McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  “A compromise?” I dreaded to think what the Duchess had extracted from poor Binky in return for not trying to squeeze a million out of McNally & Son. “What did you promise her, Binky?”

  “That I would be gainfully employed before the end of the year.”

  Now there was a feat on par with a camel passing through the eye of a needle. “How do you intend to live up to this bargain, Binky?”

  When Binky was employed as a bank teller, his debits and credits never tallied, not even once. When he toiled in a pet store, all the pets, big and small, mistook him for their dinner. At Kmart, he caused an entire display of jarred jelly beans to tip over, landing on a woman shopper, who, on last report, was still under a doctor’s care. As a cab driver, he was constantly getting lost, and as a waiter he spilled a bowl of hot consommé down the décolletage of a grand Palm Beach dowager. Need I add that Binky Watrous was in short supply of referrals.

  “I already have the job,” Binky announced.

  “Really? Where?”

  “The toy emporium in West Palm. It’s called Toys R Noyes.”

  I wondered if Mr. Pettibone had put something funny in my gimlet—like a hallucinogenic substance. “Toys that make noise? I would think parents would shun them like the plague.”

  “No, Archy. Fred Noyes is the shop’s owner. Get it? Toys R Noyes.”

  I got it, but I didn’t know if I wanted it. In fact, I was sure I didn’t. “What will be your function at Toys R Noyes, Binky?”

  “I start the day after Thanksgiving. I’m their Santa Claus.”

  Now I wished Mr. Pettibone had put a dash of cyanide in my drink—it might have spared me this news. “You are going to take children on your lap and ask them if they’ve been naughty or nice?”

  “I’m very good with children,” Binky proclaimed with a certainty born of blind faith.

  “How do you know, Binky? You’ve never had any.”

  “Remember how good I was with little Darcy last year?”

  “You overdid it, as I recall. You filled him so full of candy kisses we had to purge the poor lad well into the New Year. Besides, you don’t weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, fully clothed.”

  “The Santa suit comes padded. I already tried it on.”

  I felt duty bound to spare Mr. Noyes the sight of toddlers falling headfirst off Santa’s lap and ending up in intensive care like that poor Kmart shopper. “You do realize, Binky, that this is a dead-end position. I mean, by definition, your job ends on December twenty-fourth. Then what? Do you go to the North Pole and cavort with the elves until next year?”

  “Mr. Noyes said if things work out he would take me on as a salesperson.”

  Poor, unsuspecting Mr. Noyes. “Binky, my boy, do you know the difference between Barbie and Ken?”

  Binky gave this much thought. He tried hard. He really did. Finally he had to confess, “I give up, Archy. What’s the difference?”

  “That’s just what I want you to do. I want you to give up the idea of playing Santa at Toys R Noyes. It’s demeaning.”

  Binky got that hurt look on his face. The look that always got me where I lived. “I’m doing this for you, Archy. Remember?”

  That did it. I resolved there and then to find Binky Watrous a position more suitable to his capabilities before Thanksgiving, although I had no idea what those capabilities were. Meanwhile, to assuage my guilt, I scolded, “None of this would have happened if you had followed directly behind Veronica and me that night. We would have all arrived at my house together, and Hobo would not have felt threatened. No bite, no lawsuit. No lawsuit, no Santa suit. But no, you had to hang around to cohabitate.”

  “No way, Archy. I came out right behind you, but I had to wait for Steve. You know, my friend who was driving my car. He had to follow me because he didn’t know where you lived, so I had to wait for him.”

  “What was his problem?”

  “My car was the problem. We got there early and I parked way down at the end of the driveway, near the garage. The jerks that came after all the parking spaces were taken just left their cars in the driveway. We had to find the owners and get them to move their cars before Steve could get my car onto the highway.”

  I didn’t say a word. I just sat, staring at Binky. Mr. Pettibone mixed drinks, Priscilla waited on tables, and all around me were the sights, sounds, and smells of people enjoying their noonday meal. I was at once a participant and an observer of the scene—I was “Hic in corpore sed non spiritum”—here in body, but not in spirit.

  When I had recovered somewhat, I asked, “You had to wait for Steve?”

  “That’s right.” Binky nodded.

  Knowing the next question would change the course of many lives, including my own, I asked, “And where was Veronica’s car?”

  “Oh, right near the front door. Didn’t you see it when you drove in?”

  No, I hadn’t seen it. As a matter of fact, there was a lot I hadn’t seen that night, and for many nights after. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, “If you can’t baffle them with brilliance, dazzle them with beauty.” Veronica had done just that, and I fell for it. I hadn’t been merely dazzled—I had been blinded.

  Veronica had arrived at Hillcrest a very short time before me. In fact, I might have been trailing her. That a car, in a great hurry, left the scene immediately before or after the shooting, is a fact. Was that car a silver Mercedes convertible with a blue canvas top?

  “You having lunch, Archy?”

  “No, Binky. I just lost my appetite.”

  After retrieving my Miata I drove directly to the McNally Building. I had to see the Seigneur and tell him what I knew. He would have to speak to Melva’s lawyers, and they would have to convince Melva that only the truth would set her free. What was the truth? I shuddered to think.

  Mrs. Trelawney informed me that Father was in conference with a client and could not be disturbed.

  “Any idea how long he’ll be?” I asked her.

  “The client arrived not more than ten minutes ago. An estate planning is on the agenda, and that could take hours.”

  “I’ll wait in my office,” I said.

  “While you’re there, you could answer this call. It came about an hour ago.”

  She handed me a message memo. Al Rogoff wanted me to call him ASAP. Now what?

  In my cubbyhole I dialed the “palace” and got Tweeny Alvarez. This was not my day, not by a long shot. “Is this Al’s father?” she asked, recognizing my voice.

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’re pretty vocal for a man in your position,” Tweeny observed.

  “De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” I snapped right back.

  “What does that mean?” Tweeny’s second language was obviously not Latin.

  “Say nothing but good of the dead,” I translated for her.

  “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “As we say up here, you are forgiven, child. Now put my son on the line, as I’m calling very long distance.”

  “Pop,” Al came on and got right to the point. “We need to buy another turkey.”

  “How big, son?”

  “Fifteen pounds.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I got to the Publix ahead of Al Rogoff and watched the boy collect shopping carts. I think my brain was on overload because it refused to do anything more profound than count the shopping carts the kid was nesting. Only fourteen this time. He was falling down on the job.

  After Al pulled in, he hopped out of his car and joined me in the Miata, puffing on a stogie the size of a blimp. “Remember I told you we were checking the Hillcrest place?”

  I acknowledged that he had.

  “The Hillcrest place is what the kids call a party house. They pass around cheap wine, sometimes to minors, and sell drugs. Pot mostly, but some hard stuff for those who can afford it.”

  “Nothing I don’t know, Al.”

  “The house is a rental, and the guy on the lease is Geoffrey Williams.”


  How much more could I take? “And he rented it about six weeks ago, I believe.”

  “How did you know?”

  I could have told him I was playing a hunch; instead I said, “I learned a few things today that I will pass on to you as soon as I know they’re true and figure out what they mean. Trust me, Al.”

  The Miata was so full of cigar smoke my eyes began to tear. I was sorry I hadn’t put the top down, but the threat of more rain still hung over Palm Beach.

  “Sure, Archy. No sweat. We’re seeing if there’s any link between Hillcrest and the murder.”

  So am I, I thought. “Do you know who actually lives in the house, Al?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Could be a lady who thinks it’s greener pastures.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you when I know, Sergeant.”

  “I have another piece of news for you, Archy. I didn’t tell you that day I was guarding the murder scene because it wouldn’t have been kosher. But today we told your friend Melva’s lawyers that we found a second set of prints on the murder weapon.”

  I held my breath and asked, “Did you ID them, Al?”

  He waved his cigar in a negative gesture. “No. They were blurred. Only partial prints, and we gave up trying to match them, but we’re legally bound to tell Melva’s lawyers what we know.”

  Was I legally bound to tell Al Rogoff that those prints could belong to the person who left the scene in a big hurry? The person who was not Linda Adams but Veronica Manning? If I wasn’t legally bound, I was certainly duty bound to my friend Al Rogoff. However, I needed to fill in a few missing pieces before I could present the police with a picture that wasn’t full of holes, and very often a partial truth could do more harm than a spiteful lie.

  “Like I said, Al, I have some information that might help, but until I separate fact from theory I’ll keep it to myself. When the time is right, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I understand, Archy, and if I’m not around when you’re ready to talk, pass it on to the lieutenant.”

  “What do you mean, if you’re not around?”

  “I got some time off,” he confided, “an’ I’m going up to New York.”

  “Why?”

  “To see Swan Lake. The new one with male swans.” It cost him a lot to admit this, but we were breaking down barriers.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Why?”

  “Tell me when you’re going. I’ll book you into the Yale Club.”

  “Thanks, Archy.”

  “Shirt and tie, Al. It’s a classy joint. No chomping on cigar butts, and keep your mouth shut or they’ll think you’re a spy from Harvard.”

  “Shove it, Archy.”

  And he was gone in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind an aroma more compatible with beer halls than Miatas.

  28

  I DROVE SOUTH AGAIN, this time only as far as Manalapan Beach, to Hillcrest. It started to drizzle as I left my car. Does the sun ever shine on this place? There was a doorbell that produced no sound when I pressed it. I waited a minute or two, then knocked with similar results. I turned the big brass knob, pushed, and the door opened. I went in, out of the rain.

  The place looked and smelled like a nightclub the morning after, before the cleaning people come in to put Humpty-Dumpty back together again. All around me were dirty glasses, empty wine bottles; overflowing ashtrays, and parquet floors covered in grime, discarded tissues, and cigarette butts ground into the wood by the nightly visitors. There is nothing as depressing as grandeur gone to seed. If I had my druthers I would rather be in the BB Trailer Court. It made no pretense of being anything other then what it was and succeeded admirably. Hillcrest was greener pastures covered in cow dip.

  “You from the police?”

  She appeared in the dark passage beyond the grand staircase. In the gray light of a rainy day, I saw a slim woman in a shapeless print dress and bedroom slippers. Her hair had been cut into a mannish bob and dyed a strange shade of red with what looked like one of those “shower in the color” shampoos.

  “No. Were you expecting them?”

  “They were here yesterday on some half-assed pretense or other. What they were doing was casing the place.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word with great care. A drunk, pretending to be sober and thinking she was getting away with it. “So, who are you?”

  “Archy McNally.”

  “What’s your business, Mr. McNally?”

  “I’m an investigator representing John Fairhurst.”

  “The guy Jeff is driving for?”

  Score one for Archy. Seth Walker was Jeff Wolinsky. It wasn’t totally unexpected news, but I was moving out of the realm of speculation and into the world of facts, a situation long overdue.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” I advanced a few steps toward her.

  “You are in.”

  “I mean, can we sit down and talk?”

  “First tell me what you want to talk about, Mr. McNally.” She stood her ground, hands on her hips. Her dress had seen better days and so had her face, which, like Hillcrest, showed vestiges of beauty gone to pot.

  “I believe your son is blackmailing Mr. Fairhurst. It’s a very serious charge and I’m here to see if we can avert calling in the police, who I know are interested in your son for other reasons.”

  “Christ!” Her shoulders slumped in a gesture of pure despair, a gesture that seemed as familiar to her as a smile is to the more fortunate. “Come on in.”

  She turned and walked down the passage toward the chat rooms. I followed, and she made a left at the end of the passage into what I had guessed the other night was the sunroom. I was correct. The west wall was composed entirely of French doors that opened to a narrow balcony overlooking Lake Worth. Both sky and lake were gray and not one craft appeared on the choppy water.

  “You’re Mrs. Wolinsky?” I began.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I talked to Angie at the trailer court.”

  “That one! Then you know my life history. You get around, Mr. McNally.”

  “I told you I was an investigator.”

  “Yeah, so you said.” She didn’t ask how I had traced her to the trailer court. Either she didn’t care, or her brain was unable to make the connection. Perhaps the truth was a little bit of both.

  Like the rest of the house, the room was only partially furnished. It held a divan fronted by a coffee table and two side chairs that might be called Danish Modern. There was a sideboard against one wall, and on it was the inevitable bar set-up: ice bucket, assorted bottles of liquor, and mini fridge from which Mrs. Wolinsky removed a can of beer. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” I sat on one of the Danish Moderns.

  She popped the metal tab and poured her Bud into a pilsner glass. I suppose I should say I was grateful she didn’t drink it right from the can. She stood by the bar, her hand rubbing the smooth surface as if it were the head of a pet dog.

  “Why does your son call himself Seth Walker?”

  “Because his father told him to change his name for the Palm Beach social set, that’s why.”

  “Where’s his father now, Mrs. Wolinsky?”

  “In the morgue, or don’t you read the newspapers?”

  Another speculation gave way to fact. I was certainly learning a lot about Geoff Williams, né Wolinsky, at John Fairhurst’s expense.

  Half the beer in her glass was gone. She turned and poured herself a neat rye—downed it, and chased it with her Bud. This was some heavy hitter.

  “You have to excuse me,” she apologized. “It helps my nerves. I’m very nervous. I got problems, and I figure the liquor is more sensible than pills. Pills kill, you know. Marilyn Monroe took pills and look what happened to her.”

  “You had a child with Geoff Williams?”

  “Why the hell not? He was my husband. Is that a crime?”

  So Geoff
Williams, or Jeff Wolinsky, had been married to this woman and had had a son with her. No wonder he didn’t want the boy parading around Palm Beach with the name Jeff Wolinsky. When I asked the supposed Seth Walker what his connection was to Geoff, the boy had said, “He was an acquaintance of my mother’s.” Well, he hadn’t lied, I’ll give him credit for that.

  “Geoff rented this place for you when he was in Palm Beach alone, about six weeks ago. Is that right?”

  She finished her beer and refilled the glass, emptying the can of Bud. “Not for me. I was happy in the trailer. It was the kid, little Jeff, like we used to call him, who has big ideas. The kid was crazy jealous with the way his father was living while we were marking time in Boynton. He told his father that if he didn’t improve our lot—that’s what he said, improve our lot—he would rat on his father.” She poured herself another neat rye without apology.

  The kid was a born blackmailer. “You mean he’d tell Geoff’s wife that Geoff had an ex-wife and a son?”

  “You’re a laugh and a half, Mr. McNulty.” I didn’t bother correcting her because I doubt if she would know what I was talking about. “Ex-wife, my eye. We were never divorced. I’m the only legal wife J-E-F-F Wolinsky ever had. So if he left an insurance policy...”

  I couldn’t have been more stunned if she had hit me on the head with her bottle of Four Roses. I sat there in what I believe is called a state of suspended animation as she droned on in a drunken rage.

  “... He started giving tennis lessons. Oh, man, he was good at tennis. Only, all his students were women old enough to be his mother, and after a hot day on the court they retired to a hot time in the bedroom. He changed his name for professional purposes. How do you like that one? Professional purposes. Geoffrey Williams...”

  The story unfolded like a soap opera scripted by the Marquis de Sade, and as I listened all I could think of was Melva. Poor, poor Melva. As if murderess wasn’t bad enough, she would now also be known as the second wife of a bigamist. Geoff Williams—or Jeff Wolinsky—had gotten off easy.

  “... I had the kid and my nerves were bad. They always were.” She poured herself another shot of Four Roses, but her beer glass was empty so she chased it with yet another shot of Four Roses. How much longer could she stay on her feet?