McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  I was about to tell him that the domestics were also getting up a pool to name the Mystery Woman when I was struck by an idea too wickedly clever to resist.

  “You’re right, Mr. Pettibone, it would be unethical for me to participate. And in case the boys are thinking of offering bribes, you can tell them I have no idea who the lady might be, but if they’re lucky enough to get an invitation to Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s masked ball, they just might find themselves dancing a two-step with the Mystery Woman.”

  Pettibone started as if he’d been poked in the belly. “Masked ball? She’ll be there? What’s all this about, Archy?”

  “Oh, me and my big mouth. Mr. Pettibone, please forget what I just said.”

  He removed my empty glass and began to wipe the bar with unprecedented vigor. “But, Archy...”

  Priscilla breezed past and told me she had a corner table for two, if I was interested. “Are you expecting Connie?” she asked.

  “No, I’m expecting the guy who just walked in.”

  “The fuzz,” Priscilla announced, staring at Al Rogoff, who looked uncertain as to what he should do now that he had entered our lair. Priscilla’s description of our visitor caused several heads to turn.

  I motioned for Al to follow me to the corner table and heard Simon Pettibone repeat—“But, Archy...” as I drifted away from the bar. If there were more than those two words on his mind, they were lost to the rumble in the room.

  “You look like a plainclothes cop in that suit,” I chastised Al Rogoff. “Everyone thinks we’re being raided.”

  “You want me to blow my whistle?”

  “You’ll start a stampede.”

  “I can’t change into a casual jacket and slacks just for lunch. Besides, my attire conforms to the house rules.” He pointed to a sign that proclaimed, MEMBERS AND THEIR GUESTS ARE REQUIRED TO WEAR SHOES IN THE DINING ROOM. “I am shod, sir.”

  In size-twelve police regulation boots, no doubt. Al Rogoff was a big man. A six-foot slab of raw beef with prominent jowls, Clark Gable ears, and unruly sideburns. His personal vehicle was a pickup truck, he used words like “broads” when referring to the fairer sex, and one would suspect that at home he watched the tube in his boxers and T-shirt while popping open cans of Bud in rapid succession.

  Al Rogoff was living proof of the old adage “You can’t tell a book by its cover.” The only time Al Rogoff watched television was when PBS aired a performance by the New York City Ballet or an opera from the Met. Al could listen to the William Tell Overture without once thinking, “Hi, ho, Silver, away,” and could tell an ’82 Médoc from Chianti sold by the gallon. He enjoyed Vivaldi and knew that “La Belle Dame sans Merci” was not a French dominatrix.

  I knew all of these Rogoff secrets, which made him slightly uncomfortable in my presence, but beholden to me for my prudence and admiration. We were a team—like Nick and Nora, Perry and Della, Kong and Wray. We were Al and Archy.

  Priscilla arrived with two ales and a pair of menus.

  “How did you know we wanted malts?” I asked.

  “Your date doesn’t look like the champagne type,” she answered. “The steak tartare is especially good today. I’ll be back for your order.” Exit Priscilla.

  “Steak tartare?” Al raised both eyebrows.

  “Have it medium rare. It’s delicious.”

  “That makes it a hamburger,” he informed me.

  “That’s what I invited you for.”

  “It’s pricey, Archy.”

  “This is a business lunch. To keep us honest, just tell me what’s happening at the palace.”

  Al picked up his glass. “Cheers.” He drained half the contents, rid his lips of foam with a napkin, not the back of his hand, and then said, “The ladybird has flown the coop.”

  “When?”

  “As I was leaving to come here.”

  “How much?”

  “One and six zeros. Her people wrote the check like it was one and no zeros.”

  “For that crowd, Al, it is.”

  “Your fancy friend is chin deep in you know what, pal. But she pleaded not guilty at the arraignment.”

  “No surprise. Did you see her daughter?”

  “Only a glimpse. She was surrounded by Mommy’s entourage. I got a chance to hold her hand yesterday when I took her prints. My heart skipped a beat, Archy.”

  “Tell your heart it made a mistake, Al. She’s not your type.”

  “What’s my type, Archy?”

  “Brünnhilde or Cho-Cho-San. Your pick.”

  Priscilla returned and we ordered our steak tartare, medium rare. “McDonald’s is down the road a way,” we were informed. Exit Priscilla.

  “Are your men still keeping watch on the Williams house?”

  “Just until Mrs. Williams and the girl get back inside with a minimum of hassle, then we’ll just patrol the area as usual. We hear she’s hired private guards to keep the nasties from her front door.”

  “A good idea. What was the crowd like at the courthouse?”

  “Big and mostly press. And not just Florida newshounds. They’re arriving from all over the country. The television crews made the place look like a movie set.”

  “You might be on tonight’s news, Al.”

  “I caught you last night, pal, and Lolly. He’s made the Mystery Woman a national celebrity.”

  “Any word on the Mystery Woman?” I asked.

  “No comment. What can you tell me about her?”

  “No comment.”

  Which meant neither of us knew anything.

  Priscilla arrived with our order. Steak tartare disguised as hamburgers and thin, crispy fries to die for. Al squeezed ketchup on his fries and passed the bottle to me. Steak tartare and squeezable plastic ketchup containers—the Pelican is in the midst of an identity crisis.

  “Can I ask why you were keeping vigil in the chamber of death yesterday when the boys had called it a wrap?”

  “The print boys dusted the room and we got the housekeeper’s prints and the perp’s prints.” I winced inwardly at Melva being referred to as a “perp,” but quickly concluded it was better than “broad,” although I doubt Melva would agree.

  Between bites of his burger and fries, Al continued to explain. “The cleaning people had been in the room earlier in the day and we got their names from the service company who employs them, so we could get their prints, too. That just left the girl, Veronica. I got her prints yesterday when you so thoughtfully brought her home. ‘Two if by sea!’ Geez, Archy, my rookie thought you were cute.”

  “What did he think of Veronica?”

  Al shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

  “I would be concerned about your rookie, Sergeant.” I savored my last morsel of Leroy’s culinary delight. “But why the guarded room?”

  “The chief wanted to see how many prints he could ID before the room was contaminated, in case we had to go back in for a second dusting.”

  Two questions answered. Why was Al guarding the murder room long after the police crew had been and gone? Because the chief didn’t want the room contaminated before he had put names to the prints his men collected. Why did Melva have the address of her daughter’s whereabouts ready to hand me on the night of the murder? Because the information was intended for Veronica’s friend Elizabeth Fitzwilliams. My non- was no longer plussed concerning these two items but it occurred to me that I should make a list of other questions I had and tick them off as I nosed about. It wasn’t my case, but I could pass on what I learned to Al, and perhaps a profile of the Mystery Woman would begin to emerge.

  “Did they come up with any prints they couldn’t identify?” I asked, hopefully.

  Al shook his head again, vigorously, and I expected to see his ears flap in the process. “Don’t know, Archy.”

  Except for the reason behind the sealed room, I hadn’t learned much from Al Rogoff. Al, however, was about to get a hot tip from me. “Lady Cynthia Horowitz is going to give a ball, Sergeant. A masked ball.
”

  “With my puss I wouldn’t need a mask.”

  “I doubt you’ll be invited, Al.” Then I explained the reason for Lady C.’s masked extravaganza.

  Al made a sound like air escaping from a ballroom. “That’s not going to help us find the Mystery Woman, Archy. It’ll bring every kook in Palm Beach out of the woodwork that night, not to mention the press. I think I’d better pass this on to the chief. We might have to call out the National Guard. When’s the party to take place?”

  “No official date yet, but I guess it’s ASAP. Lady Cynthia won’t want to be usurped by the real Mystery Woman coming forth and making the ball anticlimactic, to say the least. But if I have my way, it’ll never happen. I’m going to try to talk her out of it.”

  “Will she listen to you?”

  “I did her a favor once. She owes me.” I didn’t mention that she had already paid her debt by breaking it off with my father. But for what I did for her I think two for one, in my favor, would just about even the score. However, I was not sanguine. Not at all.

  I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, removed a small envelope and passed it over to Al. “I think you could use this. The firm subscribes as a public-relations gesture but no one at McNally and Son is particularly interested in using it.”

  He peeked inside the small white envelope and saw a season pass to the Miami City Ballet under the artistic direction of Edward Villella, Al’s secret idol. “This wouldn’t be a bribe?”

  “You know better than that, Al.”

  He grunted and stuck the envelope in his shirt pocket. He was too embarrassed to say thank you, but this in no way lessened his appreciation.

  “What in tarnation?” Al suddenly exclaimed. “He looks like he’s been hit by a truck.”

  Because my back was toward the door, I had to turn to see what had aroused my lunch partner and saw Binky Watrous coming toward us with the aid of a walker.

  Binky approached, slowly, planting the walker firmly in front of him with each hesitant step. “Hi, Archy. Hello, Sergeant.”

  “What happened to you?” Al asked.

  “Tell him, Binky,” I urged. “The sergeant could use a laugh.”

  “Archy’s dog bit me,” Binky said, and I must say here that even poor Binky looked uncomfortable with the explanation.

  “Hobo?” Al exclaimed. “But he’s just a little guy.”

  “Not as little as Binky Watrous,” I told Al.

  “Archy, can we talk about this?” Binky looked miserable, and for one moment I almost relented before recalling that it was the Duchess, not Binky, I was locking horns with. Looking down I saw that Binky’s left foot was clad in what appeared to be a velvet bedroom slipper. A sickly blue velvet slipper.

  “And may I remind you that one must wear shoes at all times in the dining room?”

  “There are exceptions to all rules,” Binky informed me. “That’s why Seeing Eye dogs are allowed in the post office.”

  “But the dog must be accompanied by a visually handicapped person. The dog cannot simply wander in, alone, and post a letter.”

  “I’m handicapped,” Binky insisted.

  “I hate to be a party pooper,” Al said, “but my lunch hour is about up and I’d like to get out of here while my sanity is still more or less intact.”

  “I’m leaving, too, Sergeant,” I announced. “Perhaps this handicapped gentleman would like our table.” Al and I rose, and I said to Binky, “I had a job for you this afternoon, but seeing as you’re out on workers’ comp I’ll have to get someone else.”

  “I can do it, Archy,” Binky pleaded with a look that tugged at my heartstrings. Those doe eyes will do it all the time. But I had to be strong, or the Duchess might run all over Hobo like a steamroller on a rampage.

  “You rest today, Binky.” Catching Priscilla’s eye, I beckoned her over and said, “Please put Mr. Watrous’s lunch tab on my bill.”

  “Thanks, Archy. I really appreciate that. I know I’ll be in better shape tomorrow.” Were there tears in those doe eyes?

  “One can only hope, Binky. One can only hope.”

  “You’re a heel,” Al Rogoff whispered as we made our way out. Or was that the voice of my conscience?

  16

  THE MYSTERY WOMAN COMMANDED the headlines in all the tabloids, from Key West to Jacksonville and from Maine to the City of Angels. McNally & Son was immersed in a case of national interest, however peripherally, involving a name long synonymous with great wealth and landed gentry. And if that wasn’t enough to send the firm’s leader into a euphoric seizure, we were privately on the payroll of another name with similar attributes. The entrance to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way must have looked like the pearly gates to my sire, Prescott McNally. This had to be better than seeing Tiny Tim burn his crutch and dance a jig with the ghost of Christmas Past.

  With the words “Mystery Woman,” had Lolly Spindrift coined a phrase and thereby earned a place in the gossip columnist’s hall of fame?

  Would Lady C.’s masked ball indeed become more famous, or infamous, than Capote’s Black and White Ball?

  Would Binky Watrous and the Duchess receive their unjust deserts from our insurers and live happily ever after?

  Everyone suddenly had great expectations, thanks to Melva and the guy reclining on a cold marble slab in the morgue. Did anyone give a hoot for either of them? I cared about my friend Melva Williams, and so did her daughter. How I could best serve Melva was my dilemma. Allow the police and her lawyers to do their job and get on with the Fairhurst case, or continue to find answers to the questions that had kept me awake that fateful night. Veronica had solved the mystery of why her mother had the address of Hillcrest House ready and waiting for me, but the other puzzlers kept haunting me like the lingering fragrance of Veronica’s perfume.

  Why was the alarm turned off at Melva’s front gate that night? Did Veronica, on her way out, forget to turn it on, or did someone purposely shut it down after Veronica had driven off? And, if so, who and why?

  Why was Melva so sure it was Geoff returning when she heard a car arrive at the house? Why couldn’t it have been Veronica, who was also out that night?

  What did Hattie say that evening that kept evading me like a disturbing dream the waking mind refuses to surrender or erase?

  Would knowing the answers help Melva? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t know why I wasn’t sure. This was more perturbing than I cared to admit.

  I had no trouble getting Jamie to follow me in Veronica’s Mercedes convertible as I headed for Melva’s place. Even the unromantic Jamie was not immune to the thrill of zipping along the A1A in a luxury vehicle on a balmy day in Palm Beach. Poor Binky. This would have been his shining hour. But the boy had to learn the lesson of that old biblical saying “As you sue, so shall you reap.”

  Traffic was backed up for a mile as we neared our destination. Rubbernecking, no doubt. Melva must have gotten home hours ago, and one would imagine the gawkers would have dispersed by now. There were, to be sure, the freelance photographers who would practically camp on the highway in hopes of a shot of mother or daughter. Persistence is the attribute, after all, that brings home their bacon.

  Melva’s front gate looked like the box office of a hit show, but the approach was being kept clear by Melva’s security guard. Upon request, I gave him my name and business. He put in a call to the house and a moment later opened the gate for Jamie and me. A few photographers took pictures of the Miata and Mercedes for no other reason than because we had passed muster with the sentry.

  Hattie welcomed us with tears of joy, taking Jamie into her kitchen after directing me to the drawing room. I found Melva in the same chair I had left her in two nights ago. She wore a little black dress, but this one had never seen the inside of a shop in South Beach. She looked thinner and paler than on my last visit, but strangely serene. Medication, or the cigarette smoldering between her fingers? I bent to kiss her cheek.

  “How can I ever thank you for caring f
or Veronica?” she said.

  “I’ve never needed to be thanked for spending time with a beautiful woman. And she is both beautiful and a woman, Melva. When did all that happen?”

  “When our backs were turned, no doubt. How are you, Archy?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” I sat in the chair I had occupied yesterday, talking to Lolly, which reminded me of the painful facts I had to pass on to Melva.

  “That was my line, but you’re welcome to it.” She waved her cigarette toward me. “As you can see, you’re no longer in a smoke-free zone, so light up if it pleases you.”

  It pleased, so I lit my first English Oval of the day. “Back to two packs a day, Melva?”

  “No, Archy. In fact, I’ve broken my old record, but who’s counting? I’ve also spent two nights in jail and am alive to tell about it.”

  “How goes it, Melva? No nonsense. Just the facts, ma’am.”

  She put out her cigarette and adjusted herself more comfortably in the chair. “It was purgatory with a hint of the hell to follow. Does that answer your question?”

  I couldn’t think of a more eloquent or a more depressing commentary. “You said it all in twenty-five words or less,” I told her. “What are your lawyers’ prognostications?”

  “‘We are cautiously confident, Mrs. Williams.’ Does that also say it all in twenty-five words or less?” She reached for another cigarette. If she kept this up, the weed might save the state of Florida the cost of a long-term incarceration or... But I would rather not dwell on the alternative. “I think they mean we have a fighting chance,” she went on, “and I tend to agree. You know, Archy, I don’t even remember doing it, and I’m not practicing for the witness stand. I barely remember calling you that night.”

  But you do remember, verbatim, as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Selective amnesia? I sounded cynical but I’ve been around long enough to know that he who thinks the worst is seldom disappointed. I took it Melva’s lawyers were now writing the script, and like a good little actress she would not ad-lib. Given the circumstances, who could blame her? But I was back to square one: Should I allow the police and her lawyers to do their job and get on with my business? Probably. But before I bowed out, I did have one bit of news to impose upon their cautious confidence.