“I do, sir, but I also believe there’s more to it than that.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do, too.”
He gave me a nod of dismissal and I started upstairs. I stopped at the second-floor sitting room where mother was seated at her florentine desk busily writing letters. In addition to talking to her begonias, one of the mater’s favorite pastimes is corresponding with old friends, some of whom she hasn’t seen in fifty years. There was one case of a school chum to whom she continued to pen chatty missives before discovering the woman had passed away two years previously.
“Mrs. McNally,” I said, “I suggest you and I steal away tonight to a tropical isle. You will wear a muumuu and a lei, and I shall wear a breechcloth of coconut shells and strum a ukulele.”
She looked up brightly. “Oh Archy,” she said, “that sounds divine. But I can’t leave tonight. On Wednesday I have an appointment with my chiropodist.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I said and swooped to kiss her downy cheek. Splendid woman.
10:15 P.M.:
Sunny Fogarty phoned.
“Archy,” she said, “I know it’s late and I apologize.”
“No need,” I said. “I hadn’t planned to go beddy-bye for—oh, ten minutes at least.”
Her laugh was tentative. “Could you manage to come over for a few moments?” she asked. “I know it’s an imposition but I think it’s important, and it’s not something I want to write or tell you on the phone.”
Paranoia again?
“Of course,” I said. “I can be there in twenty minutes or so. Do you need anything? Vodka, beer, Snapple, ice cubes?”
“No, no,” she said. “I’ve got everything.”
I could have made a leering rejoinder to that but restrained myself. I combed my hair, slapped on some Romeo Gigli, inspected myself in the bathroom mirror and saw nothing to which anyone could possibly object. I loped downstairs and exited into an overcast night. There was a streaky sky with occasional flashes of moonlight, but mostly it was dark, dark, dark with rumbles of thunder to the west.
When I was a beardless youth my mother assured me thunder was the sound of angels bowling. Listen, if you don’t have family jokes, who are you? And on that night, hearing the angels bowling, I wished them nothing but strikes.
10:45 P.M.:
I arrived at the Chez Fogarty wondering if Sunny’s urgent summons was merely a ploy to lure me within grappling distance. Let’s face it: I am a habitual fantasizer.
Do you remember those nonsensical romantic movies of yore in which a secretary (usually played by Betty Grable) removes her eyeglasses, and her bachelor boss gasps in amazement? He had always considered her a plain-Jane but now, seeing her sans specs, he realizes she is a Venus de Milo—with arms of course.
The reverse happened when Ms. Fogarty opened the door of her condo. She was wearing brief cutoffs and a snug tank top, but those were of peripheral interest. What caught my attention and set the McNally ventricles aflutter was that she wore eyeglasses, and those amber frames and glistening lenses somehow made her appear softer and unbearably vulnerable. You explain it; I can’t.
She provided me with a vodka and tonic (weak) and led me into a smallish room obviously used as an office. It was dominated by what seemed to be a gigantic computer with monitor, keyboard, printer, modem—the works.
“Are you computer literate, Archy?” she asked.
“Not me,” I said hastily. “I’m a certified technophobe. I have trouble changing a light bulb.”
“Then I won’t attempt to describe my setup here except to tell you it enables me to access the mainframe at Whitcomb’s headquarters in West Palm. I frequently work at home in the evening and sometimes during the day when I need to get away from the hectic confusion at the office. Why are you smiling?”
“Your use of the term ‘hectic confusion.’ It’s difficult for an outsider to visualize the activities of funeral homes in quite that way.”
“But that’s what it is,” she said seriously. “Like any other business. Naturally we make certain our clients see none of it. We provide them with a quiet, dignified atmosphere.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“I’m still checking shipping invoices at the airlines, and I have nothing definite to report on the names and addresses of consignees to whom all those out-of-state shipments were made by Whitcomb. But this evening I started reviewing our records of the past six months. I was trying to discover how and by whom the information we want was deleted from the main computer.”
“Any luck?”
“No,” she said, and I could see the failure angered her. This was not a woman who took defeat lightly. “But I did find something so extremely odd I thought I better tell you about it. Would you like another drink?”
“Please,” I said, holding out my empty glass. “A bit less tonic would be welcome.”
“Sorry about that,” she said, grinning at me. What a nice grin.
She returned with a refill that numbed my uvula. “Wow,” I said, “that’ll send me home whistling a merry tune. Now tell me: What did you find on your handy-dandy computer that was so extremely odd?”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, we require a death certificate signed by the doctor in attendance before we prepare the deceased for burial, cremation, or shipment elsewhere. Whoever fiddled me weekly reports from our three chief funeral directors neglected to remove copies of the death certificates from the records. I scrolled through them and noticed one physician had signed an extraordinary number of death certificates for all three funeral homes.”
“Remind me not to consult him,” I said.
She ignored my tepid attempt at levity. “His name was on a surprising number of certificates,” she went on. “We deal with a large number of doctors, of course, but none of them even came close to providing the volume of certificates this man has.”
“In other words, a lot of his patients are turning up their toes? And they’re all being delivered to the Whitcomb Funeral Homes?”
“It appears so. After noting that, I did some crosschecking and discovered that all the deceased whose death certificates were provided by this particular physician were being shipped out of Florida for eventual interment elsewhere.”
I took a gulp of my drink. A big gulp. “Do the certificates signed by this one doctor account for all the increase in Whitcomb’s out-of-state shipments?”
“Not all,” she said. “But most. We’re talking, like, ninety percent.”
We stared at each other, and I drew a deep breath. “You’re right,” I said. “Extremely odd. May I have the name and address of Dr. Quietus.”
“I wrote it out for you,” she said and handed me a slip of paper. The first thing I saw was that it was written in lavender ink. I would have guessed Sunny Fogarty used jet black, but she was a woman of constant surprises.
The medico’s name was Omar K. Pflug, and his office was in Broward County.
“Odd name,” I commented.
“Is it?” she said offhandedly, and once again I had the impression she knew more than she was telling me. But I simply could not conceive a reason for her secretiveness.
“I shall visit Dr. Pflug,” I said. “Not for professional advice, I assure you. I wouldn’t care to end up on your computer.”
She smiled. “Let’s move into the living room, Archy. We’ll be more comfortable there.”
And so we were, sitting at opposite ends of that long couch, turning to face each other. It was then I decided to confront her. It wasn’t a sudden resolve or surge of bravado. She had slugged my second drink; it was really her fault. (Are you familiar with Henry Ford’s comment about a colleague?: “He took misfortune like a man. He blamed it on his wife.”)
“Sunny,” I said boldly, “I must tell you I have the feeling you’re not revealing all you know about this matter. I’m not implying you’re lying, only that you are deliberately holding back certain things that might possibly aid the investigation.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said sharply. “I’ve told you all you need to know.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” I said. “Try telling me everything. I’m quite capable of separating the raisins from the rice pudding.”
She turned her head away. “I want to protect my job,” she said. “I told you and your father that from the start.”
“So you did. It’s a valid reason for your reticence, Sunny, but I don’t believe it’s the entire reason. You’re stiffing me and I’d like to know why.”
There was a silence that seemed to last for an hour, although I don’t suppose it was more than a few moments. Then she sighed and faced me again.
“There are some things, Archy,” she admitted. “But I swear to you they have absolutely nothing to do with your inquiry. Will you trust my judgment?”
“I’d rather trust mine.”
Then she flared. “Impossible!” she almost spat at me. “If you insist on knowing, perhaps we should end this right now.”
I drained the vodka bomb she had prepared. “Perhaps we should,” I said, rising. “I’ll inform my father that I’ve been unable to discover any evidence of wrongdoing at Whitcomb’s and recommend we close the case.”
It shook her.
“Archy,” she said pleadingly and held out a hand to me. “Don’t do that. Please. I admit I haven’t been as forthcoming as I might have been, but I do have a good motive, believe me. And it doesn’t affect the investigation; I swear it doesn’t. Don’t leave me in the lurch now, Archy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
What red-blooded American boy could resist an appeal like that? Not this boy.
“All right, Sunny,” I said. “I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens.”
She gave a little yelp of relief, bounced to her feet, and rushed to give me a chaste peck on the cheek. I was glad she hadn’t replaced her specs or I might have thrown myself upon her with a hoarse cry of brutal concupiscence.
But I knew there was to be no nice-nice that evening. She promised to inform me of the results of her inspection of the airlines’ shipping invoices. I promised to tell her whatever I could uncover about Dr. Omar K. Pflug.
Just before I departed she donned those damnable eyeglasses again, and my final vision was of a stalwart spectacled woman wearing brief cutoffs and a snug tank top.
Midnight:
Fantasy, fantasy, all is fantasy. But what would life be like without sweet dreams?
15.
IT WAS A VERY virtuous Saturday. I awoke in time to breakfast with my parents. I played eighteen holes with a trio of cronies and never did I request a mulligan. I lunched at the country club, returned home for an energetic ocean swim, and dressed for my dinner date with Consuela Garcia. And not once during those active twelve hours did I imbibe an alcoholic drink. I was so proud—and so thirsty.
Connie and I met at La Veille Maison in Boca, and because the snowbirds had not yet arrived in any great numbers we were able to snag that snug little room (one table) to the right of the entryway. We immediately ordered champagne cocktails, just to get the gastric juices flowing, and Connie studied the menu while I studied her.
As usual, she looked smashing. She was wearing a black slithery something held aloft by spaghetti straps. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a boudoir. In a cozy public dining room it unnerved our waiter and added zest to my already ravenous appetite. We ordered sautéed pompano with pecan sauce but I knew, looking at my companion, that delightful dish would leave my hunger unassuaged.
Our conversation was casual and gossipy during dinner. But then, while we were lolling with espresso and tots of B&B, Connie remarked, “By the way, your pal Binky Watrous was seen dancing up a storm with Mitzi Whitcomb at a local disco. My informant reports both of them looked zonked.”
“No kidding?” I said. “Old Binky is moving in fast company.”
“Too fast for him,” Connie said. “I know Binky. He’s a sweet boy but nebbishy. Mitzi will chew him up and spit him over the left field fence.”
“A barracuda, is she?”
“I don’t really think so, Archy. Not from what I hear. I mean, she doesn’t deliberately set out to destroy men. She just doesn’t care. You know? She flits hither, thither, and yon, and thinks all her temporary partners do, too. But some of them get hurt.”
“Not Binky. He’s a bit of a flit himself.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I thought I was but I began to wonder. Could my bird-calling chum have surrendered his heart to this Blue Angel? He was a mental flyweight, but I didn’t want him wounded. My good deed—accepting him as an apprentice in the arcane profession of discreet inquiries—began to give mean attack of the Galloping Guilts. I decided I better attempt to cool Binky’s ardor and turn him to more profitable pursuits. Tatting, for example.
We strolled out to our cars. You may think it curious that we both drove separate vehicles and met at the restaurant, rather than my calling for her at her home as a gentleman should. But Connie preferred the two-car arrangement, I suppose, because it gave her independence. It certainly served her well on those occasions when our dinner dates ended in turbulent conflicts—usually the result of her having learned of my misconduct.
“Archy,” she said, “don’t bother following me home. I’ll be okay. And I want to get to sleep early. I’ve got a family thing in Miami tomorrow. One of my cousins is getting married. Sorry about that, pal.”
“Sorry about the marriage?”
She laughed and punched my arm. “You know what I mean: sorry I can’t ask you up for fun and games.”
I was tempted to quote the remark attributed to Voltaire: “I disapprove of what you say but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Instead, I just caroled, “We’ll make it another time.”
“Of course we will,” she agreed and gave me a warm, sticky kiss before we parted.
And so I drove home alone on that virtuous Saturday. I’m sure you know what was giving me the glooms. No f&g with Sunny Fogarty on Friday night. No f&g with Connie Garcia on Saturday night. I feared the small tonsure on the crown of my noodle might be more serious than I had imagined. You’ll admit two spurns in a row can be daunting to an always hopeful lothario.
But I am happy to report the day ended on an uptick. I arrived home, disrobed, and phoned Connie to make certain she was safe, sound, and behind a bolted and chained door. She was.
“Oh Archy,” she wailed. “I made such a horrible mistake tonight.”
“You didn’t order a second B and B?”
“No, silly. I didn’t insist you come home with me. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I wish you were here right now.”
“Another time,” I said grandly. “I’ve just undressed and am deep in volume three of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Exciting stuff. Otherwise I’d be happy to pop over. But another night awaits us.”
“Promise?”
“Of course,” I assured her.
We had no sooner hung up when my phone jangled. I thought it might be Ms. Garcia demanding to know the exact date of that promised night, but it was Sunny Fogarty.
“Archy,” she said, “I want to apologize.”
“Whatever for?”
“Last night. I acted very foolishly and knew it the moment you walked out. I should have asked you to stay. Am I forgiven?”
“Of course,” I said grandly. Magnanimous me!
“I suppose it’s too late to invite you over now. Isn’t it?”
“’Fraid so,” I said. “I’m unclad and engrossed in the seventh volume of The Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Fascinating stuff. But there will be other nights.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely,” I assured her.
And then grinning, I drank a marc, smoked an English Oval, and listened to the original cast re
cording of “My Fair Lady.” I went to bed with my self-esteem healed and intact.
Continuing my righteous weekend, I accompanied my parents to church on Sunday morning. I was rewarded by the sight of an awesome contralto in the choir and immediately lost my senses. She was quite tall, broad-shouldered, with hair cut so short it might have been razored by a Parris Island barber. Fascinating woman, and I kept staring at her while listening to a sermon exhorting us to seek the beauty of God’s work on earth and be comforted thereby. Oh, how true, how indubitably true!
I thought I might audition for the choir the next time they had a casting call, but then I realized my chances were nil. I mean, my singing voice is serviceable for barroom ballads, but when it comes to such tunes as “Lead, Kindly Light,” you want a tenor with a better instinct for pitch—and more religious fervor than possessed by your humble scribe.
I arrived home still pondering how I might wangle an introduction to that impressive contralto. Ursi Olson told me Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb had phoned and asked I return her call. Father had retired to his study to begin excavating the national edition of The New York Times, and so I trudged upstairs to take off my Sunday go-to-meeting costume and call Mrs. Whitcomb.
“Archy,” she said, “I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all, ma’am. I just returned from church.”
“Oh? Do you attend regularly?”
“No,” I said.
She laughed delightedly. “Didn’t think so,” she said. “I’ve given it up since I’ve been anchored to this ridiculous chair on wheels. But the pastor insists on dropping by regularly to provide what I’m sure he thinks of as ‘spiritual solace.’ Dreadful man. Archy, I called for two reasons. First, I want to thank you for the lovely flowers you sent.”
“A very small token of my gratitude for a marvelous luncheon.”
“Well, it was very thoughtful of you. The second thing is a request. Horace has gone to his club for an afternoon of golf that will take hours. I’d dearly love to have a chat with you—just the two of us—and I wondered if it might be possible for you to come visit for an hour or so.”
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