“It appears you have gone into this very thoroughly,” I said diplomatically.
“I have,” he said, slapping a palm down on the tabletop for emphasis. “But there is one rub. A fly in the ointment, so to speak. As I’m sure you know, Whitcomb’s is a privately held corporation. Shares are owned by my mother, father, myself, and small amounts by longtime employees under a profit-sharing plan. But what I hope to accomplish means going public: selling a portion of the company on a stock exchange. My father is dead set against it. He wants the business to remain strictly within the family. I’ve tried to explain to him that a public offering doesn’t mean we’ll lose control; we’ll still hold a majority of voting shares. But he’s a stubborn man.”
Oliver shook his head sorrowfully and finished his dessert. He drew a deep breath, and I anticipated the “hook”: the final closing of his eloquent and well-reasoned sales pitch.
“What I’m hoping you might do,” he said carefully, “is help me out. I’m sure my father will discuss my project with your father. It would be dad’s way to ask his attorney for advice. I’d like to think I could depend on your understanding and cooperation if your father brings up the subject.”
I gave him a rueful smile. “My father rarely asks my opinion on legal counsel he gives to clients.”
“I know,” Oliver said, “but he might. And if he does, I’d like to think you’re in my corner.”
He said no more while he called for a check, paid the bill with plastic, and we moved outside. I thanked him for a splendid luncheon, but I don’t think he was listening.
“By the way,” he said, not looking at me, “when it comes time for our private placement—shares of stock sold to a limited number of investors—I’ll be happy to put your name on our preferred list. After we go public you could make a mint.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep any trace of sarcasm out of my voice. “That’s very kind of you.”
We shook hands and he departed for the “important funeral” he was to supervise. I stood there a moment realizing I had just been the object of an attempted bribe. I wasn’t insulted. Amused really, because I knew what little effect I could have on the decisions of Horace Whitcomb or my papa.
Oliver’s pitch to me, I decided, revealed a woeful ignorance of my influence, which was practically nil. Either he was misinformed or he had become aware of my investigation into Whitcomb’s recent unexplained prosperity and was essaying a measure of damage control.
Whatever his motive, I had learned he was a very determined chap, much deeper than I had originally thought. And that he was intensely ambitious I now had no doubt whatsoever. But as we all know, ambition is a two-edged sword.
I drove away with the conviction that I had just lunched with a three-dimensional man, not the cartoon of a lint-headed, high-living prodigal I had first believed him to be. And what bewildered me most about his chameleonic personality was his marriage to Mitzi, that panther. Was it love that drove him to such an unlikely union or could it have been a deliberate desire to offend his conservative father and by so doing declare his independence?
An intriguing enigma—and I loved it.
If you’ve devoured previous tales of my adventures, I’m sure you’re aware that occasionally I dabble in stocks. Nothing enormous, I assure you; just a hundred shares here and a hundred there. Pour le sport, you might say. I mean, I don’t go to Las Vegas, and everyone knows Wall Street is the biggest casino in the world.
My broker is a jolly chap of Chinese ancestry named Wang Lo. I’ve tried to convince him that if he expects to succeed as a stockbroker he should change his name to Wang Hi, but he won’t hear of it. He’s a popular member of the Pelican Club, and it was he who taught me how to bolt tequila straight with a lick of salt and a bite of fresh lime.
I’m sure my account is Wang’s tiniest, but he’s unfailingly polite and willing to spend time shooting the breeze even if it means no commissions for him. Anyway, when I arrived back at my office I phoned him and, after an exchange of pleasantries and genial insults, I requested his advice.
I outlined Oliver Whitcomb’s business plan, without mentioning any names of course. I merely told Wang an acquaintance of mine was trying to get a new project moving and wanted me to invest. Should I or shouldn’t I?
“That three-step plan is fairly conventional,” Wang told me. “A lot of new companies get started that way. Some make it, some don’t. Very chancy, but there’s always the possibility of a new McDonald’s or a new Xerox. This pal of yours—is he asking for up-front money?”
“No, he says he can manage that himself. He’s just asking if I’d be interested in the private offering.”
“Well, that sounds a little better, Archy; the risk is somewhat reduced. If he’s got his start-up funds, it shows he’s probably not peddling emu ranches or rhinestone mines. I really can’t tell you what to do unless I know more about it. It’s not another new chain of pizza joints, is it?”
“No, Wang, it’s a chain of noodle palaces.”
“Hey,” he said, “I might put a few bucks into that myself. But only if they promise to serve curried rice stick noodles, my favorite.”
“I’ll tell him that,” I promised, and we hung up laughing.
About all I had learned from that consultation was that Oliver Whitcomb had a viable business plan and was apparently not running an out-and-out swindle. I’m no financial wizard, but I could see that what Oliver termed “a rub, a fly in the ointment”—id est, his father’s objections—might doom the project before it got off the ground.
Just to make certain, I phoned Mrs. Trelawney and asked if our honcho was present and could grant me an audience of no more than five minutes.
“Oh Archy,” she said, “I doubt that; he’s so busy.”
“Inspecting his briefs again, is he? Be a luv and ask, will you?”
She came back on me line and told me I could have five minutes, no more.
I went leaping up the back stairs to poppa’s office and found him seated at his antique rolltop desk reviewing a humongous stack of legal documents.
“Yes, yes, Archy,” he said irritably, “what is it now?”
“Sir,” I said, “something curious has come up concerning the Whitcomb Funeral Homes investigation, and I need to know who actually owns the business. I presume Horace Whitcomb holds a controlling majority of me stock.”
He stared at me. “This is important to the successful conclusion of your inquiry?”
“Yes, father, it is.”
He paused a moment, then drew a deep breath. “In that case I shall reveal that you presume incorrectly. The majority of shares are held by Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb.”
I was astonished. “How can that be?”
“Very easily,” he said testily. “The shares were legally transferred to his wife’s name by Horace Whitcomb for tax purposes. Of course her shares are always voted as her husband recommends since she has little knowledge of or interest in the business affairs of their privately held corporation.”
“I see,” I said, beginning to get a glimpse of what was going on. “Thank you for the information.”
He thawed briefly. “Making any progress, Archy?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. A little.”
He nodded. “Keep at it,” he commanded and went back to his bumf.
I returned to my office just long enough to pick up my panama and then set off for home. I decided an ocean swim was needed to soothe the day’s rigors I had endured, to say nothing of restoring me to fighting trim for my meeting that evening with Sunny Fogarty.
My slow wallow had the desired effect, and the family cocktail hour followed by a light dinner of veal marsala completed my rejuvenation. I dashed upstairs to make entries in my journal concerning recent events. I was about to close up shop and prepare for my tête-à-tête with Ms. Fogarty when a phone call stopped me.
“Archy,” Sunny said, “I’m glad I caught you before you left. Could we make it ten o’clock instea
d of nine?”
“Of course,” I said manfully. “No problem. But would you prefer another night?”
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “I want to see you tonight. It’s important. But a neighbor asked to stop by for a while to ask me about her investments, and I couldn’t very well refuse. I hope our meeting an hour later won’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Archy,” she said gratefully.
I hung up absolutely certain the female neighbor seeking investment advice was a fabrication. Sunny’s voice had taken on the deeper, more solemn and intent tone prevaricators use, thinking it will convince the listener of their honesty and sincerity.
I had no doubt the lady was lying.
19.
I MAKE NO CLAIMS to possess ESP and I trust you don’t either. But have you ever entered a room and had the definite impression it was recently occupied by a visitor now departed?
That was the feeling I had when Sunny Fogarty led me into her condo. She had told me she expected the visit of a female neighbor, but I had a distinct notion that her guest had been male. Later that night, when I analyzed my reaction, I realized there were rational reasons for it: the down cushion of an armchair was still deeply depressed and, although I am no supernose, I did detect an ever-so-faint odor of cigar smoke plus another scent difficult to identify. My best guess was that I had sniffed a man’s rather spicy cologne.
Naturally I made no mention of my suspicions to Sunny. She had welcomed me graciously and almost immediately supplied me with a tot of iced vodka, for which I was thankful.
She was dressed smartly, as usual, wearing a loose charmeuse T-shirt and silk jeans dyed to resemble denim. I thought the latter amusing. Similar to people who install gold bathroom fixtures but insist they must be tarnished. There are such odd creatures, you know.
“Sorry for the delay, Archy,” she said. “But I really couldn’t help it.”
“No problem,” I assured her again. “You’re looking mighty perky this evening, Sunny.”
“Am I?” she said, genuinely surprised. “Thank you. I wish I felt perky, but I don’t. The deeper we get into this mess, the more depressed I become. And frightened.”
“Frightened? How so?”
“Because I know now that someone is trying to destroy Whitcomb or at least use the funeral homes in a criminal scheme. Archy, in effect I am the chief financial officer and feel I have a fiduciary duty to make certain our business is conducted in a legal and ethical manner. And I find this matter a cause for grave concern.”
I think I successfully hid my amazement. I mean, that rather pompous speech was so obviously rehearsed she lacked only a promptbook. I merely nodded encouragingly.
“As you know,” she continued, “I’ve been checking the invoices of the airlines which handle Whitcomb’s out-of-state shipments, trying to discover the names and addresses of the consignees.”
“The information missing from your files.”
“Stolen from my files,” she said angrily. “As you discovered, most of those, shipments went to New York, Boston, and Chicago. At LaGuardia in New York, practically all of the caskets were picked up by the Cleo Hauling Service.”
I looked at her, puzzled. “Sunny, isn’t that a bit unusual, to deliver human remains to a hauling service?”
She was drinking an amber liquid with bubbles. I guessed it might be ginger ale or something similar. Now she took a great gulp of it as if she needed whatever strength it might give her. “Unusual?” she repeated. “Archy, it’s practically unheard of. The coffins are customarily picked up by local funeral homes or cemeteries. Sometimes by relatives or churches when a service is to be held. But by a hauling company? That’s just ridiculous! Would you like another drink?”
“I think I need one,” I said, holding out my empty glass.
“You will,” she said. “The worst is yet to come. I’ll have one, too. I’ve had enough diet cream soda for one night.”
She returned with our drinks, and I noticed mine was larger this time, and it turned out to be gutsier. But hers was the same size and, I hoped, of the same toughness. I mean, I did not believe Sunny was trying to paralyze me.
She seated herself on the couch close to me. She continued: “It’s definite that the majority of shipments going to LaGuardia in New York were consigned to the Cleo Hauling Service. Now would you care to guess who picked up most of Whitcomb’s shipments to Logan in Boston and O’Hare in Chicago?”
I groaned. “Don’t tell me it was the Cleo Hauling Service.”
“You’ve got it,” she said, and we stared at each other. “Archy, what on earth is going on?” she burst out. There was fury in her voice and, I thought, an undertone of fear.
“We’ll find out,” I promised, “and bring it to a crashing halt. I’m as convinced as you that there’s a nefarious plot afoot aimed at your employer and our client.”
She gazed away, looking at nothing. “If I let anything bad happen to the company I’d never forgive myself. Never! Horace Whitcomb has been so good to, me. He’s helped me so much. He’s given me a chance to be happy.”
“Like a father, is he?” I said casually. It was perhaps an intrusive thing to say, but as you well know, I’m a nosy chap.
She turned to look at me directly. “A father?” she said. “I wouldn’t know. My real father deserted my mother and me when I was three years old.”
“Oh,” I said, an admittedly vacuous comment. “Well, I think Horace Whitcomb is a splendid gentleman.”
“Yes,” she said, “he is that. And I can’t have him hurt. I simply won’t stand for it.”
Suddenly she had become too heavily emotional. She was falsifying again, just as she had when Binky and I first visited. After that encounter the would-be Hercule Poirot of Palm Beach had declared the lady was scamming us—or trying to. I thought his judgment was accurate.
I believed she was sincere in her professed loyalty to Whitcomb, but I still sensed she was not revealing all she knew. That troubled me. Not because I suspected she might be involved in the caper—whatever it was—but because what she was holding back might enable me to write “Finis” to this case a lot sooner. Now I had to spend time and the racking of my poor, deprived brain in an effort to tweak out the mystery she kept hidden.
“Something bothering you, Archy?” Sunny asked.
“Pardon?” I said. “Oh no. Just woolgathering.” And then, because I have a talent for improv, I forged ahead. “I was thinking of your comment that Horace Whitcomb had given you the chance to be happy. That was well said. The Declaration of Independence lists ‘the pursuit of happiness’ as one of our unalienable rights. What a wonderful phrase! ‘Pursuit’ is the key word. I suspect Tom Jefferson used it ironically or at least slyly, meaning to imply that the chase after happiness is more important than its capture.”
Sunny smiled and took my hand. “Let’s go see if we can capture it,” she said. We finished our drinks and off we went to the tourney.
I won’t label Sunny Fogarty as Rubenesque, but she was abundant and all the more stirring for it. Her body was vital, overwhelming. I hung on for dear life and, in addition to my pleasure, had the added delight of being a survivor.
But I must admit that despite our yelps of bliss I could not rid myself of an aggravating unease that there was a dichotomy in her motives and in her actions. Just as during our first tumble, I had the antsy feeling that she was a Byzantine woman, very complex, and quite capable of giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation without becoming emotionally involved.
I sensed there was a deep and muffled part of her that she would never surrender, ever, to anyone.
But I cannot deny it was a joyous evening. For me at least. And before I departed, Sunny clutched me in a hot, almost frantic, embrace, and I began to believe she was a woman torn.
I promised I would investigate the Cleo Hauling Service and report the results to her ASAP. She gave me a brave smile and w
alked me to the door, clutching my hand tightly as if she feared to let me go. No doubt about it; she was a riddle, a troubling riddle.
I was home shortly after midnight with absolutely no desire to jot notes in my journal, smoke a coffin nail, listen to music, or have a nightcap, no matter how tiny. In truth, the McNally carcass was totally drained, wrung out, and hung up to dry. All I sought was blessed sleep, hoping the morn would bring roses back to my cheeks.
I had a delayed breakfast on Wednesday morning, having enjoyed a few extra hours of catalepsy. I found Jamie Olson alone in the kitchen, puffing on his ancient briar, which had a cracked stem bound with a Band-Aid. He was also nursing a mug of coffee, and I had no doubt he had added a dollop of aquavit to give him the push to face the rigors of another day.
Jamie offered to scramble a brace of eggs for me, but I settled for an OJ, a bran muffin, and black decaf. Very abstemious and totally unsatisfying. Why do all healthy meals remind me of wallpaper paste?
I sat across from Jamie and thought it a propitious time to start redeeming the promise I had given Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb: to discover the reason for the enmity between her husband and son.
“Jamie,” I said, “do you know Jason, houseman for the Horace Whitcombs?”
“Yep,” he said. “One year younger than God. Got the arthritis.”
“I noticed. Nice man?”
“Jase? The best. Him and me have a belt together now and then.”
I was about to observe that “He and I” would have served even better but restrained that pedantic impulse.
“There seems to be a quarrel between Horace and his son Oliver. The next time you have a belt with Jason you might inquire as to the cause.”
Jamie considered that a moment, staring at his fuming pipe. “Couldn’t ask straight out,” he said finally.
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