“Sounds like you’ve made a conquest, laddie,” I said. “Have fun but promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Not a word to Mitzi about our investigation of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Not one single word,” I warned him. “The lady may try to extract information in a friendly, offhand way, but you know nothing.”
“About what?” he said.
I sighed. I had feared he would be a trial; he was rapidly becoming an inquisition. “About anything,” I told him. “Just chat her up and keep the conversation frothy and inconsequential. Do your birdcalls for her.”
“Oh yeah!” he said happily. “I’ve got a new one—the yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“That should enchant her,” I assured him. “And Binky, in the most casual way possible you might inquire what business is taking Oliver to Miami tonight. You understand?”
“Oh sure. I’ll ask her.”
“Don’t ask her. Say something similar to ‘Your husband must be a very busy man, driving to Miami at night.’ And then wait for her reaction.”
“I get it,” he said. “You want me to be subtle.”
“Yes, Binky, I want you to be subtle—right after you imitate the call of a yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“I can do it,” he said eagerly. “I’ll get the goods on Oliver.”
“Call me tomorrow,” I said, stifling a groan, “and tell me how you made out.”
I hung up and put my head in my hands. He was going to commit a monumental balls-up, I just knew it. What concerned me most was not that Binky might reveal to Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb that they were subjects of an inquiry by McNally & Son, but that my father might learn I was employing a certified bedlamite in one of my discreet inquiries.
I could easily envision his reaction: both tangled eyebrow. twitched aloft, the bristly mustache drooping, and VC get a stare that shared pain and incredulity: “Have I raised my only son to be an utter dunce?”
I felt it best to leave the McNally Building and seek solace in a slow ocean swim and the comfort of the family cocktail hour and dinner later. I’m sure it was an excellent feast, but I could not help but regard it as a condemned man’s last meal.
I retired to my quarters and phoned Connie Garcia. You know, I do believe I half-hoped she had learned of my recent joust with Sunny Fogarty. If so, Connie would be aflame, steam spouting from her ears, and she would threaten me with physical punishments I don’t wish to detail here, not wishing to offend your sensibilities.
No, I am not suicidal. In hoping my one-and-several might condemn me, vociferously and at length, I was merely seeking normality in a world suddenly gone awry.
13.
BUT APPARENTLY MY DULCINEA had not learned of the recent moral boo-boo I had committed, for she couldn’t have been more affectionate. We chatted for almost twenty minutes, and our conversation was all bubbles. We ended by agreeing to meet for dinner on Saturday night and exchanged vows of love and fidelity everlasting before hanging up.
It was a puzzlement. I mean, I loved the woman, I really did, but my devotion obviously wasn’t sufficient to restrain me from casting covetous eyes on others of the female persuasion. Are all men like that? I suspect we may be, and it’s disheartening. Certain absolutes, such as courage, are expected of the male gender, but faithfulness is not one of them. What’s worse, it’s usually treated with cynical amusement while a woman’s infidelity is roundly condemned.
I scribbled in my journal for the remainder of the evening, recording my impressions of the luncheon with Sarah and Horace Whitcomb. They were true patricians, I reckoned, whose breeding and bravery were being sorely tested. I thought they were enduring their trials with exemplary fortitude—which only proves how mistaken first impressions can be.
I awoke the next morning with the nagging suspicion it would prove to be an unproductive day. I was in a waiting mode: waiting for Sunny Fogarty to retrieve names and addresses from the airlines’ shipping invoices; waiting for our credit agency to return dossiers on the individuals listed; waiting for Sgt. Al Rogoff to report on what he had learned about Ernest Gorton from his police pals in Miami. It was, I decided, going to be a vacant day. Hah!
Nota bene: The following times are approximate.
9:30 A.M.:
I had overslept, as was my custom, and finally clattered downstairs to a deserted kitchen, where I prepared a solitary breakfast. If memory serves—and mine usually doesn’t—I found a cold pork chop left over from our previous night’s dinner. I trimmed it carefully of fat and bone, and then inserted the round of meat between two toasted halves of an English muffin, with a dab of mayo. You might try it sometime. Chockful of goodness.
10:30 A.M.:
I arrived at the McNally Building to find on my desk a message that Mr. Ernest Gorton had phoned and asked that I return his call as soon as possible. I debated a moment, fearing he might invite me to visit him in Miami. I had no intention of doing that, of course, but I was curious as to why he should follow up a casual meeting at a crowded party with a call three days later. I assumed he had a motive of which I wot not. And so I phoned.
“Archy!” he said heartily. “How’s by you?”
“Very well, thanks, Ernie,” I said. “And you?”
“Seventh heaven,” he proclaimed. “Listen, let me get right to the point.” He didn’t exactly say “pernt,” but it was close. “When we met the other night at the Whit-combs’ party, you hit me as a guy who likes wine. Am I correct?”
“Well, yes,” I said cautiously. “I enjoy a glass of good wine now and then.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said with a sound halfway between a chuckle and a chortle. “You know anything about it?”
I was briefly nonplussed. “About wine, you mean? I do know a little, but I am no oenophile.”
“Whatever the hell that is,” he said. “Look, in my import-export business sometimes I luck on to a great deal and naturally I think of my close friends first.”
“Naturally,” I said, wondering when and how I had become his close friend.
“Suddenly I got this shipment of 1990 Chateau Margaux. That’s a good wallop, isn’t it?”
“An excellent drink,” I assured him.
“I can let you have it for a hundred bucks,” he said.
“Ernie,” I said as gently as I could, “the 1990 Margaux is a fine wine, but I can buy a bottle for less than a hundred at my local liquor emporium.”
“A bottle?” he said indignantly. “Who’s talking bottles? I’m offering you a case.”
Holy moly! I was stunned. A case of 1990 Chateau Margaux for a hundred dollars? Incredible. “Did it fall off the truck?” I said feebly.
“What do you care?” he demanded. “I got two cases left. If you want one you’ll hafta tell me now. And you’ll hafta pick it up. No delivery.”
“Ah, what a shame,” I said. “My car’s in the shop, and there’s no one I can trust to make the pickup. Ernie, I’ll have to skip on this one, but I do appreciate your thinking of me. Perhaps we can get together if you have any marvelous bargains like that in the future.”
He took rejection cheerfully. “All the time, Archy. For instance, right now I’m working on a deal for diamond-studded Rolex wristwatches. The real thing, not ripoffs. And the price will be right, believe me. Interested?”
“I may be,” I said carefully.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” And he hung up abruptly.
I sat there staring stupidly at the dead phone in my hand. What was that all about? Even if the Chateau Margaux was genuine and had been stolen, which I presumed it was and had been, a hundred dollars for a case was simply a ridiculous price, even for thieves attempting to fence their loot.
The only reason I could imagine for Gorton’s call was an effort to concretize our relationship. But I still could not fathom his motive. I did know the man made me uneasy. I did not think him
simpleminded. No stumblewit he. I was convinced he was sure of what he was doing—and I’m not sure of anything except that you can’t put too much garlic on buttered escargot.
Then it occurred to me that maybe he had been testing my cupidity, just as Horace Whitcomb had tested my discretion. I was beginning to feel like a lab rat condemned to run a maze. I could only hope I would find the exit and the reward awaiting me: a nice wedge of ripe Brie.
11:15 A.M.:
I phoned Binky Watrous, eager to learn all the juicy details of his evening with the supercharged Mitzi Whitcomb. He sounded hoarse, as if he had spent too many hours imitating the call of a hypertensive parrot.
“Sore throat?” I inquired solicitously.
“Sore everything,” he rasped. “Archy, I am unraveled, totally unraveled. All I want is a quick and merciful end to my suffering.”
“What a shame,” I said. “I was about to ask you to join me for a burger and a bucket of suds at the Pelican, but we’ll make it another—”
“I accept,” he interrupted hastily. “Give me an hour to get my bones in motion.”
“I gather you had a riotous night.”
“Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I asked Mitzi to divorce Oliver and marry me.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“And what did the lady reply to that?”
“She said, ‘Let’s practice first.’”
“See you in an hour,” I said.
1:30 P.M.:
We had finished lunch and were dawdling over our second beers. Color had gradually returned to the pallid cheeks of my helot. When he arrived at the Pelican Club he had looked like something the cat dragged out. But a rare burger, a basket of FFs, and icy Rolling Rock had worked wonders; he was now his normal dorky self.
Unasked, he told me of his night with Mitzi Whitcomb. I shall not repeat the salacious details since I know you’re not interested in that sort of thing. “What an orgy it was!” he concluded.
“Binky,” I said, “can two people have an orgy? I thought it required a multitude.”
“We had an orgy,” he insisted. “Just the two of us. Archy, that woman scares me.”
“But you want to marry her.”
“That was last night. This morning I wanted to take a slow boat to Madagascar.”
“And where was Mitzi’s husband during this alleged debauch?”
“He called and said it was too late to drive home from Miami, so he was going to spend the night at Ernie Gorton’s place.”
Thick as thieves, those two, was my immediate reaction, and then I wondered if “thick” in that cliché meant intimate or stupid.
“Binky, did she toke during the evening?”
“Constantly,” he said gloomily. “Had a pack of neatly rolled ganja. No filters.”
“And what did you talk about?”
“A lot of nothing. She was flying, and I really shouldn’t have had that fifth vodka. Archy, I’ve never met such a harum-scarum female. I’ve done a few irresponsible things in my life, as you well know, but she makes me look like Albert Schweitzer.”
“Are you going to see her again?”
“Wild horses—” he started, but I halted him with a raised palm.
“Binky, I want you to see her again. As often as Mitzi wishes. I think she may prove to be a valuable source of information pertaining to the Whitcomb case. Your role will be that of a mole, boring from within. And I select my words carefully.”
“Must I?” he cried. “Another night with her and I’ll be calling 911 for the paramedics to come and take me away.”
“Nah,” I said. “You’re in the full flower of young louthood and I’m certain you’re capable of coping with the lady’s demands. Meanwhile you will ever so cleverly be extracting delicious nuggets of inside skinny that may possibly solve the mystery.”
“It will be the death of me,” he pronounced gloomily.
“Rubbish!” I said sternly. “You’re the lad who wants to become the Dick Tracy of Palm Beach. Here is an opportunity to prove your mettle.”
“But Archy,” he whined piteously, “she bites!”
“Bite back,” I advised, and we drained our beers and left. I had a twinge of remorse watching him totter to his rusted heap, but I consoled myself with the thought that he would live to imitate the yellow-bellied sapsucker again.
2:30 P.M.
I drove back to the McNally Building wondering about the inexplicable friendship between Oliver Whitcomb and Ernest Gorton. They seemed so unlike, and yet they were close enough to, enjoy each other’s hospitality—and share other goodies as well, including Gorton’s carrot-topped lady friend.
I was musing on this riddle at my desk when Mrs. Trelawney called from m’lord’s office.
“Archy,” she said briskly, “your father is conferring with Horace and Oliver Whitcomb at the moment. The son wants to come down to your locker before they leave, just to say hello. Thought I’d alert you.”
“Thank you, luv. I don’t have many visitors. Perhaps I should change my socks.”
“But it’s only October,” she said.
Oliver breezed in about ten minutes later. If he was shocked by the diminutiveness of my professional quarters he gave no evidence of it—from which I could only conclude he was extraordinarily polite (doubtful) or had seen even less prepossessing offices, hard as that was to believe.
“Great to see you again!” he said, shaking my hand with excessive enthusiasm. “Listen, I just stopped by for a minute. Father and I are having a powwow with your father.”
“Oh?” I said. “No problems, I hope.”
He laughed. “The opposite,” he said. “We’re planning an expansion to the west coast of Florida. The Naples-Fort Myers area.”
“Sounds like business is booming.”
“Couldn’t be better,” he said merrily. “People do insist on dying. Hey, how about that lunch?”
“Of course. What’s a good time for you?”
“Next Tuesday,” he said promptly. “Twelve-thirty at Renato’s.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised, impressed by his forcefulness. Another man sure of himself.
“Great!” he said and shook my hand again. Monsieur Charm in action. “I’ve got to go collect pops. I’m driving my Lotus Esprit today.”
Then he was gone, leaving me to ponder his last unnecessary remark: “I’m driving my Lotus Esprit today.” A bit on the vainglorious side, wouldn’t you say? Similar to asking, “How do you like my eighteen-karat-gold Carrier Panther with a genuine alligator leather strap?” Too much.
But I had learned to deal with clients who possessed egos as inflated as the Goodyear blimp. Some people define their worth by their toys. I, of course, do not, although I take justifiable pride in my original Pepe Le Pew lunch box.
3:45 P.M.:
I closed up shop and cruised home in time to sluice my angst away with a leisurely ocean swim. Actually, I was not apprehensive or anxiety-ridden. But I must confess to a vague, indefinable premonition of disaster. Did you ever bite into a shrimp, taste, swallow, and get a slightly queasy feeling that you might soon be connected to a stomach pump at a local hospital?
That’s the way I felt as I plowed through the warm waters of the Atlantic. I was convinced there was a clever plot in motion that was wreaking mischief, and I could not endure the thought of being hornswoggled.
14.
7:00 P.M.:
Family cocktail hour.
8:45 P.M.:
Finished dinner (chicken piccata), anticipating a peaceful evening alone with my thoughts and Billie Holiday.
8:50 P.M.:
Father stopped me as I was about to ascend to my nest. “A moment, Archy,” he said and motioned toward his study. He did not invite me to be seated or offer a postprandial brandy. I stood motionless as he paced, jacket open, hands thrust into his hip pockets. Our conversation became a rat-a-tat-tat interrogation.
“Any developments in the Whitcomb
matter?” he demanded.
“No, sir. Nothing of any significance.”
“Oliver stopped down to see you this afternoon?”
“For a few moments.”
“What did he have to say?”
“That the Whitcombs are planning an expansion to the west coast. And he invited me to lunch next Tuesday.”
“You accepted, of course.”
I nodded.
“I presume you met Horace at the party.”
“I met him then,” I said, “and had lunch with him yesterday.”
He stopped pacing to stare at me. “For any particular reason?”
“He said he wanted me to see his collection of ship models. I suspect he may have had another motive. He is aware of my investigative activities and seemed anxious to verify my discretion.”
The guv resumed his pacing. “Curious family,” he remarked. “During your conversations with Horace and Oliver, did you get the feeling of enmity between father and son? Well, perhaps ‘enmity’ is too strong a word. Did you sense a certain degree of estrangement?”
“Yes, sir, I did. In their thinking, their lifestyles. They’re really not on the same wavelength.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Archy. I have the same impression. Regarding their expansion into the Naples-Fort Myers area, Horace appeared to be very dubious about that project. But then Oliver began to talk of a nationwide chain, perhaps converting Whitcomb Funeral Homes into a franchise operation.”
“McFunerals?” I suggested.
He allowed himself me smallest of smiles. “Something like that. Horace was outraged at the suggestion, and I had to play the role of peacemaker to keep father and son from shouting at each other. Their argument ended only when Oliver left to go down to your office. But I had a very distinct feeling there was more to their spleen than merely a difference of opinion on business strategy.”
I said, “Perhaps it’s partly generational and partly an attitudinal clash: young, energetic, ambitious son versus aging, conservative, risk-adverse father.”
He stopped pacing again, and this time his look was almost a glare, as if I had been referring to our relationship. “Do you really believe that, Archy?”
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