McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  I waited the fifty-minute hour for a group of about eight souls to emerge, get into their vehicles and depart. Hanna and William spoke to each other for a moment before doing the same. When the coast was clear I got out of the Ford and rang Dr. Gussie’s bell.

  “You?” she said in her raspy voice. Dr. Gussie has a two-pack-a-day habit.

  “Me,” I answered. “How are you?”

  “Alive, last time I checked. What do you want at this hour, Archy?”

  “I know you can’t talk about your patients, Dr. Gussie...”

  “That’s right, I can’t. So where do we go from here?”

  I followed her into her office and I could see by the chair arrangements that she had been conducting a group session. “Listen to the story of my life before you toss me out,” I begged.

  “That’s what I do all day, young man, for a hefty fee. You can’t afford me.”

  “I don’t need your services,” I said, “I’m very well adjusted.”

  “Which means you’ve come to terms with your shortcomings.” She lit a cigarette, unfiltered, and following the doctor’s lead I pulled out my box of English Ovals and joined her. “Those things will kill you,” she cautioned.

  “How old are you, Dr. Gussie?”

  “None of your damn business, young man. Now what are you doing here?”

  Having no choice, and counting on her professional discretion, I filled her in on James Ventura’s fears.

  “Foolish man,” Dr. Gussie said. “He’s got sex on the brain. It happens at his age. Well, he has nothing to worry about. Hanna loves him, but then there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

  Dr. Gussie saw no harm in telling me that Hanna had come to her seeking advice for her (Hanna’s) problem with William. Dr. Gussie invited Hanna to join one of her group sessions with those who had similar problems. “I called William myself,” Dr. Gussie admitted, “and got him to come to one session. He’s a good boy, Archy. His father marrying a girl who was William’s peer was very traumatic for the boy. He rebelled and lashed out at the object of his frustration. Not unusual. Tonight was his third session with us and he’s making progress. You know, he really likes Hanna.”

  “But why didn’t they tell James what they were up to?” I asked.

  “I told them not to,” Dr. Gussie said. “First, because he might want to join the group and that would negate any good the sessions were doing for both Hanna and William. With him listening, they would clam up. Second, because if it didn’t work James Ventura might think there was no hope and give up on either his wife or his son. But William is doing fine.”

  I was so happy to hear this I could have kissed Dr. Gussie. In fact, before I left, I did. She said, “Don’t do that, young man, unless you mean to follow through,” and I think she meant it.

  Feeling good, I decided to call upon Kate Mulligan one more time. Dr. Gussie would shout “masochistic” but I thought of it as putting closure to a low point in my career.

  Kate didn’t seem overly surprised to see me standing in her doorway. “Some guy wrote that love means never having to say you’re sorry,” she wisecracked.

  “He was either a fool, or never in love.” She let me in but didn’t invite me to sit.

  “I’m almost fifty years old, Archy, with one face-lift, two careers and two marriages behind me. The first was to a blackjack dealer in one of the big casinos. A famous film actor played at his table one night and lost his shirt. To compensate, the guy walked off with my husband. After the magician, I met Ouspenskaya at that all-night café I was telling you about. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Oh, but you could have,” I told her.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Archy. I’m not the type that settles down. You live in your lovely home, in this lovely town, with your lovely parents and lovely friends, and you can’t understand why people like me do what we do. To keep the wolf off our backs, mister, that’s why.”

  “Nice people die of gentle starvation,” I told her, half meaning it.

  “Screw you, Archy McNally.”

  “My only regret, Kate, is that Mother will miss you.”

  “Really? My only regret is that I never got to have dinner at the Pelican Club. Does that make us even?”

  My spirits had risen and fallen so many times this day I felt like a Yo-Yo in the hands of an overwrought schoolboy. When I got back to our lovely house (unquote), Mother had retired but I found Father in the den reading Dickens. It was at times like this when I envied the man his ability to withdraw from this time and place into one more to his liking. He removed his glasses when I entered after knocking. “Good evening, Archy. What do you have to report?”

  “We will need a replacement for Kate Mulligan, sir.”

  “I will inform Mrs. Trelawney of that fact.”

  “The Ventura case is closed, sir, to everyone’s satisfaction. Would you like to hear about it?”

  “I don’t think so, Archy. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll retire.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Not crazy about Dickens, I withdrew into an English Oval and a marc. It was still early enough to make a few calls, and I did.

  When I reached James Ventura I asked him if I could talk freely.

  “Sure, Archy. Hanna is back home and watching the tube with William. Imagine that.”

  “I can imagine it,” I said. “I have very good news for you, James. Very good news, but it’s top secret. Do I have your word to keep it strictly between us?”

  When I reached Connie she reported that the police had released Richard’s body and the cremation service would take place tomorrow. “Very private,” Connie told me. “Just Lady Cynthia. And Desdemona is furious with Ouspenskaya. The news is all over town.”

  “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night, Connie?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. The Pelican?”

  “Heavens no,” I protested. “What about the Alcazar Lounge at the Breakers?”

  “What?” she cried. “The Breakers? What have you done, Archy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you don’t buy me an expensive dinner unless you’ve done something you’re feeling very guilty about and want to say you’re sorry by flashing your plastic around the Breakers. What is it, Archy?”

  “Love means never having to say you’re sorry, Connie.”

  “Who said that?”

  “A guy who was either a fool, or never in love.”

  I slept a dreamless sleep and awoke a happier and a wiser man—but then the old mariner didn’t know Consuela Garcia.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ON THURSDAY I VISITED Al Rogoff at his “wagon” and was treated to a Bud straight out of the can to the accompaniment of Vivaldi on the stereo. We sat in Al’s padded captain’s chairs at an oak dining table positioned in a corner of the living room.

  I told him about Ouspenskaya’s operation and he agreed that even if anyone brought charges against the man they would be almost impossible to prove.

  “These guys are the original Teflon kids. The people they dupe are too embarrassed to report them or appear in court to testify against them,” Al explained through a cloud of smoke coming from his Sunday two-buck cigar.

  “He’s getting ready to leave town,” I said. “Are you going to let him go?”

  “No reason to hold him,” Al responded.

  “Which means Ouspenskaya is exonerated from any wrongdoing in the death of Richard Holmes.”

  “We questioned all your fancy friends and came up with nothing,” Al said, rising to get another Bud out of the fridge. In his stocking feet he moved with all the grace of a grizzly. Was his addiction to the ballet wishful thinking? “Ouspenskaya was nowhere near that table when the wine was being poured and no one saw either Lady Cynthia or Desdemona Darling slip anything into one of the glasses. Then we come up against the sa
me old brick wall—how could anyone know which glass Holmes would take? The case is not officially closed but unless we come up with something new, like a confession, it’ll end up on the ‘Death by Misadventure’ shelf and it won’t be alone.”

  And that, I thought, was the end of that.

  The stage was bare but our stage manager had come early and thoughtfully set up folding chairs for the cast and a card table for the director to sit behind, facing his charges. Had Binky found his forte? The venue seemed to give my players a severe case of stage fright. They crossed and uncrossed their legs, opened and closed their scripts and looked at the auditorium wistfully, perhaps imagining what it would be like when all the plush seats were occupied. In short, the full consequences of their rash decision to volunteer for the community theater were upon them—and me.

  The groupings were very similar to when we had met at Lady Cynthia’s last week. Hanna and William sat together, looking comfortable in each other’s company. This gave a boost to my cynical heart. Fitz was up front with Buzz at her side, and why not? In the play they were about to be married. Penny and Vance Tremaine sat together, and why not? They were married. Arnie Turnbolt and Phil Meecham, again, sat side by side. They weren’t married but they had a lot in common—namely their sights set on William and Buzz, respectively.

  Hank Wilson, Ed Rogers and Ron Seymour were now joined by Joe Anderson who, thankfully, had decided not to leave the show. Binky, Connie and Priscilla sat with me at the table. “I want to observe their faces,” Priscilla told me, “like an artist studies a blank canvas.” The only “canvas” she seemed to be observing was Hank Wilson’s.

  Our Creative Director had already announced that she would be a no-show and to add to the first-night jitters our star arrived almost thirty minutes late. She made a grand entrance down the theater’s center aisle, her pearl white muumuu shimmering about her as she moved. That, need I say, was a lot of shimmering. She was carrying what looked like a bottle of booze.

  “Dear ones all,” she unoriginally proclaimed as she mounted the steps to the stage. She kissed first me, then Binky. Connie and Priscilla were spared. “Sorry I’m late but I was searching for this crystal decanter.” She held the bottle up for inspection. “Our first prop, as it’s called. You saw it last in the hands of dear Dick Powell pouring me a sweet liqueur in Broadway Blonde. I’ve taken the liberty of filling it.”

  Given what had happened to her husband this was in the worst possible taste. Also, most of the people she was addressing were not born when Broadway Blonde played their local Bijou and who, besides myself and June Alyson, remembered Dick Powell? But every little gesture has a meaning all its own and Desdemona Darling knew them all. Instead of giving the “prop” to our stage manager, Desdemona carried it to her seat and placed it carefully on the floor beside her. She extracted her script and a plastic cup from her leather satchel and cried, “Let the games begin.”

  Oh, brother!

  I read the lead-ins and the actors read their parts. These folks, who couldn’t keep their mouths shut in church, became tongue-tied stutterers. I didn’t have to worry about Arnie Turnbolt “doing” Peter Lorre. Poor Arnie could only sound like himself and, as the nutty doctor, that was just fine.

  In contrast, Desdemona was superb and the more she sampled the “prop” the better she became. The velvet voice of her screen years was also evident as she recited her lines, drawing smiles of pleasure from the cast and crew. The Broadway blonde of a bygone era was still a pro.

  We broke after the first act and people got up to stretch, giggle embarrassingly and, I think, regret that they didn’t think to bring along anything stronger than the designer water in plastic liter bottles some toted. I hoped Desdemona had not set a precedent.

  Priscilla ran off to observe Hank at close range. Desdemona, I noticed, alighted next to Joe Anderson and the two seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

  Binky, Connie and I pow-wowed at the table. “Your job,” I said to Binky, “will be to fill the prop decanter with grapefruit juice as soon as you can get your hands on it.”

  “How do I get my hands on it?” Binky wanted to know.

  “When it’s empty, she’ll have no further use for it,” Connie answered.

  Just when I was beginning to think I could pull the whole thing together and present good amateur theater, Joe Anderson fell out of his chair, Desdemona screamed and the crystal decanter hit the floor and shattered.

  Oy vey!

  Al Rogoff and I have several places where we rendezvous to converse, and often commiserate, in private. One of them is the parking lot of the Publix supermarket on Sunset Avenue. This Friday afternoon we chose, by prearrangement, the outdoor juice bar in Lake Worth. I picked up a large pineapple juice and Al opted for papaya. Were Desdemona with us, would she have demanded a rum chaser?

  We carried our drinks back to the Miata. I don’t like sitting in police cars in public places. It invites rubbernecking.

  “One thing I gotta say about your smart-ass friends, Archy. They’re consistent.” Al began chomping on a cigar butt to go with the papaya.

  “Poison,” I mourned.

  “The same stuff that did in Holmes.”

  “How did it get in Joe Anderson’s stomach? Tell me that, Al.”

  “The same way it got into Holmes’s glass—osmosis. Look, Archy, the actress says Joe was drinking water from a paper cup he got from the cooler backstage. When his cup was empty she filled it with wine so they could have a drink to the good old days, was the way she put it. And that’s it. Joe Anderson is history. The wine, as you know, was mopped up as soon as you all vacated the theater.”

  Vacated? If the theater was on fire they couldn’t have dispersed any quicker—with Priscilla yelling “Jinx, jinx, jinx” all the way to her car.

  “The wine was clean, Al,” I said. “We all watched Desdemona consume at least half the decanter before we broke after the first act. So why isn’t she dead?”

  “Funny thing, Archy. That’s what she keeps saying. She’s convinced someone is out to get her but they keep missing by a few feet.”

  “I never came up against anything like this,” I told my policeman confidant. “Two men poisoned in front of a room full of people and no one knows how it was done.”

  “I have to tell you something, Archy. Several people we questioned said that Binky Watrous bragged that he would get Joe Anderson’s job when Joe checked Out. Binky was also present when Holmes got his. The thinking is that maybe Binky got it right the second time.”

  The pineapple juice actually soured in my belly. “Al, you can’t honestly believe that Binky...”

  “I can’t. But my people aren’t writing it off. Everyone present both times had opportunity—now we discover one of them had opportunity and motive. That’s two strikes against Binky Watrous.”

  It was close to five when I returned to my office. The pile of mail on my desk reminded me of Joe’s last words to me in the McNally Building. “I left your mail on your desk, Archy.” And I still hadn’t gotten around to opening an envelope. I would miss Joe, but he was gone. Binky was very much with us and I was going to make damn sure he stayed with us. But how?

  The envelope on top of the pile caught my eye. It was addressed in large printed letters and postmarked from St. Louis, MO. An advertising gimmick, I surmised, and almost tossed it in the wastebasket. Picking it up, I opened it instead.

  It was a photograph from an old magazine, yellow with age, but I recognized Desdemona Darling at a glance. The caption read, DESDEMONA DARLING BEING PRESENTED WITH THE GOLD AND ONYX RING MADE ESPECIALLY FOR HER HIT FILM, MATA HARI HARRIGAN, BY STUDIO BOSS MARVIN MASON.

  Scribbled in the photo’s white border were the letters KIRK.

  DeeDee’s blackmailer was trying to tell me something. But how did he know who I was or how to reach me? How did the wine get in Richard Holmes’s glass and Joe Anderson’s stomach? And if Serge Ouspenskaya had left town, who was manipulating the icy fingers that once ag
ain began to crawl up my spine?

  I felt so light-headed I had to sit for fear of fainting and yrs. truly is not the fainting kind. Mata Hari Harrigan? It never played the MoMA but if there was one person who knew more about old movies than Archy McNally, it was Arnold Turnbolt. I reached for the phone.

  “Mata Hari Harrigan,” Arnie shouted. “Where did you dig that one up?”

  “Do you know anything about it, Arnie?”

  “It’s pure camp, Archy. It was made just before World War Two and Desdemona plays guess what? A spy. The gimmick is her ring, made especially for her by the FBI after they recruit her. Can you believe it, Archy? It had a big onyx stone that she reverses on her finger and with a little pressure the stone opens like a door to release a sleeping potion into the glasses of unsuspecting...” He paused for so long I thought our connection had been broken. “Good God, Archy! Good God! Do you think...”

  “Not a word, Arnie. You hear me? Don’t breathe a word of this.”

  “But, Archy...”

  “Not a word or I’ll tear up your autographed photo of Vera Hruba Ralston in her ice skates.”

  I dialed Connie. “Just one question. Is Desdemona Darling still with Madame C?”

  “She is. Madame is trying to talk her into staying another night. She’s in a bad way, Archy.”

  Connie didn’t say who was in a bad way—Lady Cynthia or Desdemona—and I couldn’t hang on long enough to ask. The time for cogitating was over. I had to act—and fast.

  I called the palace and got Al just checking in from his tour. “How much would you give to learn who killed Richard Holmes and Joe Anderson?” I asked the sergeant.

  “How much you asking, pal?”

  “Assistance in breaking and entering.”

  “What?”

  “Meet me at the Publix ASAP, Al, and I’ll explain everything. Promise.”

  We left Al’s car in the Publix lot and drove to Via Del Lago in the Miata with the top up. To keep Al’s hands clean and his job secure, it was agreed that he would stay in the car and instruct me on how to get into the house. If anyone came down the street Al would duck out of sight. Given the size of a Miata and the size of Al Rogoff, this was easier said than done.