McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fairhurst. I’m sorry it wasn’t under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “and I’m sorry if I sound a bit rattled. First that letter and now poor Melva. Have you seen her, Mr. McNally?”

  “I have. If I said she was fine, it would be a lie, but she’s holding up and her lawyers are confident.”

  “Mystery Woman!” Mrs. Fairhurst blurted. “There was never any mystery about that man’s indiscretions. He deserved what he got, I’d say.”

  “Emily, please,” Mr. Fairhurst scolded.

  “Tell Melva we’re thinking of her, Mr. McNally, and if she needs us, we’re here.” Mrs. Fairhurst got in the last word on the subject.

  “I will, ma’am. And now I must be going.”

  “We have confidence in you, Mr. McNally,” Mrs. Fairhurst said with a royal wave of her hand.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I responded, wondering whether she placed her confidence in my success or in my failure.

  20

  MY AFTERNOON AMONG THE Fairhursts’ servants told me more about them than I cared to know, but nothing regarding the purpose of my visit. The brass plates under the portraits of the Fairhurst men told me that the current John Fairhurst had goofed royally when he ordered his father’s dates etched in metal. I’m sure he had actually come to believe the story of his grandfather’s gallantry, hence it had never occurred to him to alter his father’s birth date.

  The lesson learned here is that the only way to perpetuate a lie is with more lies.

  I also learned that Mrs. Fairhurst was concerned with the blackmail threat but for reasons different from her husband’s. I doubt it was the Fairhurst name she was anxious to protect, but her own. Mrs. Fairhurst clearly did not want the guilty party brought to justice. I wondered why. During the last great war, government posters reminded citizens that “Loose lips sink ships.” Did Mrs. Fairhurst forget this warning? I would have to have a chat with the woman without arousing her husband’s suspicions. I didn’t relish the chore.

  Back home, I got out of my investigative garb—proper suit and tie—but beneath, the real Archy pulsated in red briefs and blue T-shirt, don’t-you-know. If I added a cape, Lois Lane wouldn’t know me from the real article. Instead, I donned my Speedos, yellow for this lovely late afternoon, and an ankle-length terry robe with hood. Cars paused for me as I crossed the A1A, thinking that a white monk was on his way to bless the waters.

  The Atlantic was calm and welcoming, if a bit nippy, but then we were approaching the winter solstice. I completed my two-mile swim and was back in my digs in just over one hour. For my evening date, I selected yellow linen trousers, a lime-green sport coat of the same fabric, and Bally loafers. Thanks to Veronica’s less than complimentary remark regarding my berets, I ventured forth bareheaded.

  There was still a small crowd in front of Melva’s gate looking for photo ops, and in the waning twilight they edged forward to see who was seeking admittance to the murder scene. I had purposely raised the Miata’s top to maintain as low a profile as possible and not one flashbulb popped as I gave my name to the security guard.

  Veronica, looking lovely in a simple white piqué shift with a matching short-sleeved jacket, greeted me at the door. “Hattie is bringing Mother a tray,” she explained. “Do we have time for a drink?”

  “We have all night,” I answered, following her into the drawing room, where a portable bar had been set up. On a lovely evening such as this, the solarium, with its glass walls and view of sky and ocean, would have been the ideal place for cocktails, but I assumed that room was still off-limits by choice rather than police insistence.

  “You still have company out front,” I told her.

  “I know. We’re prisoners in our own home and the only reason the phone is not ringing is because I’ve unplugged them again, just as Hattie did the other day. It’s horrid, Archy, just horrid.”

  “We could hire Meecham’s yacht and use the back door.”

  “And have them descend from the air? No, thanks.”

  “It’s nothing that we didn’t expect,” I said, moving to the bar. “What’s your poison? It’ll help steady your nerves as long as you don’t make it a habit.”

  “Vodka martini, please.” She sat in the chair usually occupied by her mother. As she crossed her stockingless legs, names like Grable, Charisse, and Miller popped into my mind.

  I reached for the Sterling vodka—the rich know how to separate the hype from the real thing—and began mixing two perfect martinis.

  Behind me, Veronica was still complaining. “And the television news is relentless on the subject. If World War Three broke out, it would get a ten-second mention between ‘The Hunt for the Mystery Woman’ and a commercial for acid indigestion.”

  “I never watch television, and I would advise you to do the same, young lady. I hope you’re not subjecting your mother to that vast wasteland.”

  “She spent most of the day in her room. I’m worried about her, Archy.”

  “As well you might be. She’s had a shock and it will take time to wear off. Her medication is also keeping her down. Why don’t you call Dr. Pearlberg and see if she can’t come in and have a look at Melva.” I served her drink.

  “Thank you, Archy. Maybe I’ll do that.” Veronica raised her glass and toasted, “Cheers, if that doesn’t sound too absurd.”

  “It does, but cheers anyway.”

  After taking a sip of the clear brew she stared at me as if the drink had suddenly cleared her vision. “My God, Archy, you look like a lime rickey.”

  Am I to be spared nothing from this divine creature? “We’re in Florida, not drab New York,” I told her.

  She smiled, then laughed. “You’re the best medicine in the world, Archy. Cheers, again.”

  Thanks to Veronica, our exit was much more of a media event than my entrance had been. The popping flashbulbs turned night into day long enough to blind me. While waiting to recover my sight, I rolled down the Miata’s window and shouted to the security guard closing the gate behind us, “We’re going to Ta-Boo’ and should be back before midnight.”

  I pulled out onto the A1A and headed south. “I take it we’re not going to Ta-Boo’,” Veronica said.

  “You take it wrong. That’s exactly where we’re going.”

  “And they’ll go to every restaurant in Palm Beach except Ta-Boo’.” Veronica got the point.

  “Give the lady a cigar.”

  I decided on Ta-Boo’ because we could eat in the bar, at those absurdly small round tables, and avoid the prying eyes of those in the main dining room. That was my first error of the evening. The bar was crowded with the young of Palm Beach—those who weren’t at Hillcrest this evening—and most of them knew Veronica. The sudden hush as we entered was quickly followed by a ripple of polite but rather strained chitchat. Deciding that we were the floor show, the hostess led us to a table that was in plain sight of the bar. All that would be lacking, I mused, was a spotlight. I pointed to an empty table in a rear corner and she quickly changed direction.

  “Sorry,” I whispered to Veronica as we sat.

  She shook her lovely blond tresses. “It would be the same no matter where we went,” she pointed out. “In fact, this corner table is what’s known as Siberia in café society circles. Perfect for us, I would say.”

  Our waiter informed us that his name was Eric in a manner not unlike an overblown thespian reciting “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” I ordered two stand-up Sterling vodka martinis and asked for menus. “We’ll dine here,” I told Eric, who did an about-face with military precision.

  “Waiting tables is something they do between the Actors Studio and winning an Academy Award,” Veronica observed.

  “I was in a restaurant with Binky Watrous one night and he asked our waitress if she was an ‘expiring’ actress. She said, ‘I hope not,’ and Binky said he could have sworn she was.”

  Veronica looked amused. “How is Binky? All ov
er his rabies scare?”

  “Yes, but now he’s suing Hobo.”

  “Poor Hobo,” Veronica lamented.

  Poor Melva. Poor Hobo. What a town this was. Didn’t anyone in Palm Beach feel sorry for the victim? Eric brought our drinks and menus, and trailing him was a young lady who was tugging on the elbow of a man in uniform like a mother delivering her son to the dentist.

  “Veronica,” she cooed, bending to kiss Veronica and almost dunking her nose into a Sterling martini. To me, she said, “Please, don’t get up. I just couldn’t leave without saying I’m so sorry.”

  I had as much intention of getting up as she had of revealing the reason for her sorrow.

  “This is Fitz,” Veronica informed me, but I already suspected that here was the famous Elizabeth Fitzwilliams. And what a knockout was Fitz. A brunette with blue eyes and a figure that would cause a ninety-year-old Buddhist monk to regret his vows.

  “Archy here,” I introduced myself.

  “Hello, Archy,” Fitz said. “And this is Ensign Douglas Wilson.”

  So, the ensign came to dinner and walked off with the dessert. Douglas looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of Military Life. Crew cut, square jaw, and tight-lipped. He nodded but thankfully did not salute.

  “We won’t interrupt,” Fitz babbled on, “but couldn’t leave without saying—well, you know. I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all day, Veronica. It’s always busy.”

  “I pulled the plugs,” Veronica told her.

  “How exciting,” Fitz once again cooed. She sounded as if she might run home and implore her mother to shoot her father so she, too, could unplug the phones. “Then call me,” Fitz said, moving away and taking Douglas with her, “we must catch up.”

  “I will,” Veronica promised. As we watched them gyrating their way through the maze of round tables, Veronica whispered, “What do you think of Fitz?”

  “Lovely. But gentlemen prefer blondes.”

  “Not Douglas, and from the way she’s hanging on to him I expect they’ll be engaged before the night ends.”

  “So soon?”

  “Not for Fitz. She gets engaged at least once a month. The last one was a quarterback from Purdue.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was demoted to third string due to chronic exhaustion.”

  “Oh my, that was naughty,” I chided.

  “It was. Let’s order, I’m starved.”

  “We’ll not have the green linguine,” I said, opening my menu.

  “Why not?”

  “Because everyone has the green linguine and I refuse to amble along with the herd.”

  I summoned Eric and he rattled off the evening’s specials with a flourish. Veronica settled on the grilled pompano and I chose a rib eye. For openers, we both went for the crabmeat cocktail.

  The bus person (who was a he) supplied us with bread and rolls and as we eagerly buttered up, I made my second error of the evening by asking, “What did you think of Seth Walker?”

  “Who?”

  “Seth Walker,” I repeated. “He introduced himself to you at Lady Horowitz’s reception.”

  “You mean the Fairhursts’ chauffeur?”

  “None other.”

  Veronica nibbled on her roll. “Adorable. That’s what I think. And how do you know he spoke to me at that awful woman’s party?”

  Poor Lady C. Really, she wasn’t that bad. “My friend Connie Garcia is secretary to Lady Horowitz. She told me she saw you talking to him and remembered because Lolly Spindrift called her after the party to ask who the boy was.” I purposely left out Mrs. Marsden as the person who had identified Seth for me.

  Veronica helped herself to another bite of her roll. I do so like a girl with a hearty appetite. “He crashed the party, you know. Seth, that is, not Lolly. Strange how Lolly and I seem to attract the same men.”

  “No, my dear. You attract the same men Lolly is attracted to. Did Seth invite you out?”

  She patted her lips with her napkin. “Why am I being interrogated?”

  “Maybe because I’m jealous. Did he ask you out?”

  “Do you know him?” she asked, as if the possibility had just occurred to her.

  “We’ve met.”

  “Where?”

  “Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  She finished her martini before saying, “Neither am I.”

  We had come to an awkward impasse, thanks to my clumsy inquisitiveness, which was saved by the arrival of our crabmeat cocktails. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound like a mole for the CIA. I’m doing a job for John Fairhurst and I was at the Fairhurst house today and met Seth. I remembered the connection between him and you and Lolly. Now let’s enjoy the crabmeat. It’s too expensive not to.”

  She picked up her cocktail fork and dug right in. “Connections,” she repeated. “That’s the story of Palm Beach, isn’t it? Everyone is connected. A chauffeur to an heiress to a gossip columnist to a private investigator. Well, we’re an eclectic band of rogues, I’ll say that for us.”

  On that note we ate our crabmeat, careful not to ingest the lettuce beneath the fish, which would have been gauche. No sooner had our bus person removed all traces of our appetizer than who should appear—all six feet, two inches of him—looming over our table, but Buzz. The bar was swarming with those of a nautical bent.

  “Hi, Veronica. Hi, Archy.”

  “I thought we were in Siberia,” I said to my tablemate. “But it looks more like Grand Central Station to me.”

  “Oh hush, Archy,” she rebuked me. “How are you, Buzz?”

  “I was seen by twenty million viewers,” he proudly told us. “I checked the ratings.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be home answering your fan mail?” I asked him.

  “I didn’t get any yet,” he said, sounding certain that the morning mail would contain a thousand requests for autographed photos. “Have you heard about the ball?”

  “If you mean Lady Horowitz’s ball, how did you hear about it?” I countered.

  “Everyone is talking about it. A masked ball, and Lady Horowitz has asked me to be a page. I’m being fitted for silk breeches.”

  I remembered Adventures of a King’s Page, published in London in 1829, and shuddered. “When did you meet Lady Horowitz?”

  “Today. Lolly brought me to her place for tea. Some house.”

  Tea, indeed. There was a name for men who introduced people for the purpose of cohabitation, and I’d remind Lolly Spindrift of that fact the next time I saw him. “Lady Horowitz’s ball is not a very pleasant subject for Veronica, you klutz.”

  Buzz looked as contrite as he knew how, which wasn’t very repentant. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he apologized.

  “It’s all right, Buzz,” Veronica said. “That woman’s party is not your doing, and I still appreciate what you did for me the other day.” Veronica had a weakness for handsome, young men.

  “Thanks,” Buzz said and, feeling vindicated, he bounded off with a wave, a grin, and nary a trace of egg on his face.

  Our dinner arrived and not a moment too soon. I ordered a white Burgundy for Veronica and a Beaujolais for moi. Eric poured the customary dollop of wine from each bottle for us to taste and after we both gave it the nod, he filled our glasses. My steak was what is known in some gourmand circles as “Pittsburgh.” Black on the outside and red within. I trust the name came from those iron mills pioneered by Andy and John I. Eric tossed our salad—oil, vinegar, and a sprinkling of finely grated Romano—and we began this delightful meal in the middle of which Veronica dropped a bomb.

  “You’ve met Seth before today,” she informed me.

  “I doubt it. I never forget a face. What makes you think so?”

  “He was with me at Hillcrest—in the chat room. I believe you exchanged words.”

  I was fast losing my appetite. “You went there to meet him? Why?”

  “Because he invited me.”

  “Do you
always go where people invite you?”

  “No. Only when I want to.”

  That seemed to say it all. We continued eating in silence. I couldn’t help thinking how foolish pretty, young girls could be, and judging from Veronica’s pleased expression, she was thinking that the grilled pompano was delicious. By the time our coffee arrived, she once again opened up to me.

  “Archy, I went to the Horowitz reception with Fitz and her parents. Like all those so-called charity events, it was one big bore, and suddenly there was Seth. So attractive, I thought, and daring. And he never pretended to be anything than what he was—the Fairhursts’ chauffeur. Of course, the only reason the Fairhursts were there was because the reception benefited some children’s hospital where Mr. Fairhurst is on the board of directors. That Horowitz lady knows how to pull in the big fish. And that’s it.”

  No, I thought—that isn’t it. “And he invited you out?”

  “Yes. I saw him again the following evening.”

  “And the night after that you met him at Hillcrest?”

  “I just told you I did.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “How could I? I spent the next day and night with you, and I’ve been with my mother ever since. And I have no intention of seeing him again. I’ve grown up in the past two days, Archy, and Seth Walker no longer amuses. Now, can we drop the subject?”

  “With pleasure,” I said.

  One very clever paparazzo was waiting for us outside Ta-Boo’, but we didn’t even say “cheese” when he took the picture that would make the front pages of the morning tabloids.

  When I took Veronica home, I made my third error. I kissed her good night. Not a brotherly kiss, but the kind of kiss mothers warn their daughters against, especially when indulged in convertible ears with their tops up. I pulled up in front of Veronica’s door at eleven-fifteen. She left the Miata at five minutes to midnight.

  21

  “WELL, IF IT ISN’T our celebrity of the day.” Lady Cynthia Horowitz was sitting poolside in a recliner, protected from the noon sun by a humongous beach umbrella. Many women her age in Palm Beach never showed their face in the bright light of day, but Lady C. seemed to enjoy doing just that, adding to her mystique as a genuine local “character.” She had a long nose with a droopy tip and a pointed chin that curved upward. No, she wasn’t a witch—but she was certainly no beauty.