’s drink. “Pull over a chair so we can talk without shouting,” Desdemona ordered. “Whoever furnished this room didn’t have intimate conversations in mind.”

  Taking her drink from me she continued, “I’ll go on with the play. I’m a child of the big studio days in Hollywood where we contract players fought each other for every scrap of publicity. There are a few I can mention who were jealous of the attention Lana got when her daughter killed poor Johnny. I’m ashamed to say it, but I can’t resist being the centerpiece of this drama, on and off the stage. It’s in all the L.A. papers and it’s on the television news every night. The Golden Girl,” she said with reverence, “they still call me that, Archy. The Golden Girl.”

  She seemed to have forgotten the lesson of Fatty Arbuckle but then ars longa, vita brevis. The memory of her golden days as the Golden Girl, plus the booze to be sure, plunged Desdemona Darling into a nostalgic reverie. “I had my pick of men, Archy, from Aherne to Zanuck and all the stops between. Even royalty paid their respects but we went undercover because the prince was married. Ty Power was our beard. Dear Ty. He needed a few beards of his own as I recall.” She couldn’t resist the risqué innuendo even when it was apropos of nothing under discussion.

  “Men like Cynthia’s Buzz were a dime a dozen back then.” Once started there didn’t seem any way to stop her. “You know Buzz is making time with that Fitz girl and why the hell not? Cynthia knows but she keeps her mouth shut because a bird in the hand, as they say. But I could take him away from both those ladies, just like that,” she assured me with a perfectly executed snap of her crimson-tipped fingers for emphasis.

  “I told Buzz that my Hollywood connections could get him past the studio guard and into makeup for a screen test.” She laughed with great gusto. “He wanted to know if I
would rehearse with him on the side. You know, a little private tutoring. I’m thinking about it.” More laughter.

  I had dragged over a matching club chair—it wasn’t easy—and positioned it so that the portable table was between us. This being more or less of a condolence call I skipped any toast before sampling my drink. Desdemona didn’t seem to notice as she ranted on. With all the rehearsing that was going on in private, I wondered if I wouldn’t be declared redundant before I heard one of my actors recite a line. Didn’t these old biddies ever give up? No, they did not. That’s why they make the news lesser mortals read about—and dream about.

  “But now that Richard is gone I think I’ll let Cynthia and Fitz do battle over Buzz,” she pledged. “I don’t want it to look like Richard’s death was more convenient than tragic.”

  DeeDee’s having finally brought up the subject of her husband’s “accident,” I followed up with, “What exactly did the police tell you?”

  “They said Richard was poisoned.” Again a snap of the fingers to drive home the point as she reiterated, “Just like that, they said it. Must have been in the wine because that’s the last thing he drank before he keeled over. You know it’s always the spouse they suspect in cases like this and while they didn’t come right out and accuse me, they grilled me for over an hour. It wasn’t until Cynthia told them that she served Richard the wine that they let up on me.”

  “Did they interrogate Lady Cynthia?”

  “Only until that lawyer your father sent over showed up. Then they eased off on both of us. I owe you for that, Archy.”

  “It was my father’s doing, DeeDee, and I’ll pass on your gratitude. What happened next?”

  “They told us to stay in touch as if we would beat it as soon as they released us. Beat it to where? Brazil? The police see too many movies, Archy.”

  “You described everything that took place from the time Lady Cynthia made her presentation until the wine was distributed?”

  Desdemona sipped her vodka before assuring me that she had. “Now they’re going to question everyone who was present to... to...”

  “Corroborate your story,” I finished for her.

  “That’s it. Corroborate. You were there, Archy, and so was everyone else. How could we lie about what happened?”

  “You couldn’t, and we’ll all back your story. Are you and Lady Cynthia sticking with the accident theory?”

  “Do you have a better solution?”

  I didn’t but I resented people asking. Jorge appeared with two table stands. Silently unfolding them he placed one before each of us before scurrying out only to reappear a moment later with a tray bearing the contents of the horn of plenty. This he rested on the stand before Desdemona. Running out again, he returned with a similar tray for me.

  Desdemona’s idea of a nosh was what many would call a banquet. Swedish meatballs; mini-sandwiches stacked to form an edible pyramid; prosciutto, sliced paper thin, wrapped around sesame breadsticks; pickled corn; lox on mini-bagels; hard-boiled eggs, quartered— and a partridge in a pear tree. If her husband’s cholesterol count was larger than his bank balance, hers must take on the proportions of the national debt.

  “No fuss, Archy,” she nudged verbally, “just pick at what you want.”

  Graze would be a more appropriate way of putting it. A fork and small plate were also provided and following Desdemona’s lead I fixed myself a smorgasbord.

  “You know,” she said, nibbling daintily, “that Mr. Ouspenskaya knew what we would encounter at the police station. He called Cynthia to warn us and then tried to get me here, but we were already on our way to the police station.”

  “Did Jorge tell you Ouspenskaya called here after he tried to get Lady Cynthia?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He wrote it down like he does all the calls. It was a few minutes after nine that morning. Isn’t it amazing, Archy?”

  Grazing, I didn’t answer immediately, which prompted Desdemona to get in, “You think he’s a fake, don’t you?”

  Picking up a prosciutto-wrapped breadstick I gave my standard response to the Ouspenskaya query. “I’m an agnostic in things spiritual. Only if there was no humanly possible way he could have gotten that information am I ready to believe it was whispered to him in a dream.”

  “But how could he possibly know?” she contested.

  “Someone at the medical examiner’s or the police station could have told him,” I explained.

  “But that’s impossible,” she persisted.

  “Sorry, DeeDee, it’s improbable, but not impossible. There’s the rub.”

  This contentious conversation did not arrest her appetite. “I know Richard hired you to investigate Mr. Ouspenskaya,” she admitted.

  “I know you do, DeeDee. It’s no longer a secret.”

  “And what did you discover?” she challenged.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I lost my client before I had a chance to do my job.”

  “You would have come up empty-handed if you had gone on, Archy. Believe me, he’s for real. I’ve consulted a lot of so-called psychics in my time and none of them could do what Mr. Ouspenskaya has already proven he can do.”

  If we were letting it all hang out I saw nothing wrong in confessing, “Your husband told me why you consulted psychics, DeeDee.”

  She flushed ever so slightly but looked me right in the eye when she answered, “I thought so. Richard had a big mouth.”

  I put my plate down, resisting the temptation to help myself to more. “It’s now none of my business and your secret is safe with me. What worries me is that your husband told Ouspenskaya he would no longer finance your consultations. The man was not sorry to see Richard drop dead. The police will have to know this, DeeDee.”

  “Are you saying I wasn’t sorry to see Richard die for the same reason?” she shot back.

  “I’m not the police and I have no right to question you or make accusations. I’m just trying to caution you of what may lie ahead.”

  She held out her glass and asked me to freshen it once again. “Better put some ice in it this time,” she stated.

  I did as requested and helped myself while in the process. When I served her libation she told me, “Mr. Ouspenskaya is advising me in this matter.”

  That riled me enough to snap at her, “If he’s so great how come he hasn’t found what you’ve been searching for all these years?”

  It took her so long to respond I thought she had lapsed into either a trance or an alcoholic stupor. Her famous blue eyes seemed to be focused on something visible only to her. Was I going to be witness to a metaphysical epiphany or a vodka-induced blackout?

  When she finally blinked, a rapturous smile appeared on her this and she said with perfect lucidity, “Oh, but he did find it.”

  With that bombshell, Desdemona Darling closed her eyes, rested her chin on her satiny collar, and began to snore rhapsodically.

  The cast members of Arsenic and Old Lace weren’t any more animated than the show’s star I had just left to the ministrations of Jorge. Richard Holmes’s death had knocked the P & V out of them and replaced it with apathy bordering on fear. Only Connie chose to comment on my dashing appearance. “I prefer the silk berets,” she told me, “even the one in puce.” It appeared that everyone was out of step except Mother and me. In a fit of pique I removed the glasses from the top of my head and placed them in my jacket pocket. Ars gratia artis was not to be the maxim of our community theater.

  I noted that we were missing two members, Priscilla Pettibone and Joe Anderson. Connie reported that Jasmine, Priscilla’s mother, was down with the flu and unable to fill in for Priscilla at the Pelican. As makeup consultant Priscilla’s presence this evening or at rehearsals was not necessary. Hank Wilson didn’t look as if he would agree.

  Binky informed us that Joe Anderson was reconsidering participating in the show. That was a low blow because Joe was perfect for the role and, besides Desdemona, the only cast member with acting experience. “He thinks the
show is jinxed,” Binky whispered in my ear.

  There was that word again. “Keep that to yourself, Binky. It’s the stage manager’s job to boost morale, not debase it.” Joe seemed to be more upset over Holmes’s death than the widow. I would have to have a word with him and see if I couldn’t talk him into persevering.

  I must say I was proud of the way Binky was handling his duties. He gave out the scripts, verifying everyone’s phone number as he did so and even adding their cell phone numbers to his big black book. He had had business cards printed with his name, title and contact numbers. These he had placed in each script. If nothing else, the cast and crew would be in constant communication.

  We were gathered in Lady Cynthia’s drawing room where folding chairs had been set up along with a podium. I didn’t think for a moment that Lady C had rented the chairs from a funeral parlor, however, their occupants looked more like professional mourners than amateur actors about to put on a comedy. Our Creative Director was at the podium, clad in one of those sleeveless printed shifts that were all the rage this season. Her Capezio slippers were testimony to her age if not the current fashion, but why let go of a good thing?

  Lady C was also sporting her famous tennis bracelet, which was as touted in Palm Beach as Mrs. McLean’s Hope Diamond had once been in Washington. Buzz was at her side, more to keep him from sitting next to Fitz than for any expedient purpose. Neither drinks nor food were in the offering as befits a business meeting. Lady Cynthia was a tough broad, as Al Rogoff would say.

  Unable to avoid the issue, Lady Cynthia began by discussing the “accident” that had claimed the husband of Desdemona Darling. “Desdemona will not abandon us and I trust her brave resolution will encourage one and all to emulate Desdemona’s devotion to the cause of community theater.” Really! They had all signed on for a lark and right now they looked dedicated to nothing more than keeping themselves alive.

  As she spoke I canvassed the room. Things I would have paid scant attention to before Holmes’s death and my newfound interest in Hanna Ventura suddenly became paramount. I was a psychiatrist in search of hidden meanings, all of them with a sinister bent.