This was the second time she had balked at the mention of Geoff’s last partner in copulation. Why? Was it someone she knew? Someone Geoff had seen since his arrival in Palm Beach less than two weeks ago? But then Geoff was a fast worker. Melva had said the girl was young. As young as Veronica? Could she be a friend of Veronica’s? Is this why Geoff felt safe inviting the girl into the house? If Melva was awake when they arrived, he could have said that Veronica’s friend had given him a ride home. If Melva was asleep and Veronica still out, he could make his pitch. Risky, but then, Geoff Williams always bet on the long shots and usually won—until last night.
It made sense, but these were still early days, and Veronica was testy enough without any further probing into what was turning out to be a sensitive topic.
“My God, Veronica, I told you last night that it was not only necessary, but vital to your mother’s defense.”
“Suppose he didn’t meet her at Phil’s party?”
“If she doesn’t come forward on her own, we’ll have to beat the bushes until she comes out screaming. Right now, let’s hope Lolly will make that unnecessary.”
She lapsed back into her own private world again until I coached, “Then you’ll do the interview?”
She gave me a weary smile. “Only if you get me home and back, as promised.”
“That’s the beauty part of my plan, Veronica. You can do the interview on your way to and from your home.”
“Are you for real, Archy?”
“Cogito ergo sum. Look that up in your Latin primer, young lady, while I slip into something comfortable.”
I climbed the steps to my aerie, where the first thing I did, after doffing my suit jacket, was dial Lolly Spindrift.
“It’s about time,” he greeted.
“I’m not a scribe, Lol. I work for a living, and right now my hopper runneth over.”
“You’re not the only one, Archy. Our community is alive with the sound of malicious gossip. Everyone’s telephone line is busy, above and below stairs. We are being invaded by the fourth estate, including, I hear, The New York Times, and some fool called me and asked if it was true that Ted Turner had already snapped up the movie rights to Melva’s story. This town hasn’t had so much publicity since Lady Mendl declared Palm Beach no more exclusive than Coney Island—and that was sixty years ago.”
“You know, Lol, I’ve always thought Lady Mendl was right on target.”
“Thanks to the likes of you, she was.”
“If I weren’t a gentleman I would respond in kind.”
“Respond by telling me where and when I get to powwow with the Manning child.”
“She’s not a child.”
“Temper, temper. Did I cause your lecherous libido to turn scarlet with shame?”
“Need I remind you what people living in glass houses shouldn’t do?”
“A truce, mon ami—now, was the young lady receptive?”
“Not when she remembered you were last year’s competition. However, she relented when I told her how kind you were going to be to her mother.”
“Okay, Archy. I get the drift. I will sacrifice integrity to partisanship.”
“There’s more, Lol.”
“With you there always is.”
“It’s a give-and-take world we live in,” I preached. “The trick is to take as much as you can get your hands on and give as little as possible.”
“And what do you want to get your hands on, Archy?”
“Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’m not.”
“But why?”
“First, it would be an ideal venue for your meeting with Veronica, and second...”
When I explained my plan I gained a willing ally.
“The interview plus this caper will get me a Pulitzer, Archy.” Lolly was delighted.
“Will Phil agree?”
“Don’t worry, he owes me,” Lolly assured me.
Kindly, he did not expand on the nature of Phil Meecham’s obligation.
“By the by, Archy, you’ve heard the reason for my competing with Veronica Manning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s reappeared this season as, of all things, Phil Meecham’s first mate.”
9
I RESURRECTED MY BELL-BOTTOM jeans with the button fly, purchased during my stay in New Haven at an Army/Navy surplus store. At the time, this outlet was giving fierce competition to J. Press and Chipp for the Eli trade. I topped a blue and white boat-neck pullover with a yachting cap and shod my feet in a pair of Top-Siders. My role model for this outfit was Cary Grant aboard the True Love, in the film The Philadelphia Story, but my mirror told me I had somehow managed to clone a cross between Gene Kelly and Rudy Vallee.
“Anchors Aweigh,” Veronica said.
“How did you ever guess?”
“Archy, we’re not—”
“Never anticipate,” I broke in. “All that’s required is that you put your trust in Captain Courageous.”
She stepped back and surveyed her leader. “Captain Gorgeous, I would say.”
I blushed, but not enough to be noticed. To countermand my maidenly response to her compliment, I barked, “We’ll take your car, but I’ll drive.” I had decided upon this to give our excursion as low a profile as possible. There are, you see, a thousand Mercedes convertibles in Palm Beach but only one red Mazda Miata. This being the only town in the world where conspicuous consumption is the rule rather than the exception.
“If we’re taking my car, I’ll drive, but only if I know where we’re going.”
“To meet Lolly Spindrift aboard Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
Her blue eyes opened wide and a moment later she let out a squeal of delight, jumping up and down and clapping her hands like a child learning that chocolate had replaced spinach on the school lunch menu. “I can give Lolly his interview on my way home,” she cried. “You’re a genius, Archy.”
“Or a fool,” I countered.
“No. A genius. And I love you.” She ran into my arms and kissed me on the cheek.
I was once again aware of her scent and the feel of her breasts—incongruously firm and pliant—against my chest. My response was instant and impossible to hide, but with her fingers playing with the nape of my neck, she either didn’t notice, which was impossible, or was enjoying it, which was wishful thinking.
Whatever the case, I broke the embrace a moment before it reached the point of no return—or was this, too, wishful thinking?
“Can we do it?” she asked, unaware of the coyness of the question in light of what had just passed between us.
“I don’t know, but we’re certainly going to try. Now let’s move it.” I was about to punctuate the order with a slap on her posterior but grasped her elbow instead.
She tossed back her head and laughed. “I feel like the heroine in a James Bond movie.”
And, I thought, you look like the heroine in a James Bond movie.
At the garage we met Jamie and Hobo, who were just returning from their outing. Hobo leaped out of Mother’s wood-paneled Ford station wagon and once again set upon Veronica’s ankles—licking, not biting. Does this dog know his priorities?
“The vet checked him over and he’s fine,” Jamie said as if we knew what he was talking about.
“Why the vet?” I wanted to know.
“The boy, Binky, was worried about rabies, so I thought we should be sure the dog was healthy, which he is, so tell your friend rabies shots are not necessary.”
“He’s adorable.” This from Veronica, who was now on her knees, stroking Hobo’s ears.
“Do me a favor, Jamie. You call and tell him. The name is Watrous and he’s in the book. And tell him I’ll be in touch.”
Hobo tried to follow Veronica into the Mercedes, but I forcefully reminded him that this was a two-seater vehicle.
Lolly and Phil Meecham welcomed us aboard the Sans Souci. Both men warmly embraced Veronica and expressed
their sympathies. I took this as a sign that those who counted were closing ranks around Melva, and devil take the hindmost in the form of Geoffrey Williams.
Meecham, who had to be three score at least, was still in good shape, with a leathery complexion, thanks to years spent on the deck of his yacht under the Florida sun, and only a few threads of gray visible among his thinning, sand-colored hair.
In contrast, Lolly Spindrift guarded his complexion with the diligence of a Southern belle. Lolly was a firm believer in Helena Rubinstein’s admonition that “a woman should never allow a ray of sun to touch her naked skin.” Along with Count Dracula, Lolly and Helena kept the faith. Today, Lolly wore a white, wide-brimmed creation that had him looking like an extra in Panama Hattie.
Behind the welcoming committee stood the first mate, and damned if he didn’t look like Cary Grant aboard the True Love. He greeted Veronica with a peck on the cheek which I thought a bit forward for the hired help, but on the Sans Souci such lapses in etiquette were not only tolerated, but encouraged. Phil beamed at the beautiful youngsters, his predilection being boys and girls together. The mate’s name, by the way, was Buzz. (Give me a break!) What a caper this was turning out to be.
As Buzz prepared to hoist anchor, Phil led us into the grand salon, which was larger than my entire third-floor suite, and offered us drinks. He mixed a batch of Bloody Marys for which we were all thankful, except Veronica, who insisted on a Virgin Mary. Was she trying to tell us something?
I suggested Lolly and Veronica remain in the salon for their chitchat and excused myself, taking Meecham with me. As we stepped on deck the big craft lurched away from the dock, and I grabbed the railing for support.
“How are your sea legs?” Meecham asked, and grinned, hoping for the worst, I’m sure.
“They would be happier resting in a deck chair.”
“Let’s go to the fore, Archy, so we can see where we’re going rather than where we’ve been. It’ll keep your mind off the ship’s roll.”
“Does pretty boy know how to drive this tub?”
“I may be a sucker for the young and the bad, Archy, but I’m not a fool when it comes to my safety. Buzz is a qualified yachtsman, both sail- and engine-powered. He got his training in Newport with the best of ’em.”
Of course. Young men like Buzz were a staple in places like Newport, the Hamptons, both East and South, Martha’s Vineyard, and other fancy watering holes around the world. Their appeal was to both men and women who could afford to pander to their more base desires, and Buzz and his ilk could respond to either sex because the loot, not the gender, was the attraction.
I would say that our Buzz was twenty-somethingish, giving him a few more years to catch the brass ring. If he didn’t, and few do, he would join the roster of some seedy escort service along with his has-been female counterparts until the advancing years once again forced him to move on—forever downward. But right now Buzz’s star was on the ascendant. As Meecham’s first mate, he was performing Veronica Manning a unique service in her hour of need, and hoping one or the other would return the favor in kind. Don’t count on it, Buzz. Meecham goes through pretty boys like nobody’s business, and Veronica’s guardian is Archy McNally, who might have his own plans for the young lady.
“Does Buzz know where we’re going?” I asked.
“Certainly. When Lolly called and told me the plan, Buzz checked the location of the house and mapped out a water route. Don’t worry, we’re in capable hands.”
We eased into deck chairs, and I was content not to have spilled a drop of my drink on the way fore, which turned out to be the front of the ship.
“We’re moving north on the Intracoastal Waterway, which runs through Lake Worth. Straight ahead you can just make out the shoreline of Peanut Island at the mouth of Lake Worth Inlet,” Meecham explained. “There, we’ll go east and enter the inlet flanked by Palm Beach and Singer Island—then straight into the Atlantic.”
The fact that I was James Bond had not yet reached my stomach, which churned in counterpoint to our diesel engine. Knowing that Buzz was in the cabin above us, steering, kept me steady as we went. I hoped Lolly and the heroine were faring better than Double-O-Seven. But Lolly, I knew, was in his glory. He was hot on the trail of a breaking story and seven leagues ahead of the competition. Lolly always wanted to be the Cholly Knickerbocker of Palm Beach, and here, finally, was his chance at national recognition.
For the young, or those whose reading habits are a notch above newspapers of yore, Cholly Knickerbocker was the logo for the Hearst syndicate’s society gossip columnist—most prominently featured in the now-defunct New York Journal American. There were several Chollys, the second none other than Igor Cassini, brother of the guy who put Jackie in those pillbox hats and smart suits. One of Igor’s wives (he had four at last count) was Charlene Wrightsman, daughter of the oil baron billionaire Charles Wrightsman.
Wrightsman, long a pillar of Palm Beach society, owned an oceanfront mansion near the more modest home of Joseph Kennedy. The Wrightsman house, furnished with priceless French eighteenth-century antiques and paintings, served as the “White House” on at least two occasions. President Kennedy rested at Wrightsman’s after his return from his historic meeting with Khrushchev and after his even more publicized trip to Paris with Jackie.
Wrightsman’s annual New Year’s Eve Ball was the most sought-after invitation for many a season. The party came to a climactic ending the year the Kennedy brothers and brothers-in-law got up a touch-football game in the ballroom and bumped into several of those French antiques.
Palm Beachites never cared much for the rather caustic prose Igor employed to chronicle their antics, and when, in his heyday, Igor and his brother were the winning doubles team at the Bath and Tennis Club Tournament, the Palm Beachites liked him even less. Igor will go down in history as the guy who coined the term “Jet Set.”
But it was the first Cholly Knickerbocker, Murray Paul, who was Lolly’s mentor. Paul, a misogynist who lived with his mother, once rolled up his trouser legs on Fifth Avenue to show off his gold-plated garters, coined the phrase “Café Society,” and told a young lady who complained of having to sleep with producers to get ahead, “Nobody gives a damn who you sleep with. In this world, it’s who you’re seen dining with that counts.”
Poor Lolly. There were no phrases left to coin and nobody gave a damn who you dined with in the closing years of our century. It’s who you slept with that counted. Lolly could report on Lady Horowitz’s dinner parties, which no one wanted to know about, but scooping Meecham’s yacht parties, which everyone wanted to know about, would be imprudent if not downright libelous. This keen observation led me to casually remind my chairmate, “Your party last night will go down in Palm Beach lore as the last gala attended by Geoff Williams.”
Meecham sipped his drink thoughtfully. Then, with a shrug, he stated, “Really? You couldn’t prove it by me.”
My stomach gave a lurch, which had nothing to do with the Sans Souci. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, “that you couldn’t prove it by me. I didn’t see Geoff or Melva last night.”
“You couldn’t have seen Melva—she stayed home. But Geoff came.”
Another shrug. “Could be. Look, Archy, I don’t always get to socialize with all my guests.” He raised his glass and explained, “A few too many, too early, and the parade sometimes passes me by.”
“Who was on board last night?”
“The usual suspects.”
“How many?” I probed.
“I think I invited about thirty, so I assume sixty showed up.”
A big group, plus a few too many libations, and a host couldn’t be chided for neglecting a guest or two. Things were looking up. “Did you notice Lolly in the crowd?”
“Of course,” Meecham answered.
“Well, Lolly came with Geoff Williams,” I exclaimed.
That, finally, got Phil Meecham’s undivided attention. “Lolly and Geoff togeth
er? Really? Is that why Melva shot him?”
Peanut Island loomed ahead of us and I figured the boat was making more progress than I was. “No, Phil. She shot him because he couldn’t remember who was at your party.”
My words went either unheard or unheeded as we sailed through the Lake Worth Inlet before plowing into the Atlantic with a thrust of the prow that bespoke the apocalyptic clash between irresistible force and immovable object. While the Atlantic was indeed an irresistible force, Meecham’s expensive tub was far from immovable. In fact, the yacht’s motions were rather like the undulations of the Minsky chorus girls who added the oomph to Grandfather McNally’s act that kept the paying customers begging for more.
“We’ll calm down once we get our stride,” Meecham reported.
I deposited my glass in a hole in the arm of my deck chair made especially for this purpose. I had hardly touched my tomato and vodka but noticed that the only thing left in Meecham’s glass was the swizzle stick, which, incidently, was a plastic rendition of a celery stalk. “How close to the shore can we get?” I asked, hoping my stomach would focus in on the S word and give me some peace. It didn’t.
“Buzz said the tide is with us, so I suppose we can get within a hundred yards of the beach.”
I would hate to see the tide when it was agin’ us.
Meecham took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to keep it off his forehead, where the wind insisted it belonged. “I love the ocean,” he called, competing with the roar of the surf and the drone of our diesel engine.
“So do I,” I yelled back. “I swim every day, weather permitting.”
“I use the pool at the Bath and Tennis,” Meecham said.
“I prefer the ocean,” I answered, then added, “for swimming.”
“At the Bath and Tennis the pool water is piped in from the Atlantic,” Meecham informed me.
If I swam offshore of the Bath and Tennis, might I get pulled into one of their pipes and end up doing laps with charter members? In my cerise Speedos? Perhaps I had better rethink my bathing attire.
We were moving south now under a partly cloudy sky and a sun playing peekaboo with the Atlantic Ocean. Buzz had us close enough to the shore so that I might easily pick out the elegant Breakers—the Palm Beach Country Club—and the Bath and Tennis Club, which I now knew was sucking in the water beneath us. A few minutes later First Mate Buzz turned off our engine, allowing the Sans Souci to rock in the surf like an oversize sitting duck.
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