McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, you must admit your style is not exactly conventional.”

  “I’m an individual.”

  “You’re cute, Archy.”

  Finally, a statement we both agreed upon.

  After this brief respite from our more weighty conversation, she lapsed into silence once again, and I did nothing to discourage it until we neared home. Then, quite casually, I asked, “Did you turn on the alarm at the front gate when you went out this evening?”

  She was either nodding out or in a trance. “Did I do what?”

  “Your mother told me tonight that the first person to leave the house in the evening turned on the security system at the front gate. She said it was a house rule.”

  “It is. And yes, I usually turn it on.”

  “And did you tonight? Or should I say last night?”

  She shook her head. “I honestly don’t remember. Why? Is it important?”

  “It wasn’t on when I arrived at your place.”

  “If I turned it on—and my guess is that I did, out of pure habit—Geoff must have turned it off when he came in.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because we don’t keep it armed during the day. It’s not necessary and a nuisance with all our coming and going.”

  “But no one would turn it off when they came in,” I argued. “That would leave it unarmed for the remainder of the night.”

  “Archy, I have a headache and I don’t understand what this is about. Maybe I didn’t turn it on when I left. I can’t remember. But what does it have to do with my mother...” And here, Veronica Manning finally broke down and cried.

  Hobo came out to greet us, rather reluctantly I thought, and took an immediate shine to Veronica’s ankles. No fool, Hobo. I took her to the guest room on the second floor, which, thanks to Ursi, was always at the ready.

  “It was my sister’s room,” I said, “and when she visits with her family she still occupies it. I’m sure you’ll find something suitably feminine to sleep in. There are fresh towels in the bath and perhaps even a jar of night cream to make you feel right at home.”

  “Thank you, but I’m a soap-and-water girl.” She allowed my jacket to slide off her shoulders with the graceful ease of an exotic dancer. Archy the optimist. “I’m going to look a sight in this dress at breakfast.”

  “A very lovely sight, night or day,” I said. “But I think my sister has left some casual wear about. Mostly things that she’s grown out of, but you didn’t hear that from me. Jeans and sweatshirts abounded, as I recall, and I’m sure you’ll find some that will fit.”

  “Jeans, a sweatshirt, and Manolo Blahnik pumps. How chic.”

  “Hey, I told your mother I’d put you up for the night, not outfit you. But with any luck there should be a pair or two of Dora’s sneakers about.”

  “Dora? Of course, your father’s passion for Dickens. You see, I haven’t forgotten. Where’s Dora now?” Veronica removed her Blahnik pumps as we talked. Perhaps if we talked long enough...

  “Arizona. Scottsdale, actually.”

  “And she has a family?”

  “Indeed. A husband and three children. Or is it three point two children? Well, you can be sure Dora has whatever the national average boasts. They are a very average family, but nice in spite of that.”

  “I’m sure,” she said with little enthusiasm. She walked to a window at the far end of the room and pretended to look out, but I was sure all she could see was the dark reflection of her own face in the glass. Then she turned to face me once again and cried, “What’s going to happen to us, Archy?”

  “Do you want me to say everything is going to be just fine?”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Okay. Then I’ll tell you. It’s going to be a three-ring circus with you and your mother jumping through the hoops and the press cracking the whip. I was able to protect you tonight because we’re one short step ahead of the media, but when your mother was booked—I would say about two hours ago—the news hit the wire services. My guess is that the local boys are already charging your unarmed security gate and the New York boys are cabbing it to La Guardia and Kennedy. Unless you choose to disappear, it’s going to be hell, kid.”

  “I won’t leave my mother,” she protested. “When will she be released?”

  “If, not when, the judge allows her out on bail. There could be a hearing as soon as tomorrow, or today, actually. She’ll have called her lawyers in New York, but the earliest they can get here is late tonight.”

  “Can you represent her until they arrive?”

  “Unfortunately, no. A disagreement between myself and Yale Law makes that impossible. But I will ask my father to arrange to have someone from the office speak to Melva first thing this morning.”

  “Thank you, Archy.”

  “Now let’s try to get some sleep. We’ll need it, believe me.”

  “What are her chances, Archy?”

  “Very good, I would say. Her offense, I’m sure, will be tried as a crime of passion. Seeing Geoff and that women having sex in her home rendered your mother temporarily insane, making her not responsible for her actions. It wasn’t premeditated murder. Hence, they’ll most likely go easy on her. Of course, a lot depends on the corroborating evidence of your stepfather’s playmate.”

  “Is that necessary?” She seemed naïvely surprised.

  “Necessary? My dear Veronica, it’s imperative. Without her testimony, Melva’s word is pure hearsay.”

  She shook her head and grimaced. “But it’s so sordid. So cheap. The kind of thing people like us don’t talk about.”

  How pathetic, I thought. “If it’s the kind of thing people like you don’t talk about, then it’s the kind of thing people like you shouldn’t indulge in. But you did. Or your stepfather did, and the volcano erupted, unquote.”

  “I’m sorry, Archy.” She buried her face in her hands and bowed her head, causing her hair to cascade like a golden veil. “How many times have I said that tonight?”

  “Who’s counting?”

  “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she said, picking up where she had left off. “But suppose they can’t find this woman?”

  “It’s not a thought conducive to a good night’s sleep, so let’s concentrate on something more cheerful, like World War Three.”

  She smiled and came to me, kissing my cheek. I was once again aware of her particular scent and—not helping my role as benevolent and benign benefactor—the feel of her breasts against my chest. Veronica Manning wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Thank you, Archy. I’m grateful for your help and this elegant port in a storm.”

  I wondered what would have happened if I took her in my arms and kissed those sensuous lips. I was ashamed of my thoughts, but that didn’t make them any less potent.

  In my third-floor nest I undressed, splashed cold water on my face, and got into bed. Sleep did not come when my head touched the pillow—or for some time thereafter. My mind throbbed with thoughts both prurient and academic. The former I know how to quiet, but refrained; the latter I struggled with until dawn.

  Why was the alarm at the front gate of the Williamses’ house turned off?

  Did Veronica always give her mother the address of where she could be found when she went out in the evening?

  When Melva heard a car return she said she thought it was Geoff. Why didn’t she think it could have been Veronica, who was also out that evening?

  And something Hattie said had struck me as odd at the time, but the thought had vanished before taking root. What was it?

  When I did fall asleep, I dreamed I heard Hobo barking.

  6

  THE PIERCING RING OF my telephone jolted me out of a sound sleep at ten A.M. I awoke thinking Quasimodo had lost it in the campanile and immediately pulled the covers over my head. This did nothing to discourage the caller. I rose and moved toward the dastardly object like Boris Karloff in The Mummy. The telephone, it is my belief, is the underlying cause o
f modern man’s inhumanity to man. Its jarring summons on this gray morning did nothing to dispel that learned thesis.

  “Archy here.”

  “Archy’s father here.”

  This mummy was instantly wide-awake, if not raring to go.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “I was about, sir.”

  “About what?”

  “About to get up, actually.”

  “Late night, Archy?”

  “Late morning would be nearer the mark.”

  “I take it the young lady Ursi told me was asleep in the guest room is the Manning child?”

  “She’s not a child,” I quickly corrected, in defense of my lascivious longings. My few hours’ rest had done nothing to alleviate my untoward desires. “She’s twenty-one, at least.”

  “The child’s age is of no consequence, Archy.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “And I take it, once again, that the rather showy vehicle blocking our garage, and making me late for an early-morning client meeting, belongs to Miss Manning?”

  Hanging by the thumbs was too kind a punishment for Binky Watrous. Chinese water torture? Iron mask? “It is. I had to—”

  “No need to explain, Archy. Regarding our bid for poor Melva’s case, you’ve obviously held up your end very well indeed, and I’ve been doing my share here at the office.”

  Bid? I thought I was helping a friend, not selling the services of McNally & Son. The sire’s approach to things material never ceased to amaze me when it didn’t amuse me. And judging from his hale and hearty tone, father was in a jubilant state this morning, which I attributed to the sound of cash registers ringing on Royal Palm Way.

  “I spoke to Melva’s lawyers in New York,” he continued. “They do have a good man qualified to practice in Florida, and he, with a team, are on their way here as we speak. I’ve offered them office space at McNally & Son as well as carte blanche use of telephones, fax machines, etc. They have wisely accepted. We’ll also give them input from our perspective as Florida-based counsel.”

  When they see the carte blanche tab, they’ll think they’ve rented space in Buckingham Palace. Of course, I didn’t say that. What I did say was, “I was going to ask you to send one of your attorneys to the courthouse to see what they could do for Melva before her lawyers get here.”

  Our operation is a legal supermarket, sans the pushcarts and double coupons. Estate planning, taxes, revocable and charitable trusts are our mainstay, but we also employ associates skilled in litigation, real estate, copyrights, trademarks, patents, divorce, malpractice, personal and product liability, and, on a retainer basis, a man qualified to practice criminal law. This last was surely the man Father would dispatch to represent Melva.

  “Naturally, I sent a most qualified attorney to consult with Melva first thing this morning.”

  Naturally. “How is Melva doing?”

  “Remarkably well,” Father said. “Class will tell, my boy. We’re trying to get a bail hearing as soon as this afternoon, but I doubt that will happen. However, I’d rather have her lawyers here when we go before a judge.”

  So, if she’s not let out on bail, McNally & Son won’t be held accountable. Shrewdness, like class, will also tell. “Very good, sir. I thought I would stick with Veronica, Miss Manning, that is, and help her get back to her home without being bamboozled by the press.”

  “Very noble, Archy, I’m sure. However, I need you here at precisely twelve noon.”

  “Nothing that could be postponed?” I asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not, Archy. We have an appointment with John Fairhurst the Third.”

  Well! No wonder mon père was jubilant. McNally & Son suddenly held Melva Ashton Manning Williams and John Fairhurst III in tandem, so to speak, and all in one day. John the First was a mogul on par with the Messrs. Morgan, Gould, Carnegie, Mellon, and Frick. I could see my father twirling his mustache as he spoke the name. John Fairhurst III was Palm Beach’s most distinguished citizen and its richest, although to Prescott McNally those attributes would seem redundant.

  “We have an appointment, sir? Surely you don’t mean Discreet Inquiries.”

  “I think I do. Mr. Fairhurst was a bit vague on the phone, which, from past experience, makes me believe that he’s in an embarrassing situation.”

  “Surely not like Vance Tremaine,” I protested, perhaps too ardently.

  “We won’t jump to conclusions until we hear the man out. Now leave the girl in your mother’s care and get here as quickly as you can. And Archy, do dress properly for this meeting.”

  I was rudely awakened to run to the aid of a rich man caught with his pants down and instead of a thank-you I was served a backhanded slur on the appropriateness of my choice of apparel. If I didn’t need the job I would have gone back to bed; however, my bed went with the job, or, put more bluntly, if my job went so would my bed—and board.

  I showered, shaved, and stood in my T-shirt and briefs—the ones depicting rabbits in pursuit of rabbits—contemplating my wardrobe when the phone rang again. Before I could say, “Archy here,” Lolly Spindrift assaulted me with “Is she still with you?”

  “Who’s she, Lol?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Archy. You owe me. Remember Vance Tremaine?”

  “I also remember The Alamo and The Sands of Iwo Jima. Both starring John Wayne.”

  “You’re holding Veronica Manning,” Lolly insisted.

  Geoff’s murder couldn’t have made the early editions, but Lolly’s editors must have called him as soon as the news hit the wire services. Lolly, after all, was their society editor, and Melva Ashton Manning Williams was society with a capital S.

  “Holding her under lock and key? Never.”

  “You’re at your worst when you try to be clever, Archy. Veronica is with you, I know.”

  “Flattery will get you noplace, Lol, and how, pray tell, do you know Veronica is here?”

  “I talked to Binky Watrous.”

  “Since when is Binky Watrous a prime source for your gossip sheet?”

  “Since one of my spies among the young set told me he saw Binky and Veronica at some ghastly party last night. I know Melva is in custody and I can’t get to her yet, so I tried to contact Veronica but couldn’t get through. I think the phone at the Williams manse is off the hook. I called my informer on the off chance that he knew something and struck pay dirt.”

  The Palm Beach grapevine was in overdrive and only luck had prevented Lolly’s spy from seeing me at that ghastly party, but thanks to Binky this didn’t prevent me from being fingered as Veronica’s guardian.

  “Binky, by the by, is in a foul mood,” Lolly added. “He says he’s in need of a rabies shot, thanks to you.”

  Rabies? Was I to be spared nothing this wretched morning? A glance at my desk clock forced me to put Binky, rabies, and child spies on a back burner. Wishing to do the same with Lolly Spindrift, I ceded, “Okay, she’s here, but I’m on my way out and can’t talk now. Later, Lol, I promise.”

  “I want an exclusive, Archy.”

  Why not? Lolly Spindrift was a friend to the rich and famous of Palm Beach. He would be kind, if nothing else, and give the proper slant to his interview with Veronica—kind mother, wicked stepfather—it could go a long way in shaping the coverage the press would give the story, all to Melva’s advantage.

  I remembered that Lolly Spindrift was one of the last people to see Geoff alive. Lolly drove Geoff to Phil Meecham’s party, where, most likely, Geoff picked up his playmate. Lolly, whose job it was to note and record such facts, could certainly identify the woman. I’m sure the details of the murder were not yet public knowledge, so Lolly had no idea that he would be a pivotal figure in Melva’s defense. But his role in this passion play deemed it even more practical to give him the exclusive interview with Veronica Manning he so craved.

  “What’s it like at Melva’s place?” I questioned, stalling for time.

  “Pure
havoc. The front gate looks like a mob scene for a DeMille epic. A couple of cops behind the gate are keeping them from storming the castle. The police station and the courthouse are also under siege.”

  “All bases covered,” I said. Just as well Veronica stays here for now. “I’ll call you later this afternoon, Lol, and arrange something.”

  “Promise?”

  “On my word, Lol.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Archy.”

  Employing a smart Anglo-Saxon expletive, I told Lolly Spindrift that he could go do unto himself as he would have others do unto him, and hung up.

  I selected the blue suit and rep tie I had worn to lure Ginny, but substituted a pair of sensible brogues for the Allen-Edmonds kilties. On the second floor, I paused at the guest-room door, which was closed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Veronica—or did I want Veronica to catch a glimpse of me in my corporate attire? Either way, it proved a futile maneuver.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Ursi greeted as I entered the kitchen. Did this imply that I don’t always look nice?

  “Coffee, Ursi, please. Black and strong,” I answered, without so much as a good morning. Ursi was at the stove, as usual, and Jamie was seated with a cup of coffee and the morning paper before him.

  “I’ll brew a fresh pot, Mr. Archy. Won’t take a minute.”

  “Father had a problem getting his Lexus out of the garage this morning?” I directed this at Jamie. He nodded without taking his eyes from his newspaper. So taciturn is Jamie that in his presence a clam appears verbose.

  “Miss Veronica is still asleep,” Ursi was saying as she plugged in the electric perc.

  “How do you know who’s in the guest room?” I directed this at Ursi.

  “Mrs. Marsden, of course,” Ursi replied, as if I should have known better than to ask.

  “Mrs. Marsden?” I cried. Mrs. Marsden was Lady Horowitz’s housekeeper.

  “Yes, Mr. Archy. Mrs. Marsden went to the Williams house this morning to take Hattie a tonic for her change of climate malaise. She makes it herself, and it’s the only thing that helps poor Hattie. Well, when she got there she thought the place had been burgled, what with the reporters and the police and...”