“Of course,” I said promptly, figuring I could return home in time for our Sunday dinner—an early afternoon feast usually followed by a major nap by all the McNallys. “I’ll be there in half an hour, Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“Sarah,” she said. “You must call me Sarah. I’ll have Jason chill a bottle of this year’s Fleurie Beaujolais. Will that do?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Sarah,” I vowed, and her giggle had a girlish quality.
I hurriedly pulled on informal duds and bounced downstairs. I paused at the kitchen to see what Ursi and Jamie were preparing. I began to salivate, for they were working on quarters of glazed duckling to be served with a cider sauce.
“Don’t you dare serve dinner without me,” I warned them. “Be back in an hour. And would you put out some of that cranberry relish, please.”
I was at the Whitcombs’ palazzo in slightly more than twenty minutes, but the trip seemed to take much less time because I was dreaming about Amazonian contraltos and glazed ducklings, I admit my mind doesn’t always work in lucid ways—but neither does yours.
The arthritic Jason met me at the door and slowly—oh, so slowly!—conducted me to the terrace where Mrs. Whitcomb was seated in her wheelchair at a shaded table covered with a jazzy abstract-patterned cloth. An ice bucket, complete with uncorked bottle, was set nearby, and my hostess’s glass was half full—or half empty.
She gave me a winsome smile and turned up her face. “Kissy,” she commanded, and I leaned to buss her cheek.
She was wearing her usual turban, in an indigo denim this time, and another of her voluminous, filmy gowns that stirred occasionally in a breeze coming off the lake. I took the chair opposite her. Jason, swaddling the dripping bottle in a napkin, added to Mrs. Whitcomb’s glass and then filled mine. He departed and I sipped the nectar.
“How do you like it?” Sarah asked.
“Heaven,” I pronounced.
“Well, you did go to church this morning,” she said mischievously, and I realized again this woman might be ill but her wit hadn’t dulled.
“Archy,” she said, “tell me something: Are all men idiots?”
I considered that query very, very carefully while savoring another taste of the young Beaujolais. “Perhaps ‘idiots’ is too harsh a condemnation, Sarah,” I said. “But I agree that most men are limited.”
“Limited,” she repeated. “Yes. Exactly. I knew I could depend on you.”
Then she was silent, staring out over the water. It was a thousand-yard stare, and I knew she was not seeing lake, shore, or tacking sailboats.
“I shouldn’t bother you with my problems,” she said finally.
“If not me—whom? If not now—when?” I tried to say it lightly and was rewarded with a wan smile as she turned to face me.
“All right,” she said. “Archy, I love my husband dearly, and I love my son dearly. The two are so unlike—really from different planets—but up to about six months ago they had a—what’s it called? A modus something.”
“Modus vivendi?” I suggested.
“That’s it! They had a sort of unspoken compromise. A live-and-let-live thing. They accepted and loved each other, I believe, even if their lifestyles are so opposite. Horace is a very stiff-necked man. He has his standards.”
“I am familiar with the type,” I murmured, thinking of my liege.
“Oliver is a hell-for-leather boy. Always has been. And yet the two of them managed to coexist. Horace took Oliver into the business and he’s performed brilliantly. Of course there have been disagreements, I can’t deny that, but nothing serious. Until, as I said, about six months ago when their relationship became cold and nasty. Their trivial arguments have become rancorous. Spiteful. Sometimes they say things to each other that frighten me. Archy, I’m not asking for your sympathy or pity, but I know I’ll be gone soon and I want my son and his father to be close and cherish one another when I’m no longer here to serve as umpire or referee or whatever you want to call it.”
She stared at me: a very resolute stare. I had the impression I was listening to this doomed woman’s last will and testament.
“Sarah,” I said softly and reached across the table to clasp her hand, “I’m sure this is a very real problem that’s troubling you. But it’s such a personal family matter. How can I possibly help?”
“I know my son is a charming rascal,” she said. “But I refuse to believe he could do anything seriously wrong. Nothing unethical or illegal or anything like that. He just couldn’t. He’s my son and I know he’s incapable of evil. And yet his father is now treating him with what I can only call suspicion and contempt, as if Oliver might be committing some horrible crime. That’s just absurd!”
Her distress was obvious. Hers were not merely the fretful complaints of a dying woman; she was deeply concerned and sharp enough to sense that what was occurring between husband and son was a preliminary tremor that might presage a destructive quake.
“Archy,” she said quietly, and our conversation became a whispered dialogue on a drowsy, sunlit midday, “I understand you do investigations for your father’s firm.”
“Yes, Sarah,” I said just as lazily, “that’s true.”
“I’d like to employ you,” she said, looking at me directly. “At whatever rate you name. To see if you can discover what is happening between Horace and Oliver. Neither will talk to me about it; they treat me like a brainless invalid, which I definitely am not! Since both are unwilling to answer my questions, I want you to find out what’s going on. I don’t expect you to make recommendations on how their quarrel may be resolved; that’s my job. But I can’t begin until I know the cause. I need information. Will you try to provide it? Our arrangement will be known only to us.”
I finished the bottle into her glass and mine, knowing as I poured that I was about to do something exceedingly foolish. But I really had no choice, did I?
“I shall do as you ask, Sarah,” I said. “With the understanding it will be an attempt with no guarantee of success. And I want to hear no more mention of rate, charges, or billing. This is a small service for a beautiful woman I love.”
Her smile was radiant as she lifted her worn face to me. “Kissy,” she said, and so I did.
I drove home in a contemplative mood, musing on the promise I had just made to that wounded woman. Naturally I believed the conflict between Whitcomb pére et fils was rooted in the financial matter my father and I had discussed: Oliver wanted to create a national chain of funeral homes as rapidly as possible; his father thought it a loony idea not worth discussing. I had mentioned nothing of this to Sarah, of course, respecting client confidentiality.
At that moment I really thought I had two discreet inquiries in progress: investigations into the exceptional profits of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes and into the enmity between the president and the chief executive officer.
Exactly what do people mean when they speak of “a pretty kettle of fish”? I’ve never seen one—have you? This entire Whitcomb affair was rapidly becoming an ugly kettle of fish.
Fortunately I arrived home in time for the glazed duckling.
With cranberry relish.
16.
I STARTED PHONING BINKY Watrous early Sunday evening, called every half hour, and eventually found the lad at home shortly after 10:30 P.M.
“Archy,” he said, “if you value our friendship, make this brief. I am flogged, utterly flogged, and if I don’t get some shut-eye I doubt if I shall live to see the sun rise over the yardarm tomorrow.”
“Binky, old sod, what have you been up to?”
“We flew to Ocala early this morning.”
“Who is ‘we’—or who are ‘we,’ whichever is grammatically correct.”
“Me, Mitzi, Oliver, Ernie Gorton, and some other people whose names fortunately escape me.”
“You flew to Ocala?”
“We did. On a private jet that belonged to someone.”
“And why did you fly to Ocala?”
“He could have stayed in Boca and looked at a poodle.”
“You don’t understand, Archy. He’s thinking of buying this horse.”
“Ah,” I said. “And did he?”
“He was impressed. It’s a two-year-old with good bloodlines. It was a nice horse. I fed it a carrot. And then we parried. At the home of me guy who owns the horse and then on the flight back to Palm Beach. I can state definitely that the grape and the grain are not a marriage made in heaven. Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Wait a minute,” I said hurriedly. “I expect to see you in my office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
His moan was piteous. “Could we make that noon, Archy?” he pleaded. “You want me up to speed, don’t you? And I figure twelve hours’ sleep will do it.”
I agreed to noon on Monday, but I wasn’t certain sleep would bring Binky Watrous up to speed. A frontal lobotomy might do the trick.
As I expected, he didn’t show up at noon on Monday, but by one o’clock we were heading south. We took my Miata since I didn’t feel Binky was in any condition to navigate even a Flexible Flyer. He had the look of a man brought low by excess. Even the bags under his eyes had bags, and his natural pallor exhibited a greenish tinge that suggested mal de mer. But I was not displeased with his appearance; it fitted the scenario I had devised.
“Where are we going?” he croaked. “And why?”
“We are driving to Broward to see a doctor.”
“To cure me?” he said hopefully.
“No, Binky, not to cure you. Only a vow of lifelong abstemiousness might do that. This particular doctor has signed an immoderate number of death certificates submitted to Whitcomb Funeral Homes. And all his allegedly defunct patients have been shipped elsewhere for burial.”
“Beautiful. I don’t suppose he has much chance of being voted Physician of the Year. What’s his name?”
“Omar K. Pflug.”
“Impossible.”
“Certainly improbable,” I agreed. “Although I once heard of a professor of anatomy named Lancelot Tush. Now here’s the script I have planned for our visit to Dr. Pflug. You are to play the starring role.”
I explained the scam I had devised. Binky was to claim to be a visiting tourist who had arrived from New Jersey with his elderly father only two days ago. They were staying at a nearby motel and the father, who had a long history of heart problems, had unfortunately passed away. Since there had been no physician in attendance, Binky was ignorant of how he might obtain an official death certificate that would enable him to ship his father’s remains home to the family plot in Metuchen. The people at the motel had recommended he consult Dr. Pflug.
Binky listened as we sped southward on Federal Highway. It was a so-so day: a lot of greasy clouds with occasional flashes of sunlight. The breeze was right out of a sauna and smelled of sulfur. We drove through one sprinkle of rain but it didn’t last long.
“Archy,” Binky said, “why are we doing this?”
“To test the bona fides of Dr. Pflug. We are dangling bait to see if he bites. You are to tell him that money is of no importance; your only concern is to get your deceased father home to his final resting place as quickly as possible. All you want from the doctor is a signed death certificate and the recommendation of a funeral home that can handle the details. Think you can play the part of a bereaved son?”
“Of course I can,” he said, perking up. “I’ll do it just as you told me. No problem.”
It took some scouting to find the office of Dr. Omar K. Pflug, and both Binky and I were startled by its location. It occupied the rearmost unit of a grungy strip mall on Copans Road, and I would not care to shop there after nightfall (or even at high noon) unless accompanied by a heavily armed platoon of Army Rangers or Navy Seals.
We didn’t stop immediately but made a short tour of the neighborhood until we found a rather decrepit motel, the name and address of which could be used in our planned deception. We then returned to Dr. Pflug’s office, parked, and marched up to the door.
I halted Binky for a moment. “Remember,” I instructed, “you are a grieving son whose beloved father has just departed for realms where the woodbine twineth. You are racked with grief. If you can manage to stifle a sob or wipe away a tear, it would help.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I can handle it. I’m a great actor. I once impersonated the Shah of Iran at the Pierre in New York.”
“Did it work?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said cheerfully.
We pushed in, ignoring a large, hand-lettered sign that declared “By Appointment Only.” The waiting room was definitely not designed to soothe nervous patients. The furniture seemed to have been hastily constructed of unpainted plywood except for two chairs and a couch of dented tubular steel upholstered in an acidic green plastic that made my molars ache. I found the wallpaper of screaming parrots especially loathsome.
There was a young woman lounging behind a makeshift desk. She was painting her fingernails a violent crimson, and although dressed in a nurse’s whites she was totally unlike any nurse I had ever seen. Her cap was perched atop a pile of orangy hair and her jacket was carelessly (or deliberately) unbuttoned to hint at the bounties within.
I heard Binky gasp and thought it no more than his usual reaction to any charlotte russe of legal age. I found the lady comely enough but considered her sharp features a mite off-putting.
“Yes, gentlemen,” she said, looking up with a vacant smile. “What can I do for you?”
I waited for Binky to demonstrate his claimed histrionic ability.
“My pop died,” he blurted.
I could have strangled the sap. He had, I realized, all the thespian talents of Popeye, and my hopes for a successful investigation of Dr. Pflug went into deep six.
But the nurse didn’t seem discombobulated. “Sorry to hear that, sir,” she said chirpily. “But if your father passed, there’s not much we can do for you. I mean, it’s too late to consult a doctor, isn’t it?”
“It’s a private matter,” I said hastily. “Could we talk to the doctor? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
She stared at me, obviously debating whether or not to give us an immediate heave-ho.
“I’ll see if the doctor is available,” she said finally, rose, and sashayed into an inner office. A googly-eyed Binky watched her go.
“Imbecile!” I hissed at him, but he paid no attention.
In a moment we heard a sudden shout of male laughter from within, followed by what I can only describe as a torrent of giggles, male and female. We waited patiently and eventually the nurse emerged adjusting her starched cap, which was hanging rakishly over one ear.
“The doctor will see you now,” she said primly.
We entered an inner office which had all the warm ambience of a subway loo. There were a few medical machines in white enameled cases. I could not identify them, although one might have been a cardiograph. The most striking furnishing was a life-size skeleton of plastic, held upright on a metal support that seemed to have sagged, for Mr. Bones appeared to be dancing a jig.
The man seated behind the bare desk had a head that looked like a huge matzo ball: totally hairless, and the face was soft, doughy and dimpled. But it was the eyes that caught my attention. His gaze wavered and never stopped: up and down, left and right, directly at us and then sliding away. He looked as if he was trying to follow the path of a housefly.
This man, I immediately concluded, was stoned out of his gourd. I couldn’t guess his drug of choice, but I had no doubt he was gone and drifting.
“Dr. Pflug?” I inquired.
It took him a beat or two to remember who he was. “I am Dr. Omar K. Pflug,” he said at last, smiling with triumph. “And who are you?”
Binky launched into his spiel, and to my delighted surprise he delivered it in earnest tones just as he had been coached: His elderly father had d
ied suddenly and a death certificate was needed as well as the name of a funeral home that would facilitate shipping the deceased to a family plot in Metuchen, New Jersey.
Dr. Pflug tried hard to concentrate on Binky’s tale of woe.
“Your father?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Croaked?”
“A few hours ago.”
“Where is the corpus now?”
Binky explained the body lay in a nearby motel suite. It had been the motel owners who suggested we consult Dr. Pflug.
That flickering glance swung to me. “And who might you be?” he said, not much interested.
“A close friend of the family,” I answered. “Eager to provide any assistance I can.”
“Air-conditioned?” he said.
“Pardon?” Binky said, totally bewildered.
“Where the deceased presently resides.”
“Oh yes,” I assured him. “The motel suite is very chilly.”
“Good,” he said. “Then he’ll keep awhile. I’ll be very busy this afternoon. At the beck and call of my dear patients, you know. Perhaps I can make it in an hour,” he added vaguely. “Maybe two or three. Give me the address. Meet me there and I’ll make it official.”
“We’ll get a signed death certificate?” I pressed.
“Why not?” he said. “If he’s as dead as you say. And I suggest Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Lovely people. Very efficient. Very understanding. Write down the name and address of the motel. And the room number where the departed lies at rest.”
I took out my gold Mont Blanc but there was a moment of embarrassment because he had nothing to write on, not a single scrap of paper, not even a prescription pad. Finally he dug into the wastebasket beneath his desk and came up with a Daily Racing Form. I scribbled the name and address of the motel on the margin of the front page.
“What time, doctor?” Binky asked.
Pflug’s flickering stare settled on him again. “Time?” he said. “For what?”
“When we can meet at the motel,” I explained slowly. “And you can sign the death certificate.”
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