McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  I had forgotten all about the missing Robert. “Is he Robert Wright?”

  “No, he’s Robert Silvester, but he is my Mr. Right. Robert is my editor and was fresh out of college when they assigned him to my first book. You know how it is with a first book. When we weren’t lunching together, we were on the phone. To cut expenses, he moved in. When Darling Desire was published to great acclaim, we celebrated by eloping to Las Vegas.”

  As she filled me in on her marital exploits, I began doing a little arithmetic. She was eighteen when she had Gillian, who was nearing thirty. That would mean Sabrina Wright was nearing fifty. Sofia had told me that Sabrina’s first novel came out about a dozen years ago—when Robert Silvester was fresh out of college. Unless he was a dolt, which I doubted, that would make him closer in age to Gillian than to his wife. Interesting.

  “Robert made a reservation at the Chesterfield,” she went on, “and checked in four days ago. He called me the night he arrived. The following evening he called to say he had found them and was dining with them that evening. He said he would call when he got back to the hotel, but he never did.”

  “Did he say where he found them?”

  “I’m afraid not. There was really no reason to ask.”

  “Did you try calling him?”

  “Yes. When I was connected to his room, it just rang and rang. I left a message for him to call me when he got in, but he never called. I hoped he was still with Gillian, trying to talk some sense into her. When he didn’t call the next day, I again called the Chesterfield. They told me Mr. Silvester had checked out that morning. I couldn’t imagine what had happened but hoped he might be on his way back to New York, although that didn’t seem possible. I mean, he would have called me before leaving. When I didn’t hear from him that day, I flew down here the next day, yesterday. So now I’m at the Chesterfield.”

  “Have you questioned them about your husband?”

  “Not directly. I’m sure they don’t know Robert is my husband. I just asked them if Mr. Silvester was still registered. I told them he was a friend and that I knew he was going to be in Palm Beach this week. They said he had been there but had left. I asked if he had left a forwarding address and they told me he had not. I didn’t want to seem too interested.

  “I’m sitting on a time bomb, Mr. McNally. My daughter is here with that awful Zack, looking for her father, and now my husband, who was here looking for my daughter, has disappeared into thin air. If any of this gets out, it will create a cause célèbre that will be heard around the world.”

  And sell a lot of books. I hated to start the clock ticking on that time bomb, but I thought the lady should know that Lolly Spindrift had not only announced her arrival but had also alluded to Robert’s disappearance. This had her reaching for another cigarette without benefit of holder. She was so quick on the draw she had it lit before Chauncey could strike a match. “I don’t see how...”

  “I do. Lolly must have a shill at the Chesterfield who happened to be at the desk when you arrived and heard you inquire about Mr. Silvester. Maybe no one at the hotel knows Robert is your husband, but I’m sure Lolly does, dot, dot, dot.”

  “The man that got away,” she moaned. “Do you realize that if Gillian’s father sees that item he will think I’m in Palm Beach in search of him?”

  She had a point. Not knowing Sabrina’s husband was missing, Gillian’s sire would surely think he was the man that got away especially since he was. Sabrina’s concern also confirmed that Gillian’s father was alive and well and living in Palm Beach.

  She put her hand on mine. It was ice-cold. The lady was truly frightened. “Will you help me, Mr. McNally?”

  Sabrina took one look at my fire-engine-red Miata and opted to take a cab back to her hotel. Smart move. While she was not exactly traveling incognito, neither was she here on a book-signing tour, and my car, unlike my professional methods, is more Palm Beach kitsch than discreet, but it does keep me amused. In this world of card-carrying terrorists, West Nile virus-carrying mosquitos, and E. coli-carrying cows, I zip happily along in my Miata like there’s no tomorrow, because there’s a good chance there won’t be one.

  I told Sabrina to sit tight and I would be in touch. I didn’t know when, or what, I would have to offer when I did, but that is, after all, the standard line when parting with a distressed client. It gives them hope and me a chance to ruminate over the facts and a bite of lunch. I decided to take the case, that is, try to locate Robert Silvester, for two reasons.

  The first one was because I liked the lady. She had what show folks call pizzazz. It’s a word, like pornography, that’s hard to define but you know it when you see it. Having been handed a golden parachute and tossed out of the family Cessna, she refused to sink, meekly, into the abyss. Against all odds, she had defied gravity and soared. Instead of disappearing, she had literally lit up the sky with her talent and a zillion book covers with her startled gaze. What’s not to like?

  Reason numero two? Greed—or did you think I was about to OD on altruism? My father takes great pride in the abundance of moneyed names, both old and new moola, on McNally & Son’s client roster. Were I to be responsible for adding Sabrina Wright to that list, it would go a long way in mitigating my trespasses at Yale, lo those twenty years ago, as I have long forgiven those who trespassed against me. Now, like the message inscribed on a sundial, I number only the sunny hours.

  I crossed from West Palm into the land of conspicuous consumption via the Flagler Memorial Bridge and then along Royal Poinciana Way, passing golfers on The Breakers Ocean Golf Course, all consuming conspicuously, before heading up Ocean Boulevard, alias the A1A.

  I believed everything Sabrina Wright told me was true. What wasn’t said was what she didn’t want me to know, such as who had introduced her to Discreet Inquiries. If it was a former client, that person could or could not still be living in Palm Beach. Was it this former client who also recommended that we rendezvous at a pub where we were least likely to be seen by those who matter in the Town of Palm Beach, or had Sabrina programmed a list of such joints into her computer for when the need arose, be it for the writing business or monkey business?

  The idea that her Palm Beach confidant might be Gillian’s father also crossed my mind. If Sabrina had broken her part of the bargain and contacted him, perhaps to warn him of Gillian’s arrival, he may have given her my name should the need arise. She had said that she would go to any length to honor his anonymity. To what length would he go to make sure she did?

  Next we had Robert Silvester, the subject of my nascent investigation. My first impression was that he might have joined forces with Gillian to escape Sabrina, but that was before I knew why, and with whom, the girl had fled. Mr. Right was acting on his wife’s behalf, but, and I forgot to ask, did he know Sabrina’s secret? He must, or she would not have sent him in search of Gillian, who would tell him when he caught up with her.

  Then why did Robert come to Palm Beach alone? Why didn’t Sabrina accompany him? Why did he check out of the Chesterfield after he found Gillian, and where had he gone to?

  Was Gillian a plain Jane forever in the shadow of her charismatic mother? Did her attractive suitor talk her into going in search of her roots, or had it occurred to her that being acknowledged by a father whose blood was blue and bank account green would legitimatize her in more ways than one?

  And let’s not forget Zack Ward, a tabloid reporter hot on the trail. To what length would he go to expose Gillian’s father?

  Finally, we had Lolly Spindrift, who had inadvertently opened this can of worms. He would make every sacrifice, including canceling his subscription to Playgirl, in return for the real scoop on Sabrina Wright’s presence in Palm Beach.

  In retrospect, there was more to the case than Sabrina’s plot outline, and the cast of characters alone promised a page-turner. As the old drinking song had it, This is number one/the fun has just begun...

  I turned off the A1A and onto the graveled driveway of my f
avorite restaurant—the Chez McNally on Ocean Boulevard.

  THREE

  FOR THOSE WHO WONDER why a charismatic bachelor in possession of a functioning medulla oblongata—one who is approaching his fourth decade—chooses to live at home, the answer is Dollars & Sense. I occupy my own snug garret in our faux Tudor palace, tucked beneath a charming but leaky copper roof. The drip, drip, drip of the raindrops makes my three-room suite—sitting room, bedroom, and bath—très bohemian, an ambiance difficult to come upon in South Florida where postmodern is all the rage.

  The lord and lady of the manor are currently on a long-overdue holiday, cruising the Caribbean on a luxury liner from which Father can ship-to-shore the office every day and inquire of his private secretary, the formidable Mrs. Trelawney, as to the day’s receipts and, no doubt, Archy’s whereabouts.

  Mother, Madelaine by name, suffers from a touch of hypertension and has grown a tad forgetful in her golden years, but remains a gentlewoman of immense charm. A gardener who raises only begonias, she has as many varieties of that tropical plant as are recognized by certified horticulturists, and then some. Her newest, an Iron Cross, was about to come into its own just as she and the Gov were due to ship out of Ft. Lauderdale. Mother consented to go only after we had secured a member of her garden club to look after the new arrival and its numerous relations.

  Looking after Archy were Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, and her husband, Jamie, our houseman. Ursi’s cooking is one of the perks of living at home, another being the Atlantic Ocean just across the A1A from our abode where I can indulge my passion for swimming two miles every day, weather and time permitting. Our climate and my job permit far more often than they deny. While Ursi would not know a cordon bleu from a 4-H Club, she could make anything edible delectable, which accounts for the continuing shrinkage of my waistbands.

  Hobo, our canine of blended heritage, peeked out of his gabled cottage as I emerged from my car. Satisfied that I was not a thief, bill collector, or religious zealot in search of converts, he returned to his afternoon siesta. I always get the feeling that I should apologize to our quadruped sentry for interfering with his power nap.

  “Archy,” Ursi exclaimed as I entered the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting me either,” I told her, “but I had a noon appointment that cut into my lunch hour and thought you might whip up a snack to fill the void.”

  “Well,” she pondered, “I could do something with what’s left of last night’s roast pork.”

  Jamie, who is as verbose as a stone, was seated at the table reading his newspaper. Tearing his eyes away from the latest Palm Beach brouhaha—the rabbi of our local temple punched a board member in the face after a heated argument and the recipient did not turn the other cheek—greeted my arrival with a grunt or a groan or, perhaps, a burp.

  Taking my place at the table, I asked Ursi if she knew Sabrina Wright. As she poured olive oil into a skillet, Ursi cooed, “Oh, Archy, I love her. I’m on the list at the library for her latest book.”

  Ursi also loves the afternoon soaps, the evening sitcoms, and films in DeLuxe Color and stereophonic sound. I haven’t seen a satisfying flick since Louise Fazenda rolled down her stockings for Mack Sennett. “How long is the list?” I wondered aloud.

  Now slicing an onion, followed by a green pepper, Ursi told me the library ordered no less than five copies of Sabrina Wright’s novels upon publication, but even with this extraordinary number in stock, one had to wait weeks before getting their hands, and eyes, on Sabrina’s latest assault on desire. “I met her today,” I announced as if stating that I had run into an old friend.

  Ursi paused in her efforts to resuscitate last night’s roast and let out an “Ah.” Jamie’s head twitched, but from experience I knew that he had not missed a word of the conversation. In my years of discreetly inquiring around the Town of Palm Beach I have learned that the best way to find out what is afoot upstairs is to nose around downstairs. The domestics along Ocean Boulevard keep in constant touch, and a word from me to Ursi and Jamie would travel around our little island faster than a speeding bullet trying to outrace the man of steel.

  Having no leads, I took my first chance in the case and sowed a few seeds into the fertile ears of our accommodating couple to see what, if anything, they would reap. I let it be known that Sabrina Wright was in Palm Beach in search of her daughter who had run off with a man Sabrina found odious. This was as much as I could say without betraying Sabrina’s confidence, and it was more a sin of omission than a lie. Like all natives, it did not occur to Ursi to ask why the couple had come to Palm Beach, but she would have commented on their choice of destination had they gone elsewhere. As onion and pepper, along with slices of leftover baked potato, were tossed into the skillet and enveloped by the fragrant olive oil, it occurred to me that once Ursi and Jamie passed on this version of Sabrina’s reason for being here, Lolly’s man that got away would acquire a third persona—Gillian’s beau.

  Jamie, without so much as a nod, understood that I would be grateful for anything he could come up with regarding the whereabouts of Sabrina’s daughter and her current flame. I have often slipped Jamie a few large greenbacks in appreciation of services rendered, a fact that would drive my sire up a wall and get me expelled, yet again, from a safe harbor. But in my business the riskiest thing one can do is not tempt the fates.

  The aroma ascending from Ursi’s skillet had me salivating as she lovingly sautéed the vegetables before adding the sliced roast pork and a touch of sherry. She left it on the flame long enough to warm the pork through and crisp the edges, then quickly deglazed the pan. As she transferred the contents to a warm plate, drizzling the lot with the savory pan juices, she complained, “You would think Sabrina Wright would know better. All her heroines fall in love with the wrong man, only they turn out to be the right man in the end.”

  “That’s because in her novels Sabrina is calling the shots. In real life, Ursi, she can’t do that.”

  My ragout was placed before me, along with several thick slices of Ursi’s own sourdough bread and a bottle of ice-cold Brooklyn lager. Nirvana.

  “Then she should let her daughter follow her heart,” Ursi offered with my lunch.

  It was clear that Ursi Olson had read too many Sabrina Wright novels.

  When I returned to the office, the first thing I did was call Lolly Spindrift to see if he knew anything more about Sabrina Wright’s visit to our Eden than his blind item intimated. I was not too sanguine, as gossip columnists in general, and Lolly Spindrift in particular, tell all they know or think they know, keeping secret only their own libidinous behavior. Lolly’s column is called “Hither and Yon,” which in other words means Palm Beach and anyplace elsewhere he can beg, borrow, steal, or invent a scoop about the rich and famous.

  “Lol? Archy McNally here.”

  “You cad,” he attacked. “You never call to whisper sweet nothings into my eager ear even after I gave you three mentions this month.”

  “Getting a mention in this town in July, Lol, is as newsworthy as telling your readers the pope attended mass last Sunday.”

  “But unlike the pope, dear heart, your dalliances bring a blush to my cheek and a longing to my savage breast; however, I never tell, although I have a file with your name on it that would make the contents of Pandora’s box look benign.”

  “Let’s keep it under lock and key, Lol.”

  “It depends, Archy.”

  “On what?”

  “How nice you are to Lolly.”

  Deflecting having to take him to dinner at some expensive bistro, I announced, “There’s a new bartender at Bar Anticipation who’s right up your alley.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “A wild guess, Lol.”

  “Well, guess again. I’ve sworn off bartenders. The last one...”

  It was a half hour before I was able to stifle his account of unrequited love. After making the necessary sympathetic sounds,
I posed, “A favor, Lol?”

  “I knew you wanted to pick my brains, Archy. What about pumping me over dinner this evening?”

  The guy’s conversation was peppered with all kinds of innuendo that, believe me, was intentional. Lolly Spindrift is small of stature and favors white double-breasted suits, ascots, Panama hats, and expensive restaurants. His petite size belies a ravenous appetite and the word “abstemious” is not in his lexicon. At a buffet dinner party given by a PB matron of great wealth and little charm, I watched him consume healthy portions of all twenty delicacies on the smorgasbord table, belch daintily, and in lieu of a doggy bag, take home the chef.

  “The Pelican Club?” I offered.

  The Pelican Club is a private dining and drinking establishment housed in a somewhat dilapidated two-story shingled house near the airport and is the favorite watering hole of the young, the bad, and the beautiful of Palm Beach and vicinity. Founded by a group of like-minded men, yrs. truly among them, who find the traditional clubs a bit too fussy and stuffy and, let’s face it, unobtainable to the likes of us, the Pelican does not discriminate in any way, even to those who find us déclassé. For proof I give you the astounding number of traditional club regulars who find the Pelican an intriguing diversion.

  “Get real, Archy. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that joint.”

  If Lolly’s roving eye roved in the wrong direction at the Pelican, he might get caught just that way on his initial visit.

  “I hear the foie gras at Testa’s will leave you panting,” he informed me.

  So will the bill, I thought. “Look, Lol, I can’t make it tonight,” I lied, “but I’ll advance you a rain check if you advance me a little info.”

  “Can I trust you, Archy?”

  “Of course not. That’s what makes me so irresistible.”

  “That’s what my bartender said and he was right. Okay, Archibald, what do you want to know about whom and why?”