I knew the Appleton family secret and Richard Cranston claimed to know my secret. Did all the people watching the popular pol have a little secret of their own that only one other person was privy to? Then, did all the people who knew their little secret have one of their own that was shared by one other person? If so, no one was left out and no one was safe.
“How about another beer, Archy?” Al said.
“Why not, Sergeant? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, even if the bloom is off the bud.”
Fourteen
Herb gave me a thumbs-up as I rolled past his glass closet and into my parking space. The signal meant that Mrs. Trelawney was asking for me. I knew he would be on the horn to inform her of my arrival before I was out of the car. Since my meetings with Appleton and Cranston, and especially with Cranston, I had become super sensitive to those who meddle in the affairs of others yrs. truly included. Electronic surveillance, hidden cameras in banks and offices and rest rooms, cell phones that are practically shortwave radios, and let’s not forget the old lady who lives across the street and the kid who delivers our takeout dinners. Al Rogoff took down a name and said he would run it through a national register to see what came up. Who hasn’t wondered what would come up were his name run through Big Brother’s ledger? The Internet leaves paper trails that are capable of delineating the life and times of everyone who was plugged in. Our biographies were being written as we lived them. Appleton arranges a meeting in a museum and Cranston in the backseat of his car. The museum was open to the public and at least three other people, Bianca, Mrs. Brewster, and the limo driver, had observed and recorded Cranston’s not so clever ploy.
“Rat on me and I’ll rat on you,” Cranston had intimated when we parted.
Well, Dickey boy, no man is an island because we’re all connected by that information highway which is swarming with pot holes, culs-de-sac, and sewer rats. And, as Al Rogoff might say, Archy ain’t got no credentials to present to the dame in Buckingham Palace.”
The case I had agreed to take on for Sabrina Wright had lasted less than forty-eight hours, defied a solution, included a cast of thousands, and left me clinically paranoid. I needed to relax and unwind. I needed that midnight swim with Bianca Courtney. I would even consider a few fifty-minute hours with our resident shrink, Dr.
Gussie Pearlberg, if I did not agree with Sam Goldwyn’s malapropism: A man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.
When Binky stuck his head in my doorway a few moments after I had traversed it, I began to regret having gotten him a position at McNally
amp; Son. Like a potent narcotic, Binky should be taken in small doses between long intervals. Now I had him in my back pocket where I did not need more bulge.
“Thanks for the microwave oven, Archy,” Binky said.
News of my visit to Bianca had traveled faster than a microwave oven could reduce a hot dog to ashes. “Did Bianca Courtney call you?” I questioned.
“No. I went home for lunch and stopped in to see her. She helped me carry it to my kitchen and she’s going to show me how to work it.”
I paused briefly, mulling his phrasing, before intoning, “I believe it comes with instructions,” not mentioning my doubts about Bianca’s own knowledge. “And you don’t want to come on too strong with your new neighbor, Binky. It’s really not necessary to knock on her door every time you pass it. Familiarity breeds contempt, as some closeted extrovert once said, and you should play hard-to-get.”
Reflecting on this sage advice, Binky remarked, “I’m so hard-to-get I’ve never been gotten.”
This was true but not in the sense that either Binky or I had intended.
Moving right along, I advised the boy to tend to his own garden.
“You’ve just moved in. You’ve got a thousand things that need doing and courting your neighbor is not one of them.”
My words went unheeded as, unable to contain his excitement, he said,
“Bianca told me that you’re taking her case. Thanks, Archy. You know I’m available for legwork and reconnaissance, as usual.”
Binky watches too much television and is beginning to talk like a script composed by ten scribes locked in a room with an unlimited supply of legal pads, pencils, and Jim Beam.. The only thing I wanted to reconnoiter on Bianca’s behalf was unmentionable, for which I did not need Binky’s help as usual.
“I’m sorry to say, Binky, that she doesn’t have much of a case. I talked to Al Rogoff this afternoon and it seems the police are satisfied that Bianca’s former employer met with an accident. After hearing the facts, I would have to agree.”
Quick to tell me how well he had integrated into the ebb and flow of life at the Palm Court, Binky disclosed, “Al had Chinese takeout last night, too. Sweet-and-sour pork and spring rolls.”
I was losing patience, a common consequence of a one-on-one with Binky.
“What Al had for dinner last night does not change or help Bianca’s case. Her only clue, the barbell, was being used as a paperweight in the garage and not for bopping the lady of the house senseless. This has been confirmed by the housekeeper.”
“Why couldn’t he have taken the barbell from the garage, used it to knock her out, then return it to the garage?”
My exasperation took the form of a sigh that came deep from within. But we are told to suffer the children, so I explained, “Because he had no reason to do her in, Binky. He doesn’t inherit anything but what might be due him as her legal spouse. In fact he may soon be looking for a rental in the Palm Court.”
“I hope not, Archy. Bianca hates him.”
And I’m afraid she’s allowed her feelings to warp her common sense. I did say I would go with her to meet this Antony Gilbert, and now I’m sorry I did.” Fearing Binky would burst into tears at this, I quickly stated that I would honor my promise, “However futile the effort.”
All smiles, Binky expressed his gratitude. I’m glad, Archy. Bianca really appreciates my help in putting her in touch with you. Anything you do will make her feel better and if you have to let her down I hope you can do it easy, you know what I mean?”
Indeed I did know. I intended to let her down over a cozy supper for two across a candlelit table overlooking a moonlit ocean. How to transport her in my red Miata from the Palm Court to a restaurant, unseen by her ever watchful neighbors, would tax the expertise of a general moving an army across a terrain rigged with land mines. I had been known to rent a Ford or a Chevy for trailing on stakeouts and might have to resort to that maneuver in the courtship of Bianca Courtney. Then, poor Binky once again aided and abated me in my determination to succumb to lust and debauchery.
Are you having dinner with us tonight, Archy?” Binky asked.
“Us? Who’s us?” Was I to be included in another Chinese takeout orgy?
“Connie and me. She’s taking me to the Pelican tonight to celebrate my move to the Palm. I think she bought me something, Archy, because she wanted to know what my color scheme was in my bath.”
“Really? And what is your color scheme?”
“The tile and walls and basin are white, so I told her white was my scheme.”
And my scheme was unfurled before me like bunting at a political convention. With Binky and Connie at the Pelican, I could pick up Bianca without being seen by Binky and not have to worry about running into Connie. Things were looking up. It was a dastardly plan, but all’s fair in love and war and wooing in a trailer park. And if Connie ever learned she was playing decoy for my philandering she would make a spa do out of me in dos minutos. The danger was an aphrodisiac to my senses. Lucky Bianca.
“I’m sorry, Binky, but I can’t join you. I have a previous engagement.
Give Connie my love.”
“I’ll tell her, Archy.” Before leaving he said with a contrived show of modesty, “I have to report to Mrs. Trelawney at four. What do you suppose that’s all about?”
That was all about Binky’s housewarming. The participating staff would get there fifteen min
utes before four, with their loot, and shout surprise when the new leaseholder entered, all agog. What schmaltz. I had to remember to tell Binky to make a list of who gave him what so when recompense time rolled around in the form of Lucy’s wedding, Moe’s retirement, and little Jason’s bris, he could respond in kind. “You know very well what it’s all about, young man. You will walk into Mrs.
Trelawney’s office bereft of household furnishings and emerge better stocked than Sears. You’ll not get it all into your car in one trip.”
“I rented a U-Haul,” he boasted.
“Don’t you think that was a little presumptuous?”
“You always told me to come prepared, Archy, remember?”
Unfortunately, I do remember. That rash counsel led to Binky purchasing a gross of condoms, which he keeps in the trunk of his car.
If he ever gets stopped and searched I’d like to be present when he explains the cache. “Enjoy your moment in the sun,” I told him.
“You won’t be there?”
“No. I don’t attend office galas; that’s why I brought my gift to your door.”
To Bianca’s door,” he corrected.
“Yes. To Bianca’s door.”
Binky left, momentarily, and returned with, “Who was in the stretch limo, Archy?”
Poor Dickey Cranston. The only person who didn’t know about his car being at the Palm was Her Majesty unless, of course, she had ordered Chinese takeout from the Pagoda. “None of your business, Binky.”
“That’s what I thought. See you, Archy.”
The phone rang. It was Connie inviting me to dinner at the Pelican. I told her, as I had just told Binky, that I had a previous engagement. A business engagement,” I stressed.
“What kind of business?” The ever trustful Connie stressed right back.
“The kind of business that pays the rent, that’s what kind.”
“You don’t pay rent, Archy.”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“Really? Well, make sure that’s the only figure you’ll be doing business with tonight.”
Connie has a way of belying our ‘arrangement’ that gets me right where I live. I told her I was seeing an old friend of my father’s who was eighty-six, in a wheelchair, and thought senile was a river.
“Sounds like fun,” Connie said.
“Not as much fun as dinner with you and Binky. What did you get the boy?”
Two bath towels, two hand towels, and two face cloths. All in royal blue.”
“But his scheme is white.”
“The room is white,” Connie said. “It must be like living inside a giant eggshell. It cries out for contrast.” A moment later she was jabbering, “And have you heard about his new girl? She lives next door. Binky is acting like a schoolboy.”
“I’ve never known Binky to act like anything but. And he’s had crushes before this. In fact he’s seldom without one.”
“But never one right next door, Archy. With Binky it’s usually out of sight, out of mind, but with this one he’ll very seldom be out of sight. He’s going to tell me all about her tonight.”
Not unless I killed him first and hid his body in the U-Haul. Binky would tell Connie how he had so gallantly brought Archy and Bianca Courtney together in the interest of justice. He would bare the saga of the microwave drop-off, the date to visit her former place of employment, etc.” etc.” and et al. By the time he finished, Connie would be shredding the royal-blue bath towels with her painted talons.
God help me. But why should he? I’m a cad.
“Connie,” I began, not knowing what would come next.
“Gotta go, Archy. Madam is buzzing. Can you get her a meeting with Sabrina Wright? She keeps asking.”
“Sabrina Wright and I are incommunicado.. ” Click. The line went dead, but not for long. Before I could formulate Binky’s demise it rang again.
“Archy McNally here.”
“You black-hearted swine. You two-timing sod. What happened to my interview with Sabrina Wright? I told my editor it was in the bag and he reserved space. I now have a lot of space to fill and nothing to fill it with except, hopefully, your obit.”
“Lolly, give me a chance…”
“I did give you a chance. I revealed my source in return for a favor and got the shaft.”
“You said your source was an anonymous caller.”
“So I revealed my anonymous source, what difference does it make? What the hell is going on, Archy? Tell me and no McNally finagling or I’ll do you-know-what for you-know-who-to-read.”
I was being threatened with blackmail from every corner. Now I had to placate Lolly, silence Binky, and place him in the U-Haul, call Bianca to do you-know-what, and prevent you-know-who from reading about it.
What’s a Discreet Inquirer to do? There just weren’t enough hours in the day.
“Sabrina’s not speaking to me, Lol. She ended our brief relationship before I could set you up with her. That’s the truth.”
“Sabrina Wright is yesterday’s news,” Lolly’s tirade continued. “She’s at The Breakers, still playing Garbo, but her daughter is all over town acting like a publicity-crazed starlet.”
I was already seated, so I couldn’t collapse into a chair. “What are you talking about?” Did I sound convincing? It made no difference.
Lolly was so excited he wouldn’t notice if I were, nor would he care.
“The girl, her name is Gillian, visits the library daily, and delves into the archives of our local periodicals. She’s interested in any social items that date back decades.”
“How do you know this, Lol?”
“Because she calls my editor and questions him about these items.
Archy, the guy wasn’t born when the stories ran. Colleagues tell me she also calls other rags, from here to Miami, asking the same thing.”
This was the worst possible scenario come to fruition. Those star-crossed lovers didn’t know what they were doing. Palm Beach is not only a small town, it’s a burg that thrives on gossip, be it true, false, or so what? They say a secret whispered over lunch at Cafe L’Europe would be the topic of conversation at every dinner table along Ocean Boulevard that night.
Sabrina must be ready to kill both her daughter and Zack Ward. How long would it be before Appleton got wind of this, if he hadn’t already? With Cranston’s network of informants he probably was told what the pair were about after their first phone call to the press.
What had Cranston said? When people don’t know the truth, they speculate. With Gillian looking for exposure, rather than anonymity, they wouldn’t have to speculate long before hitting on the truth. The boys, I’m sure, were ready to kill Sabrina.
In fact the whole stinking mess had the M word written all over it. But who would take the fall, Gillian, Zack, Sabrina or Archy?
“Did you know the girl’s boyfriend was a news hound for a trashy tabloid? I thought you said they came down here to elope. Looks like they’re investigating something that happened before they were born.”
Lolly didn’t know how close those words came to telling him what he wanted to know.
“It’s what Sabrina told me,” I contended. “And she did mention the girl’s beau was in the writing business. But listen, Lol, I’ll call Sabrina and see if she’ll clue me into what’s going on and then I’ll report what I learn to you over dinner at Acquario.”
That gave him pause. “When?”
As soon as I get through to Sabrina. For all we know, Gillian’s boyfriend is down here on a busman’s holiday, doing research on an old Palm Beach scandal for his paper.”
“I don’t see why she won’t talk to you. Eric told me you two were quite chummy the other day.”
And another county is heard from. Just what I needed. “Who’s Eric?”
“The bartender you practically thrust upon me. You have great taste, Archy.”
“You mean you…”
“I stopped in for a drink, as you urged me to, and invited him to
a little social do on Phil Meecham’s yacht. Trish Barnard was all over him, the floozy.”
Trish Barnard? I though she went for preppie blondes and I thought you had sworn off bartenders.”
“It’s summer, Archy, and the pickings are lean,” Lolly described July in Palm Beach. “But it was all providential. Meeting Eric that is.
Phil was looking for a bartender to work his parties and do odd jobs on the boat and Eric auditioned.”
“How odd, Lol?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay, I won’t. See you around the hanger, Lol.”
“In case we miss each other I’ll call to remind you. You did say Acquario?”
Fifteen
If “The Man That Got Away’ were a musical composition, we would now be at what I believe is called the crescendo of the piece, with brass, strings, and percussions all at fever pitch. At the crash of the cymbals there would follow an eerie silence before the first soft notes of the next movement would commence. What the new movement would sound like depended upon the composer; for I was beginning to suspect that all that had transpired since Sabrina’s arrival on our shores was being cleverly orchestrated by a person or persons unknown.
After meeting with Sabrina, I had referred to her quandary as a plot outline. Wasn’t it uncanny that every dire consequence that outline begged was about to happen? It was as if someone were manipulating events based on Sabrina’s synopsis, beginning with Opus One, that anonymous call to Lolly Spindrift — the snowball that was on its way to becoming an avalanche.
Who would benefit if the spit hit the fan? Everyone except the fathers-in-waiting. Gillian would get a name both prominent and wealthy. Zack would get a story that could catapult him to fame and riches. Sabrina would get publicity, which she didn’t need, but to those who have it shall be added. Who knew the moment Sabrina had arrived in Palm Beach? Only the staff at the Chesterfield and Sabrina.
Was she truly writing the piece de resistance of her stalwart career and hanging around to see how the last chapter would play out? But Zack Ward was also a writer and didn’t Gillian dabble in the art? Like Phineas Taylor Barnum’s famous three-rings, there was so much going on at once, one didn’t know where to look first. It was like watching a disaster movie from a velour recliner while munching a Milky Way.
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