McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  I found on my desk a large, bulky package bearing no return address other than the messenger service that had delivered it. My first reaction was that it might be a bomb sent by an enraged husband. But I discounted that possibility although I removed the wrapping rather gingerly.

  Within was a handwritten note (in an artful cursive) from Sunny Fogarty. It stated merely that enclosed was the computer printout I had requested, naming the cemeteries to which the Whitcomb Funeral Homes had sent their “customers” for burial during the past six months. Ms. Fogarty also included her address (West Palm Beach) and phone number. She suggested it would be best, if I had further questions or wished to impart information, to contact her at home rather than her Whitcomb office. A very careful lady.

  I was looking at the stack of computer bumf with some dismay when my phone rang. It was the would-be Philip Marlowe.

  “Greetings, old sport,” chirped Binky Watrous. “I’m ready to go to work.”

  “What happened to your golf game?”

  “Washed out,” he said. “I’m ready, willing, and able. When do we start?”

  “Immediately,” I said, eyeing the opened package on my desk. “Come over to my office.”

  “On my way,” he said happily. “Half an hour at the most.”

  I used the time to phone Lolly Spindrift. He is a gossip columnist (the three-dot variety) at one of our local rags, and his jazzy comments on past, present, and future scandals are read and enjoyed by most of the literate haut monde and hoi polloi of Palm Beach County.

  Lolly and I have a mutually beneficial working relationship, a quid pro quo that profits both of us. Occasionally I feed him exclusive items from current discreet inquiries, but nothing, I assure you, that would imperil a client’s reputation. In return, the schlockenspieler serves as a database of local rumors and tittle-tattle. He simply knows everything that has gone on, is going on, and will go on in our hermetic social world.

  “Hi, darling,” he said in his flutey voice. “What have you got for me?”

  “Come off it, Lol,” I said. “After those tips I gave you on the Forsythe affair, you owe me.”

  “Very well,” he said. “A clear case of noblesse oblige. What do you want, luv?”

  “Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb,” I said. “Know anything about them?”

  I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Do I ever! But why would you be interested in the happy grave diggers?”

  “In due time, Lol,” I said patiently. “In due time you’ll be the first to hear. Now what have you got?”

  “Wild ones,” he said promptly. “Apparently inexhaustible funds. Chronic party-goers and party-givers. And some of the people they party with are, shall we say, on the demimonde side. A very curious couple. It isn’t what I’d call a working marriage, sweetie. They both tomcat around like maniacs, obviously with each other’s permission if not approval. I’ve always thought there’s something dreadful and fascinating going on there, but I’ve never been able to nail them without fear of libel. Keep me informed, dear.”

  “Will do,” I promised and hung up.

  I lighted a cigarette while awaiting Binky’s arrival. What Lolly had told me only confirmed and sharpened what Connie Garcia had revealed. Of course I had no conception of what the lifestyle of Oliver and Mitzi had to do with the unexplained profits of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. But I suffer from a bloated curiosity, almost as enlarged as my liver, and it seemed to me further discreet inquiries about the “curious couple” were warranted.

  Binky Watrous showed up in a blazer that would have been the envy of Emmett Kelly. He had seen my office before and was not shocked by my teensy-weensy professional crypt. First-time visitors are sometimes stunned speechless. My temporary man Friday flopped into the folding steel chair alongside my desk and helped himself to one of my English Ovals. He gestured toward the stack of computer printout.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That, son,” I said, “is the start of a new investigation. It records the names and addresses of cemeteries to which the Whitcomb Funeral Homes have delivered their dear departed over the last six months. You and I must go through this encyclopedia of mortality and compile lists of the cemeteries involved and the number of deceased each of them accommodated.”

  Binky looked at me with something like horror. “You jest?” he said hopefully.

  “I do not jest,” I said firmly.

  “Archy,” he said plaintively, “don’t you have anything more exciting for me to do? You know—interrogating predatory blonds, shoot-outs, bloodbaths—that sort of thing.”

  “Binky,” I said at my avuncular best, “you have a totally mistaken concept of what the detective business is all about. It’s ninety percent routine, old bean: dull, dull, dull routine. Now either you submit your resignation and endure the wrath of the Duchess or you get to work instantly.”

  He sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said, “I’ll do it. Under protest, you understand. Do you have a pencil? And paper?”

  I supplied the needed and, after dividing the computer printout into two approximately equal piles, we both got busy. Binky worked in silence for about fifteen minutes. Occasionally he licked the point of his pencil— a despicable habit. Finally he looked up at me in total bewilderment.

  “Archy,” he said, “why are we doing this?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I said. “We’re doing it because the Whitcomb Funeral Homes are making too much money.”

  He stared at me with that dopey look he always gets when confronting anything more profound than Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

  “Oh,” he said.

  We continued our donkeywork and finished almost simultaneously. Binky shoved his notes across the desk to me. His handwriting was unexpectedly small, neat, and quite legible. Due to his long experience in signing bar tabs, no doubt. I compared his pages with mine and saw something interesting. I handed the two lists to my new subaltern.

  “Take a look,” I said. “See if you spot anything.”

  He studied our jottings with a worried frown. Then, to my pleased surprise, he caught it.

  “Hey,” he said, “a lot of these stiffs are being shipped north for burial.”

  “You’ve got it,” I said approvingly. “Of course South Florida has a huge retiree population, and I suppose many of them want to be planted in family plots in their hometowns. But it appears that Whitcomb is handling an inordinate number of out-of-state shipments.”

  Binky took another look at our computations. “Sure,” he said. “And the number is increasing every month. That’s crazy.”

  “Let me see,” I said and read over our lists again.

  Binky was correct. But then I saw something else. The majority of human remains being sent out of Florida by Whitcomb were airlifted to New York, Boston, and Chicago. The computer printout I had received did not state who was receiving these gift packages at La-Guardia, Logan, and O’Hare.

  Binky and I lighted cigarettes and stared at the smoke-stained ceiling tiles.

  “You know, Archy,” he said, “it’s sad. I mean, old geezers retire and come down here to spend their last years in the sunshine. But when they croak, they want to go home. Don’t you think that’s sad?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t. Our transplanted oldsters are survivors. More power to them. And when they finally shuffle off, they want their final resting place to be Buffalo, Peoria, Walla Walla, or wherever. It’s their prerogative, and who are we to deny their last wishes. That’s not what bothers me; it’s the enormous number of deceased Whitcomb seems to be exporting. Don’t you find that intriguing?”

  Binky shrugged. “I’d rather not think about it. Too depressing, old sport. Listen, I think I’ve done enough hard labor for one day. May I go home now?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Almost two hours,” I commented. “Well, I suppose I must introduce you to the work ethic slowly and gradually. Sure, take off. Do you plan to be home this evening?”

/>   “I might,” he said cautiously.

  “Try,” I said. “It’s possible that I may phone you to continue your education as a detective.”

  “More of this stuff about people being buried? I’m not keen about it, Archy. Puts a damper on the Watrous spirits—you know?”

  “Where do you want to be buried, Binky?”

  “On the Cote d’Azur. Under three inches of sand.”

  And on that lighthearted note he departed. I cleaned up my corral, bundled the printout and the notes Binky and I had made into the original wrapping, and set out for home. I was pleased with my batman’s performance. True, he had only slaved two hours at his chosen profession, but he had exhibited enough wit to catch that business of shipping caskets up north. That was a plus, I thought. And somewhat of a shock. Like discovering Mortimer Snerd could explain the Pythagorean theorem.

  The weather was still growly, the sea churning, and so I skipped my late afternoon ocean swim. Instead, I went directly to my quarters, plunked down behind the battered desk, and opened my journal to a fresh page.

  I keep a record, y’see, of all my discreet inquiries and try to make daily entries while a case is under way. It serves as a jog to my memory, and sometimes a written account of observations, conversations, and events reveals a hidden pattern I might otherwise have missed.

  Also, my journal is a sourcebook for the narratives I pen and ensures accuracy. You didn’t think I’m making up all this stuff, did you?

  I made notes on what had transpired during the first meeting with Sunny Fogarty, what I had learned of the proclivities of Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, and what Binky and I had discovered: the perplexing number of defuncts that Whitcomb Funeral Homes were profitably putting aboard airliners for the final trip home.

  I finished my scribbling in time to dress for the family cocktail hour, a rigorously observed daily ceremonial of the McNallys. We gather in the second-floor sitting room, father stirs a jug of gin martinis (traditional formula), and we each have one plus a dividend. Then we descend to dinner. If that sounds unbearably Waspish, let me remind you that my paternal grandfather was a burlesque comic, and we are merely obeying the American dictum: Onward and upward. Of course it was dramaturgy. And whose life is not?

  After dinner, I rose from the table, returned to my digs, and phoned Sunny Fogarty.

  After an exchange of greeting, I said, “I trust I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I was hoping I might see you this evening. It concerns the material you sent to my office. Probably a minor matter but I’d like to get it cleared up. Could you spare me, say, half an hour?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Miss Fogarty, would it—”

  “You can call me Sunny if you’d like,” she interrupted.

  “I’d like,” I told her. “And I’m Archy. Sunny, would you object if I brought along my assistant, a very personable and competent chap?”

  Long pause. “No,” she said finally, “I have no objection.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “We’ll be at your place within an hour.”

  I hung up and called Binky Watrous. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Just finished dinner,” he reported. “You know, Archy, I hate Brussels sprouts.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I said. “Listen, lad, I want you to join me in an hour’s time to continue our investigation by interviewing one of the principals.”

  He groaned. “That business of out-of-state burials?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do I really have to be there?” he said, wounded. “I rented a tape of The Curse of the Cat People and I was looking forward to—”

  “Binky!” I said sharply. “You want to be the new Sam Spade, don’t you? Now go get a piece of paper, lick a pencil, and I’ll give you the address.”

  We synchronized watches and agreed to meet at Sunny Fogarty’s home at nine-thirty.

  “If you arrive before I do,” I warned, “don’t you dare enter before I show up.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.

  “And when we have our conversation with the lady, I want you to let me carry the ball. You say nothing unless you’re asked a direct question. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely, boss,” Binky said. “I shall be nothing more than a flea on the wall.”

  I was about to remind him that the expression was “a fly on the wall.” But then I reflected he probably had it right.

  5.

  TRAFFIC WAS UNEXPECTEDLY HEAVY that night, and by the time I got across the Royal Park Bridge to West Palm Beach I knew I was running late. Also, I had a bit of trouble finding Sunny Fogarty’s home. It turned out to be a rather posh condo high-rise off Olive Avenue, almost directly across from Connie Garcia’s apartment on Lake Worth. If that had any significance I didn’t want to think about it.

  I pulled into the guest parking area, disembarked, and looked about for Binky’s heap. And there it was. My Dr. Watson drives a 1970 Mercedes Benz 280 SE Cabriolet. It had been beautifully restored when he bought it, but the lunkhead hadn’t cosseted it. It was dented, rusted, had a passenger door that didn’t quite latch, and generally presented an appearance of sad dilapidation. The vandalism wasn’t deliberate, you understand—just an example of Binky’s breezy treatment of all his possessions. He wears a gold Rolex that stopped four years ago.

  What rattled my cage at the moment was that the Mercedes was unoccupied. That probably meant the idiot owner had disregarded my firm instructions and had barged in on Sunny Fogarty instead of awaiting my arrival. Uttering a mild oath, I hurried to the entrance and found an exterior security system requesting guests to dial a three-digit number listed on a directory, to speak to and be admitted by the residents.

  I punched out the number for Sunny’s apartment. She answered almost immediately.

  “Archy McNally,” I said. “May I come up?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Your assistant is already here.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologize. He’s entertaining me with birdcalls.”

  I quailed. Rather fitting, don’cha think?

  She buzzed me in, and I rode an art deco elevator to the sixth floor.

  The living room of Sunny’s apartment was elegant without being lavish. I had no idea of her annual salary or net worth, but she had mentioned the expense of keeping an ailing mother in a nursing home. Still, she drove a new car and apparently owned this charming condo that bespoke moneyed ease. It was enough to give one pause. If not you, then certainly me.

  Señor Watrous, wearing his hellish blazer, was sprawled on a couch upholstered in bottle-green velvet. I glared at him and received a sappy grin in response. I turned to our hostess.

  “Sunny,” I said, “I see you’ve already met my aide-de-camp. Light on the aid and heavy on the camp.”

  She smiled. “I think Binky is very talented. May I offer you gentlemen a drink?”

  “Oh, don’t go to any—” I started, but Binky piped up.

  “I’d like something,” he said. “How about a vodka rocks? Do you have the makings?”

  “I do,” she said. “The same for you, Archy?”

  I nodded.

  “That makes three of us. It’ll just take a minute.”

  She went out to the kitchen, and I whirled on Binky. “Behave yourself,” I admonished. “And try to keep your big, fat mouth shut. You promised.”

  “Right,” he said. “Positively. I shall provide nothing but attentive silence.”

  “That’s wise,” I said. “Unless you wish to confess to the Duchess that you have been summarily dismissed after one day of unpaid employment.”

  Sunny returned with a bamboo tray of three handsome crystal old-fashioned glasses containing our vodka rocks. She had put a wedge of fresh lime in each. Much appreciated. She served us, then sat in a facing barrel chair covered in a cheerful chintz.

  “Cheers,” she
said, raising her glass.

  Binky hoisted his. “Here’s to our wives and sweethearts,” he said. “May they never meet.”

  I could have killed him, but Ms. Fogarty laughed. I vowed to keep my anger in check until we left. Then I intended to flay the goof alive. What a cheeky rascal he was!

  “Sunny,” I said, “thank you for seeing us on such short notice. But after Binky and I reviewed the computer printout you provided, we found something that puzzles us.”

  She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Oh?” she said. “And what is that?”

  She was wearing loosely fitted jeans of white denim with leather sandals, and an oversized man’s shirt appliqued with golden stars, this gauzy fabric suggesting an impressive figure. I shall say no more on the subject lest I be accused of indelicacy.

  “There seems to be an unusual number of deceased sent up north for burial,” I said. “How do you account for that?”

  She accepted my direct question calmly. “Archy, all the funeral homes in South Florida do the same thing. So many of the elderly retired are down here, you know. I can’t recall the exact figures, but last year about four thousand dead were shipped from Fort Lauderdale alone. That’s more than ten a day. And for the entire State of Florida, more than twenty-five thousand deceased are exported for burial, most of them airlifted. That amounts to almost twenty percent of Florida’s total death toll.”

  “Remarkable,” I commented.

  “Downputting,” Binky said. “Definitely downputting.”

  I ignored him. “Sunny, how many out-of-state shipments would you estimate Whitcomb Funeral Homes makes annually?”

  She thought a moment. “Oh, I’d guess about three hundred a year. Perhaps a bit more.”

  “In other words, one a day on average would be a generous estimate. Is that correct?”