McNally's Folly
Page 23
“I hope you’re sticking with the show,” I lectured Priscilla, trying to unstick my fingers from the mozzarella wrap.
“I’m still thinking about it,” she said. “Did Hank ask for me?”
“As a matter of fact, he did not. Out of sight, out of mind, young lady, so you had better make your intentions known,” I pressed on.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Mr. Director.” With that, Priscilla picked up her tray and departed.
“For every adage,” Mr. Pettibone stated thoughtfully, “there is one to countermand it. Look before you leap,” he tossed at me.
“He who hesitates is lost,” I returned the volley.
“Seek and you shall find.”
“All things come to he who waits.”
“For every man there’s a woman,” Binky proclaimed.
Mr. Pettibone and I gave this some thought but could come up with nothing to douse Binky’s hopes. “You win, Binky, but I wouldn’t count on it. Now drink up so Mr. Pettibone can put the Pelican and his family to bed. And do me a favor, please.”
“Sure, Archy. What is it?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open around Temporarily Yours.”
“You can count on me...” Binky paused in midsentence and then vociferated, “That’s what Kyle said, Archy. Now I remember.”
“What did he say, Binky?”
“When he sent me to the animal hospital he told me to keep my eyes and ears open and report anything of interest about the operation and the personnel because it would be helpful to the agency to better service them.”
Interesting?
Alone, alone, all all alone in my crow’s nest. I undressed, washed, brushed and donned my silk dressing gown. Begging Noel Coward’s pardon, I dispensed with the ascot. Then I poured myself a marc which had no claim to pretention to banish the memory of Mr. Pettibone’s brandy, and in lieu of music I lit an English Oval to soothe my savage breast. Settled, I entered my newly formulated hypotheses in my journal and ruminated upon their validity.
If Ouspenskaya wasn’t connected with Temporarily Yours, I would pop the question to Connie Garcia in May. (And May it never happen.) I doubted if all the agency’s employees worked for Ouspenskaya. The operation must consist of patsies, like Binky, and paid informers.
And which was Kate Mulligan? Should I drop a few choice items into Kate’s pretty ear when next we cohabitated to see how long it took for them to be recycled into an Ouspenskaya radio broadcast? The thought aroused more than my interest. Distrust an aphrodisiac? I banished the thought before it led me astray.
Desdemona Darling and her can of film. Did she have it and did it and/or Ouspenskaya have anything to do with Holmes’s death? I had given Al Rogoff all the information I had relating to Desdemona’s search for her lost work of art and Ouspenskaya’s involvement with it, so let the police ruminate over that one. I had enough on my plate.
Before I turned out the light I turned my thoughts to Hanna and William Ventura. They could very well be the subject of the indecent romance Lolly Spindrift didn’t want to discuss. Lolly had said his information was secondhand and his source could have been someone who caught the two in a compromising situation as I had in Lady C’s parking lot. I thought Hanna protested too much about William’s intolerable behavior from the day I met her.
Mother and stepson. It wasn’t unprecedented. Once upon a time a very talented Hollywood director married an Academy Award-winning actress half his age. Not long after, she divorced him to marry his son by a previous marriage. The fact that Hanna and William lacked originality did not make my job any easier, and so be it. When I assumed the leadership of Discreet Inquiries Father did not promise me a rose garden.
My folly in agreeing to direct for the community theater had begun with Desdemona Darling’s party. Then, I recited a line from Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner” to describe my grand entrance. Now, believing I was nearing the end of my voyage, I crawled into bed knowing the journey, like the old mariner’s, would render me A sadder and a wiser man.
TWENTY-TWO
I WAS UP EARLY, but not early enough to breakfast with father, who had already left for the office when Ursi prepared my coddled eggs on buttered whole wheat toast and sausages with chunks of chilled diced pineapples. When I declined a freshly baked blueberry muffin (Leroy’s mozzarella stick lingered in more places than my memory) Ursi asked me if I was off my feed.
“No, Ursi, just trying to keep in sparring form. Like Don Quixote I’m off to do battle with a windmill.”
“I never saw a windmill in Palm Beach,” Ursi observed.
“It’s just a figure of speech, compliments of Mr. Cervantes.”
“Cervantes? I don’t know him, Archy.”
“I would venture to say, Ursi, few in Palm Beach know him either. But you do know most of the families that comprise the upper echelons of our island.”
“I know the people they employ,” Ursi corrected me.
“And do you know that Kate Mulligan works for an agency called Temporarily Yours?”
“Yes, I do, Archy. She’s mentioned it.”
Finishing my second cup of coffee, I implored our Ursi, “Do me a favor, please, and call around to your friends and see if you can learn how many other households in town are using temp help from that agency.” Given an excuse to trade gossip put a smile on our Ursi’s face. “And be discreet,” I cautioned unnecessarily.
On several other occasions I have used Ursi’s below-stairs connections to my advantage. By implication rather than a direct order I knew my request had instantly alerted our loyal housekeeper to keep her thoughts to herself when near our part-time gardener.
I paid a quick visit to Mother in her greenhouse because I was eager to drive off in my Miata before the yellow VW pulled into our driveway. I wanted to be armed with as much information about Temporarily Yours as I could ferret out before my next meeting with Kate Mulligan.
I met Jamie in the driveway where he was replenishing Hobo’s water supply. “The next time you speak to Max, the Ventura gardener, would you ask him how long the girl called Margaret has been working for the family and if he knows where she came from?”
“Uh-huh,” Jamie agreed. Hobo barked.
“Also, was Margaret there when Mrs. Ventura’s diamond clip was lost and found.”
“Uh-huh,” Jamie agreed. Hobo barked.
“And when you speak to Roland over at the Tremaines, ask him the same thing. Have they employed any temporary help lately, and if so, who supplied them.”
“Uh-huh,” Jamie agreed. Hobo barked.
Employing domestic engineers to thwart Serge Ouspenskaya was tantamount to fighting fire with fire.
When I got to my office the first thing I did was call Connie.
“Lady Cynthia’s residence. Connie Garcia speaking.”
“Archy McNally speaking,” I responded.
“Archy? Lady C just asked me to call you. She heard from the Lake Worth Playhouse this morning. They’ve given us an opening date and confirmed a two-week run.”
Great. Just what I didn’t want to hear. Everything was suddenly happening at once. Another indication that my cases were coming to fruition. That first big break always came on like a snowball rolling down a mountain, gathering bulk and momentum on the descent. From experience I knew that I had to keep my eyes on the approaching avalanche if I didn’t want it to land squarely on my head.
“What’s the date, Connie?”
She gave it to me and a glance at my calendar told me that according to my schedule rehearsals would begin on Thursday. Today was Wednesday. I had one more day to wrap up both “Serge the Seer” and the Ventura cases before I started emulating Frank Capra. The joy of unmasking Ouspenskaya was tempered with the sorrow of what I might have to report to James Ventura. And would I be missing two cast members when that ship hit the sand? Make that three cast members if I couldn’t talk Joe Anderson out of leaving us in the lurch. The avalanche was fast approaching.
&n
bsp; “We have permission to rehearse in the Stonzek Studio where our play will be presented. It seats about seventy but Madame is now trying to get the main theater for our showcase. She thinks Desdemona’s name and the publicity over Richard Holmes’s death will draw an audience from Miami to New York. What do you think, Archy?”
I think Lady Cynthia Horowitz has all the tact of a bloodhound on the scent. “She’s right but she won’t get the main house. We’re in the height of the season and I’m sure it’s been booked solid for months. The only reason we have the studio is because they’re kind enough to block out a few weeks for the community theater every year.”
And it was just as well that we were confined to the small house. Between Desdemona’s size, the incompetence of the cast and my inept direction, the fewer people who saw our Arsenic and Old Lace, the more likely the chances of the community theater surviving the debacle. Sorry, Buzz—you had better reclaim your berth on Phil Meecham’s yacht.
“Madame has been known to stop the rain before her Fourth of July bash so don’t count her out,” Connie forewarned. “I’ll tell Binky to start contacting the cast to give them the time and place. According to your schedule you want everyone present the first evening for a cold reading. Is seven o’clock okay, Archy?”
“Fine, but right now I’d like to know if you remember when Mrs. Marsden took off to see her daughter.”
“Why, Archy?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
That got a giggle. “I’ll check my diary. Hold on.” Connie’s diary was not a lovely book of soft Moroccan leather but a hard-nosed computer that sucked in floppies and spewed out information. If the suffragette movement failed to herald the end of civilization the computer would. “Here it is,” she announced, giving me the date.
“Now tell me, Connie, was this before or after Madame’s ‘who-done-it?’ party?”
“I know Mrs. Marsden was here when we began preparation for the party but she left before the event.”
“How long before?” I asked.
“Are you writing a book, Archy?”
“No, I’m closing one. How long before the party?”
“A week,” Connie said. “Yes, a week before. I remember Madame was upset and told her she couldn’t go until we had a replacement. That’s when Mrs. Marsden came up with Annie.”
“Annie is from Temporarily Yours, the temp agency Binky is with. Binky ran into Annie at the agency by chance yesterday,” I told Connie. “Now I know Annie was in residence when it was decided to bring in a psychic to jazz up the party.”
“I assume all this has a point,” Connie complained.
“Oh, it does. That mysterious phone call you got from Ouspenskaya, offering his services, was compliments of Annie.”
“What?” Connie cried.
I was rounding third base but not yet home to score the winning run. That would take another interrogation. “I think so, Connie, but I’m not positive, so not a word to Madame or anyone else for the time being.” Feeling expansive, I said, “And, Connie, you gave me the lead on this one when you told me about the Palm Beach law of supply and demand. Remember? Madame’s spies dish her the dirt and she keeps them on her ‘A’ party list. Ouspenskaya’s spirits are flesh and blood.”
“You know, Archy,” Connie reflected, “now that I think of it, every time I went into the kitchen for my coffee break Annie always joined me for a cuppa and a bit of gossip. Me and my big mouth.”
If hindsight were foresight I’d be out of business. “You never told me this, Connie.”
“Why should I? It was just girl talk. Nothing to interest you.”
“On the contrary, Consuela. Girl talk is the only thing that interests me. I hope we can get together over the weekend.”
“He who only hopes is hopeless, Archibald.”
If there was a retort to that one it was not on the tip of my tongue.
“By the by, Archy,” Connie went on, “the police are stopping by today to question me and Buzz and Annie. I’m very nervous.”
“Just tell them what you saw,” I advised. “And, Connie, if you can, try to learn what Annie has to tell them.”
Father was seated at his desk reading the Wall Street Journal, a periodical I eschew in favor of the financial counseling of Simon Pettibone. Mr. Pettibone keeps a “phantom” portfolio of stocks and bonds, closely watched by Pelican Club members. Beginning with a modest investment of ten thousand dollars, Mr. Pettibone’s “investments” were now worth one million dollars. It was rumored that not all of Mr. Pettibone’s portfolio was wishful thinking.
“Come in, Archy,” Father invited.
“Good morning, sir. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”
Raising one eyebrow, Father answered, “Me? I trust it has nothing to do with the Ventura case. I’m not up on local gossip, be it PBF or PBR.”
The initials stood for Palm Beach Fact and Palm Beach Rumor, an abbreviation I coined some years back that has since become assimilated into our local jargon. Father’s use of the idiom, so contrary to his character, always amused me. “What I want to know, if you can remember, pertains to the time you asked Mrs. Trelawney to arrange a gardener to tend to Mother’s plants in her absence.”
“Certainly. She called the agency who sometimes supplies temporary help for the office. They sent us Kate Mulligan, with whom mother is very pleased.”
“Did you at any time talk to anyone at the agency or was Mrs. Trelawney the sole contact?”
“What is all this about, Archy?”
“Indulge me, sir. There is a reason for my asking.”
Nodding, Father stroked his mustache as he thought back. “Yes,” he answered. “I did speak to someone there. I remember telling you so.”
“A Ms. Duhane, perhaps?”
“I don’t recall the name but I do recall that I thought it very efficient of them at the time. You see, they wanted to speak to me directly so that they could get a better idea of exactly what I was looking for in the way of assistance. The personal touch, I believe it’s called. This gave me the opportunity to tell them about Mother, her garden and our home. The result was the charming Kate Mulligan.”
“And did you tell this person about your proposed cruise?”
“I did,” Father said, beginning, I believe, to ascertain where all this was leading. “As a matter of fact I had just picked up the brochures from the travel agent and I might have mentioned the choices of cruise lines out of Fort Lauderdale.”
“I’m sure you did, sir. And the end result, besides Kate Mulligan, was that you told Serge Ouspenskaya everything he regurgitated for my benefit the night of the séance at the Tremaines.”
Father was silent for some time, showing his chagrin by tugging on his mustache. Prescott McNally does not like to be made a fool. Then he reflected, “The help supplied by the agency report to him everything they learn from those they are sent to assist.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Does he own the agency, Archy?”
“That I don’t know. But I believe you spoke to a Ms. Duhane, who is the agency’s receptionist and perhaps a principal of the firm. If she passed the information you gave her on to Ouspenskaya, we can assume he recruits his creatures with the full knowledge of Temporarily Yours.”
I proceeded to outline for Father everything I now knew about Ouspenskaya’s operation, naming Annie, and detailing my suspicions of the woman working for the Venturas.
“And Kate Mulligan is a spy in our home?” Father concluded from my account.
“I don’t know that, sir. Binky Watrous works for Temporarily Yours and he is certainly not a mole for Ouspenskaya. Judging from some of the intimate details that come Ouspenskaya’s way, I think the charlatan has a roster of paid spies besides picking up any and all information he can gather from the unsuspecting employees. In the meantime I recommend being on guard around our Kate Mulligan.”
“To be sure,” Father said. “However, Mother...”
“No, she isn’t. And until we know more we will keep this from her, too. I don’t like this one bit, Archy. Mother is very fond of Kate Mulligan.”
So am I, but I didn’t think Father wanted to hear that.
“What do you intend to do now, Archy?”
“I’ve got a few feelers out, which should tell me how many more informers Ouspenskaya has planted about and after that I’m going to try to learn the relationship between the man and the agency. When I’m done I’m going to tell Ouspenskaya’s fan club to get themselves a new idol. The party is over.”
“A good piece of work, Archy,” the sire extolled in a fit of largesse. This, as always, was as much praise as Archy would ever get from Prescott McNally. But who’s complaining?
I encountered Joe Anderson outside Father’s office, pushing his mail cart and looking a bit sheepish at the sight of me. “I left your mail on your desk, Archy,” he said, moving on.
“Just a moment, Joe,” I called. “What’s this I hear about your leaving the show?”
He paused and turned to me. “I don’t know as I want to do it,” he said.
“May I ask why?”
“You may, but I don’t have to tell you.”
That was true. “Does the death of Richard Holmes have anything to do with your decision?”
“I’ll admit it shook me up.”
“They say it was an accident,” I maintained.
“Really? So why did the police contact me to set up an interview?”
The police were certainly on top of things. I would have to call Al Rogoff to learn the results of the interrogations.
“If you had been at the meeting the other night you would know that the police are going to question everyone present at the time of Holmes’s death. It’s strictly routine.”
“And are you going along with the accident theory, Archy?”
People kept asking me that question because it was the question everyone in Palm Beach was asking each other. No, I didn’t think it was an accident but, as DeeDee had said before so rudely dozing off, “Do you have a better solution?” No, I did not.