Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  He must have stood for a few moments, the wind slapping the halyards about in the rigging of the sailboats, when he heard the door to the bar slam open. Stepping into the shadows, he saw the silhouetted figure of his new pal, Cholly Forsythe, swaying precariously at the top of the steps. If Cholly saw Blackie, he gave no hint of it. He had a large object in his hands, and as he staggered down the steps, Blackie saw that it was a large silver trophy. Not just any trophy, either.

  The Rybo.

  The man giggled childishly as he tiptoed across the manicured lawn bordering the parking lot. He made his way to his Bentley, set the trophy down, and popped the trunk. Tossing the trophy inside, he slammed the lid, got into his car, and sped crazily away into the tropical night.

  THE ENTRANCE TO Cielito Lindo on Billionaire’s Row, overlooking the Atlantic, resembled the famous arch at Paramount Pictures in Hollywood, but more elegant. Wolfgang steered the white Rolls through an army of valets busily parking cars for those without chauffeurs and stopped under the porte cochere. Blackie climbed out and smiled. Some joint.

  The Ivor Guest residence, at some forty thousand square feet, wasn’t anywhere near the largest on the beach. Still, Blackie always thought it looked like some fabulous Mediterranean hotel set amid a gorgeous jungle.

  Blackie took a flute of champagne from a bare-chested waiter in a traditional Hawaiian malo, or loincloth, who looped a lei of pungent white flowers around his neck. Then he made his way through a high hallway with a frosted wedding cake ceiling, past endless rooms that seemed to bloom with rosy light. Reaching the loggia with arches opening onto the gardens and the gleaming sea beyond, he headed outside in search of his hostess.

  THE TERRACED GARDENS below were a wonderland of Japanese lanterns, reflected in many illuminated pools and cascading fountains. He leaned against the marble balustrade and took in the lovely vista, which included in its sweep acres of tropical jungle; a sunken Italian garden; a half acre of deep, pungent roses; and the silvery ocean sliding off to the deep blue horizon. Somewhere hidden in the gardens, a full Hawaiian orchestra was tuning up. Blackie smiled. He and Betty Guest had first met at the Surf Rider Club in Honolulu twenty years ago.

  He found his old friend standing near a bush of flaming hibiscus, the silver sequins of her gown flickering in the lantern light, the fascinating planes of her face reflecting the soft glow. Betty Guest had at one point been on the cover of every fashion magazine in London, New York, and Paris. Now in her sixties, she was still alluring, flirtatious, and gracious to a fault.

  Betty had been the first of Blackie’s “benefactors,” as he called them. Over the years, the number had grown. Beautiful women, extremely wealthy and extremely lonely, who enjoyed Blackie’s company, even for a brief while. Women who were always happy to see the black-hulled Narcissus sail into Newport, Martha’s Vineyard, the Hamptons, and other ports of call from Hilton Head to Key West.

  After Palm Beach, the Narcissus’s next port was the Lyford Cay Club in Nassau; then she’d sail the eastern coast of South America, making calls at Buenos Aires and Rio. A combination of shrewd investments and the generous donations of these wonderful, extremely grateful gals kept Blackie living the lifestyle to which he’d become happily accustomed. The fact was, he truly loved them all. And they all loved him.

  Betty opened her arms and embraced him.

  “Oh, Blackie, darling, how are you? It’s been ages! You look divine, of course, no one does more for black tie than you do.”

  “Betty, it’s awfully nice of you to do this…. You look positively gorgeous by the way. And the house, the flowers, it’s really a bit ritzy for an old beach bum like me.”

  “No date tonight?”

  “Guests of the Guests may not bring guests, remember?”

  She laughed at their old joke and took his arm.

  “Before this turns into an absolute mob scene, let me take you around and introduce you to some wonderful new people. Do you need another drink? You might.”

  “Probably. But first, I wanted to give you this,” he said, handing her the small robin’s egg blue box.

  “Now, Blackie, you know you’re not supposed to—Oh, darling, they’re exquisite, that is so sweet, I can’t begin to tell you. Every time I wear them I’ll remind myself that Blackie is a girl’s best friend.”

  “Not every girl, Betty, just you.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  She laughed at his honesty. Since Blackie had always been completely honest with all his benefactors, none of them had ever had cause for jealousy.

  “One dance, Blackie? For old times’ sake? Sounds like the Honolulu Hepcats are in full swing.” They set off, arm in arm, through the lush gardens.

  LATER, WHEN BLACKIE made his way to the main house, it seemed to have swollen with humanity. Laughter bubbling with champagne; groups forming and re-forming, swelling and shrinking with arrivals and departures; a constant social diaspora as natural and regular at parties in this town as breathing rarefied air.

  “Excuse me,” Blackie said to a young white-jacketed houseman. “Both of the bathrooms seem to be occupied, and I’ve a bit of an emergency.”

  “Not at all, sir. Just use that main staircase to the second floor, take a right, and use any of the facilities in any of the guest rooms along that hallway.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  It was the work of a minute to find himself in the tower suite dressing room of Mrs. Ivor Guest. On her glass vanity stood a miniature mirrored chest of drawers. Sitting on the small satin stool, he carefully went through each velvet-lined drawer until he found what he was looking for. Yes. The glorious Diamond Drop earrings Ivor had bought Betty for their anniversary.

  He picked them up, looked lovingly at the pair of them. A million dollars right there in the palm of his hand. But he put one back into the drawer, and slipped the other into the side pocket of his tuxedo trousers. He slid the drawer closed, winked at himself in the silver-framed vanity mirror, and returned to the fray downstairs in time for dinner, feeling much better about his immediate prospects.

  AS GUEST OF honor, he was seated to Mrs. Guest’s right. Twenty tables of ten were scattered throughout the gardens. Directly opposite him sat Mr. Charles Forsythe, swilling champagne. Blackie took no end of delight in the man’s obvious discomfort, seething at seeing Blackie toasted by Mrs. Guest and many others in the most fawning terms.

  At one point, Betty passed him a note below the table. He was just able to read it in the flickering candlelight, holding it in his lap.

  Darling, I’ve been waiting so long. Please meet me in the pool house by the Venetian Grotto at eleven. I’ll be waiting….

  The table was set with blue and white china once used at Peterhof, Peter the Great’s Russian summer palace. And then the gleaming golden vermeil tableware. Blackie had seldom seen true vermeil used anywhere in America except the White House. Vermeil flatware is made of sterling silver covered in 14 karat gold and is very hard to come by.

  As dinner ended, Blackie clinked his wineglass and stood to thank his hostess, saying, “When one looks back upon another star-studded season in Palm Beach, they shall remember this one brilliant night and our lovely hostess, someone whose radiance outshines the brightest of stars above. On behalf of all your countless friends, Betty, I raise my glass to your charm, your beauty, and your inimitable style….”

  There were resounding “Hear, hears!” from every corner of the garden, and Mrs. Guest’s eyelashes fluttered as she raised her glass to her guest of honor, her brown eyes never leaving the face of Blackford Blaine, the only man she’d ever loved.

  Blackie started to sit, paused, and said, “Oh, and one more thing before I shut up.” His blue eyes lasered on Cholly. “Do try to refrain from stealing the spoons, Mr. Forsythe. Be a good boy and put them back, won’t you?”

  TWO HOURS LATER, only a few hardcore guests remained. Mr. and Mrs. Ivor Guest had long slipped upstair
s and were preparing for bed when Mrs. Guest uttered a sharp cry. She was at her vanity, pawing frantically through her jewelry drawers.

  “What is it, dear?” Ivor said, buttoning his silk pajamas.

  “The Diamond Drop earrings! Our anniversary! Please call the police, Ivor. They’ve been stolen!”

  “Stolen?”

  “Well, one of them, anyway.”

  “One of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Betty, darling, please. You must have lost one or misplaced it. Nobody steals just one earring.”

  “I did not!”

  “You simply cannot call the police and tell them that a thief, upon discovering a pair of million-dollar earrings, has stolen just one.”

  “And why not?”

  “And deliberately left behind a half million dollars? I wouldn’t buy it, and the police certainly won’t buy it.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “I’ll buy the match, pet.”

  “Would you really, dearest?”

  “Of course. Now, out with the lights. It’s time for bed.”

  Betty reached up and turned out the bedside lamp. Her weary head against the pillow, she looked over at her gently snoring husband and smiled. Her beloved would return to the Narcissus tonight, half a million dollars richer. She’d have her favorite earrings back. And sweet Ivor? Well, husband number four wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe one day—

  THE AFFAIR WAS long over, the tables and chairs packed away, when the hardcore party boys moved to the beach terrace for stogies and brandy. Blackie saw Pete Benchley standing alone, puffing away, and gazing out to sea. President of the Marlin Club, Pete was Blackie’s oldest fishing buddy and he said hello. Benchley offered Blackie a Montecristo Torpedo, held a lighter to it, and the two men caught up quickly.

  “Well, Blackie, you won’t believe what the hell has happened at the club. Simply unbelievable.”

  “Try me,” Blackie said.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Benchley found Cholly Forsythe standing at the beach bar, uproariously drunk like everyone else. Pete took the man’s elbow and leaned in toward his ear.

  “Got a minute, Cholly? How ’bout a little stroll down the beach?”

  “Sure! Cigar?”

  “Got one going,” Pete said, puffing.

  After a hundred yards or so on the hard-packed sand, Pete stopped and looked Forsythe in the eye.

  “Cholly, you don’t have anything at home that doesn’t belong to you, do you?”

  “What? Of course not! What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the Rybovich Cup, Cholly. The Rybo, the trophy you stole last night.”

  “Me? Preposterous! How dare you accuse me of stealing! Really, Benchley, you are way out of line. Don’t care who you are, nobody gets away with speaking to me—why, I’ll—”

  “Someone saw you do it, Cholly. Eyewitness.”

  “Who? Lying son of a bitch. Why—”

  Benchley sighed and looked out to sea, no longer able to stand the sight of this wretched man.

  “Two options, Cholly,” he said. “I can call the police right now, have them get a warrant to search your house. Or the club’s service door can be left open tonight, and you can sneak in and put the damn trophy back where it belongs. This is a onetime offer. Do the right thing, and in light of our family’s long friendship, not to mention the enormous embarrassment this would cause you in town, I’ll keep this between us. Otherwise—”

  Forsythe was staggered.

  “Don’t know what came over me, Pete. Only had a few pops, ran into that phony bastard Blackie Blaine, and suddenly the idea of our trophy sitting up there with his name on it just made me crazy, y’know?”

  “No, I don’t know. I saw him catch the fish.”

  “Can you just tell me who told you? I’d like to apologize to them, too. Keep it under the rug, you know, hush-hush, for the good of the club.”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Barney Dodge, right? Cut Bait moored right off the damn bar, sits up on deck drinking half the night. Had to be—”

  “Doesn’t matter who it was, Cholly. But I will tell you something he mentioned to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “He said, and I quote, ‘Tell Forsythe this: If he never wants to see Winnie the Pooh’s multiple arrest records for robbery in Duckbill, Alabama, in the newspapers, he’ll keep his fat mouth shut and mind his own business from now on. Period.’”

  Pete Benchley turned away from the simpering, nearly blubbering Forsythe in utter disgust and walked back toward the brilliant glow of the gardens and the rhythm of ukeleles rising into the sapphire sky above the eternal sparkle of Palm Beach.

  What a town.

  THANK GOD FOR CHARLIE

  BY PETER BLAUNER

  Every time she looked in the mirror now, it felt like faith had been broken and the terms of a contract had been violated.

  She had always been the pretty girl, getting all the attention whenever she walked in a room. Kindergarten teachers, high school quarterbacks, feminist art critics, and presidential candidates had nodded, openmouthed and glassy-eyed, at her most trivial utterances and shallow insights. But at fifty-eight, the game was ending. The closing studio gates had left lines on her face, and chemo had taken her hair a few years back. What grew back was silver and coarse; even with tinting and highlights, most dye went on like furniture shellac these days. The knowledge of how things could go wrong had pushed her eyes deep into her head, creating a slight shadow under her brow that chemical peels and Botox could not lighten, and though she tried to tell herself sometimes that maturity could give a woman character, all it took was a few steps down Madison and a young man’s glance straying over her shoulder to remind her that her powers had been diminished.

  Thank God for Charlie. If it wasn’t for him, she might have been tossed out of her East Side sublet months ago, residuals from the old TV shows dwindling even as her ex-husband, “the talent manager,” accumulated more and younger ex-wives and had to dice alimony payments into ever-shrinking slices. But Charlie, with his graying comb-over, his bridge-and-tunnel accent, and his bulky shapeless sweaters, had become her rescuer, helping with the rent and groceries, taking her out to dinner, even arranging limos to bring her to her doctors’ appointments. Charlie who never had a date in high school and had spent the years when she was in Laurel Canyon collecting favors from the clubhouse politicians and local fixers in southeastern Queens. Charlie with his grubby job soliciting investments from union pension funds, his frumpy wife in Jamaica Estates dragging her feet about the divorce, and his three spoiled kids begrudging their hardworking father every moment of joy in his life. Charlie who treated her like she was still a slim-hipped, gossamer-haired prime time princess, the Undercover Co-Ed brandishing a fake Beretta and a golden thigh on the cover of TV Guide, and not just a washed-up starlet living in obscurity among the retired garmentos and aging Poodle Ladies on First Avenue.

  Yes, sometimes it seemed wrong that she had to spread herself like a stunned chinchilla under his girth and endure his chemically invigorated exertions. But when he’d make an omelet for her afterward and serve it to her with a vitamin supplement and orange juice while they watched some old Ingrid Bergman movie on cable, her skin freshly moisturized and her feet warm in bunchy wool socks, she felt her tender gratitude shade into something closer to love than she could have ever imagined.

  But then two weeks ago, she found him close to tears in her kitchenette. A federal grand jury had just indicted him for defrauding the roofers’ union out of $250,000—most of which went to her rent and medical expenses, he said. They could send him to prison for eight years unless he gave them a bigger fish. So how could she refuse when he begged her for help?

  She put on a fresh coat of lipstick and then tugged down the front of her white ribbed turtleneck, worrying at first that the transmitter taped to her stomach was conspicuous and then worrying that it wasn’t because of the weight she�
��d gained. Back when she was Christie Ball (“undergrad by day, undercover by night”), there would be a scene every week requiring her to strip down to her bra and panties so the pimply, bespectacled tech wizard J.T. could affix a tiny Japanese microphone to the sleek alabaster curve of her back or, if standards and practices was feeling lax, the marble quarry of her Maidenform cleavage. Now she was wearing wires down her Spanx and a digital recorder from the prosecutor’s office in the ugly, fake Navajo amulet dangling before her once-perky breasts, a chunky little piece of turquoise that looked like it had been handled by a sweaty Chinese food delivery boy. She pulled up her collar to cover more of her neck, gave a chilly smile to a young brunette walking into the bathroom wearing a cocktail napkin and stilettos, and then forced herself to march bravely back out into the restaurant.

  It was one of those vaguely Mediterranean-themed midtown places just at the tail end of a Reagan-era reputation. A pair of middle-aged Wall Street sultans looked at her from a side booth with harem-like swags, dull glimmers of recognition in their rheumy eyes; she realized they might have been kids when the series was first on the air. The girls they were with—long legged, pearly toothed, and honey shouldered—were young enough to be the daughter she never had. It was almost a relief to head back toward the table by the kitchen where her target waited, gazing admiringly, as if she were still the little blonde with the cornflower eyes just off the bus from Minneapolis.

  Martin, the man Charlie had set her up with, was a ruddy, rough-hewn type, with knuckles like walnut shells, thinning slicked-back hair, and cheeks that filled up when he smiled. On the show, he might have been cast as a second-act heavy, someone for Christie Ball to take seriously. But his herringbone jacket, open-collared Oxford shirt, and steel-banded Patek Philippe chronograph smoothed the edges considerably. And as the business agent for something called the Northeastern Service Workers Union—though the sooty sound of it made her want to spend a weekend at a spa—he represented a pension fund worth a half-billion dollars. “A whale compared to a guppy like me,” Charlie insisted. But even better, a big fan of Christie Ball’s from the old days, who’d been dying to meet her ever since Charlie connected with her at a Cancer Trust event three years ago. Now the prosecutors were counting on this Martin being so excited about having dinner with her that he might speak incautiously enough to incriminate himself on tape.