McNally's chance (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

  Al nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the theory we’re working on,” he said.

  “Sabrina Wright was here to dig up the dirt on one of our old and respected families and write about it. Now I think she gave you that story about her daughter eloping as an excuse for all of them being here.”

  “Why did her husband pull out of the Chesterfield without telling her where he was going?” I tossed out to muddy the waters.

  “Did he?” Al said. “Or was it all part of the ploy and a good excuse to get you in on the game. He gave himself up as soon as his wife had given you enough misinformation to blab all over town.”

  I didn’t take umbrage because I was delighted the police had a plausible theory and I was perceived as a dupe and not a perp. “Have you questioned the daughter, Al?”

  He shook his head. “We ain’t seen her yet. The husband came to the station house when we notified him and he described the events that led to him calling us. No one has been grilled so far. We have to know what the girl and her boyfriend were looking for to crack this one, Archy. Someone didn’t like the idea of being wrote about by Sabrina Wright.”

  Wrote about? Catchy, no? Al does not like being corrected, so I let that one pass and wondered instead if Gillian, Silvester, and Zack Ward would tell the police what they were up to? Gillian had said she did not want to go public with her quest. She wanted only a chance to meet with her father in private without causing aspersion to any concerned.

  I doubt she would talk and if she didn’t, neither would Silvester or Ward.

  But did the girl think her father had killed Sabrina to maintain his anonymity? If so, would she talk to revenge her mother’s death? And if she didn’t think her father was involved, what did she think? What did they all think?

  “Did the scene-of-the-crime boys find anything?” I queried. Might as well learn as much as I could now as I had no intention of meeting with Al again until I, or the police, had solved the murder of Sabrina Wright.

  “They think there was a car parked behind Sabrina’s rental. We roped off the area and went over every inch of it and that’s all we could come up with. But it doesn’t mean much. It’s a public access road.

  There are tire tracks all over the place.”

  I was certain the car behind Sabrina’s belonged to whomever she was meeting last night. I was tempted to ask if the tracks indicated a stretch limo. The meeting place told me nothing except that it must have been chosen by the last of her former sweethearts, as Sabrina was a stranger in our town.

  “The anonymous call, Al what’s your take on that?”

  “Zilch,” he said. A responsible citizen wants to do his duty, but he don’t want no involvement. We get a dozen calls like that every day, most of ‘em about domestic squabbles. The neighbors don’t want the wife beater to know who blew the whistle on him. In this case I would guess the caller was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “She? It was a woman?”

  Al consulted his notes. “As far as the desk sergeant could tell, the caller was a female.”

  That was interesting. If I recalled correctly, Lolly’s anonymous tipster was a man. “Could the caller have known there was a dead body in the car?” I asked Al.

  “Not unless she got out and looked in the window. Sabrina Wright was in the driver’s seat, but slumped over toward the passenger side. To a passing driver it would look like the car was empty.”

  “Was she wearing her seat belt?”

  Al grinned. “Good catch, Archy, there’s hope for you. No, she wasn’t.

  She must have parked and unbuckled the belt in anticipation of getting out of the car. She was meeting someone.”

  I tried my best to point out that this was not necessarily true. “It’s possible, Al, but not everyone buckles up so we don’t know if she was strapped in or not. She could have stopped because she was lost.

  Remember, she was new to these parts.”

  “I ain’t buying it,” Al said. “I think the family she was researching knew she was after them and called her for a clandestine meeting. Her husband said she had a call that morning and went out shortly after noon.”

  That, of course, was my call. But when I met with Sabrina she told me she was seeing the last of the Mohegans that evening so the assignation was set before yesterday. “That was me,” I admitted. “I had a drink with her yesterday afternoon.”

  “Thanks for sharing, but we already know,” Al said.

  “The husband told us she saw you yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you think I wasn’t going to tell you? That hurts, Al.”

  “It hurts me, too, Archy, but we have to know where we stand. It’s my job.”

  That made me feel better about holding out on Al. It was my job, too.

  “Was anything taken?” I wondered aloud.

  “This is strictly confidential,” Al said. “Her purse was emptied and she was stripped of her jewelry. According to her husband, she wore a diamond and sapphire necklace and matching earrings that night as well as her engagement and wedding rings, but she wasn’t done in for the loot. We ain’t got no highway robbers on Island Road.”

  I littered the Publix parking lot with the butt end of my English Oval, at which point Al reverted to character and reached into his shirt pocket to bring out his adult pacifier. The stub of a chewed-up cigar.

  “By the way, Archy, even if the husband didn’t tell us she met with you yesterday, we would have known.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Rumor was, she was having drinks at the Leopard Lounge with a guy in a safari jacket. So who would wear a safari jacket to the Leopard Lounge but Archy McNally?”

  “I have imagination, Al.”

  “You have a pair, Archy, that’s what you have. So what did you and the lady talk about?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Way off.”

  I took a deep breath and resisted lighting up again. “You know Lady Cynthia Horowitz, Connie’s boss.”

  “I know her only too well, Archy. What has she got to do with this?”

  “Nothing. She’s thinking of writing her memoirs and she wanted to meet with Sabrina Wright to get some pointers from a bestselling author.

  Lady Cynthia heard I was in contact with Sabrina Wright, and she asked Connie if I would put in a word for her. As a favor to Connie I tried, but got no place.”

  Al took the stub out of his mouth. “When you write your memoirs, Archy, leave me out, okay?”

  “Your wish is my command, Sergeant.”

  “Now scram. I gotta get washed and head back to the palace.”

  “Before we part can you tell me what the family was doing while Sabrina went driving under the stars?”

  He thumbed his notes once again. “They had dinner downstairs at The Florentine. Bet it cost a week’s salary. After, they all went to their own rooms. Sabrina left and Silvester read. There was a ball game on the TV. Mets from New York, I believe, and Ward wanted to see it but the girl, Gillian, didn’t. She stayed in her room and watched a film instead. They didn’t get together until Silvester called about his missing wife. Why do you want to know?”

  “Curious, that’s all. Thanks, Al. Did you enjoy your pancakes yesterday?”

  “No. Between your boy and Bianca the Palm has become a battle zone.

  Mrs. Brewster thinks the management should keep a nurse on call. I think a nursemaid would be a better idea. I hear Bianca introduced you to Tony Gilbert. What did you think of him?”

  “More your type than mine, Al.”

  “Screw you, Archy. Now vamoose, I gotta go.”

  I had the car door opened before I remembered my promise to Simon Pettibone. “One more thing, Al. Henry Peavey. Anything turn up?”

  “Who?”

  “Henry Peavey. Mrs. Pettibone’s mysterious cousin in California. You said you would see if you could get a line on him.”

  Al tapped his forehead with one finger. “Sorry, pal. Forgot all about it, and right now I can
’t say when I’ll get to it.”

  “Get some rest,” I told him. “Henry Peavey can wait.”

  Twenty-Two

  It was Christinas in July. For Ursi there was perfume by Chanel. For Jamie, a cardigan sweater in loden cashmere. For Hobo, a leather collar tooled with banana trees. For Archy, a lemon-yellow sports jacket in raw silk.

  “Your mother spotted it,” father said, ‘and insisted it was made for you. I wonder why?”

  “And look what I got,” mother exclaimed, holding out her hand to display a lovely tennis bracelet circled with brilliants. “It was very expensive but your father insisted.”

  “It was her reward for being such a good sailor,” father told us. “I had chronic mal de mer while her team won the shuffleboard championship. Mother also managed to win a few hearts. The gentlemen were very attentive and their wives furious.”

  “Don’t believe him,” mother said with a shy smile.

  There was no doubt but that the trip was a rousing success, the voyagers returning rested and in good spirits. Mother’s florid complexion, which kept us so concerned, had not disappeared but it was less evident thanks to a very healthy-looking tan. The dispenser of all this largesse had not left himself off the receiving end. Jamie had to unpack as many fancy liqueurs as one could legally purchase at their duty-free ports of call.

  Mother inspected her garden and pronounced her begonias alive but little else. “I don’t think Martha talked to them,” she complained of the woman who had attended the plants. “Oh, she did a good job, but they do enjoy being spoken to. Tomorrow they will know I’ve returned.”

  Tomorrow the begonias would be begging for earplugs.

  By cocktail time things had calmed down and the McNally family was back to their familiar routine. We gathered in the den where father poured and stirred and served as mother smiled approvingly, and I raised my glass in a toast. “The best present you brought us is yourselves, back home safe and sound.”

  “Why, Archy, how lovely,” mother applauded.

  “Thank you, Archy,” father said unbending as far as the Chairman of the Board would ever unbend. “I trust you’re not going out tonight as I’d like to confer with you after dinner.”

  “I thought as much, sir, and made no plans.”

  Being on the ship-to-shore with Mrs. Trelawney daily, it was not office matters father needed to be advised of. Jamie had apparently had a chance to tell him of my involvement with Sabrina Wright. They say thoughts have wings and ours must have touched down on mother’s shoulder.

  “Did you hear about the writer Sabrina Wright?” she exclaimed. “It was all the talk at breakfast. The ship’s newspaper put out a special edition to make the announcement. I can’t tell you how many of the ladies had brought her latest book along for leisure reading. What have you heard, Archy?”

  We tend to keep the more harrowing aspects of my business from mother as it only aggravates her hypertension. However, rather then lie to her, which would be undignified, we simply soften the rough edges or omit the more sordid details. In keeping with this edict I readily admitted, “I met Sabrina Wright shortly after she arrived here.”

  “Really, Archy? How exciting. Was it at a book signing?”

  “I would be more interested in hearing about Binky’s housewarming party,” father insisted. “Did he like my gift and how many more did he receive?”

  Always amiable to forgo a celebrity for a friend, mother started in her chair, “Oh, yes. Mrs. Trelawney told us Binky now has his own apartment. Tell us all about it, Archy.”

  I regaled them with life at the Palm Court until Ursi announced dinner.

  It had been a long day for the travelers who were looking forward to retiring early in a bed not bolted to the floor. With this in mind the ever vigilant Ursi presented us with light but satisfying fare, consisting of a crabmeat cocktail with lemon and a tangy red pepper sauce, grilled chicken breasts, chilled sliced beets marinated in vinegar, and tossed with diced onions, steamed broccoli florets, and Ursi’s own home-baked bread which has become a staple of her kitchen.

  In a celebratory mood, the Squire poured a bottle of Chateau Lafite, 1950. Mother, as always, stayed with her sauterne. The homecoming meal ended with ice cream and Ursi’s almond cookies.

  I kissed mother’s velvety cheek before father escorted her to bed shortly after dinner. “I missed you so,” she whispered to her favorite son. I assured her the feeling was mutual and went into the den to await father’s return. When he joined me he took his customary seat behind his desk and asked if I would join him in a glass of port. “I would, sir, thank you.” I went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the wine, serving the Gov’nor before perching in a comfortable wing chair.

  To your good health, Archy,” he saluted. “It’s good to be home.”

  Stroking his mustache he said, “Wasn’t there a book awhile back called Ship of Fools?”

  As the Master is a latter-day Victorian who reads only Dickens, this caught me off guard. But like Jamie Olson, mon pere is a keen listener and what he hears he does not forget. “Yes, sir. A much praised novel by Katherine Anne Porter. It was also a very popular film. I take it your holiday is what brings it to mind.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “There were a few good chaps aboard but Porter’s title has much to say about the majority of our shipmates. However, your mother relaxed and enjoyed it and for that reason I have no regrets and would gladly do it again.” Amazing how devoted he was to his wife of almost half a century. Would I one day sit in that swivel leather chair behind that great oak desk and utter the same sentiment?

  I think not. I gently swirled my port in the fine crystal glass, savored its aroma, and drank. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Father opened the side drawer of his desk and brought out his cigars. “Archy?” he said, proffering the box. “No, thank you, sir.” I took out my English Ovals. “I’ll have one of these.” Don’t be misled by this. Father was anxious to learn my news, but the rituals must be observed. The after-dinner port, the comments regarding his shipmates that were not meant for feminine ears, the cigar, its tip now being removed with a special scissors, and finally touching flame to stogy before puffing it to life. Did he pretend we sat in a gaslit room filled with furniture adorned with antimacassars?

  Did he hear the clop, clop, clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones echoing through the dense evening fog? Was I Boswell to his Johnson, or was he Watson to my Holmes? Exhaling a cloud of smoke he said, “Perhaps Sabrina Wright’s death brought to mind the Porter novel. Jamie tells me you were working for the lady?” “Briefly, sir.

  If you would indulge me I think I should tell you all that transpired from the day I met Sabrina Wright to this very morning.”

  “You have the floor, Archy.”

  As the story unfolded father stroked, tugged, and blinked as his one eyebrow rose and fell with the speed of an express elevator in a busy office building at lunchtime. Each gesture depicted his thoughts more eloquently than the spoken word.

  An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler,” he intoned at the conclusion as if each were a deity and perhaps, to Prescott McNally, they were.

  “All three? And the story is true?”

  “I see no reason why those involved would lie, sir.”

  He shook his head as he tugged on his bushy mustache. And you were at Casa Gran?”

  “It was a fund-raiser for Troy Appleton,” I said, but it’s so seldom I get a chance to impress father I went into details with, “Harry Schuyler took me to the roof garden where we spoke in private.”

  Father’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline. “The roof garden is off-limits when the house is lent for charitable events,” he said. “You know, I did some work for Schuyler a few years ago. Nothing much, but I was hoping for more.”

  As I related my meeting with Al Rogoff, I commented, “The police are convinced that Gillian’s search is the reason Sabrina was murdered.

  They think the
girl was gathering information on a prominent Palm Beach family for her mother. Zack Ward’s involvement with a tabloid only adds fuel to the rumors. Strange how close everyone is to the truth.”

  Father continued to smoke thoughtfully as I put out my cigarette. The second for today, but it was an exceptional day.

  “Would you please pour me another dram, Archy, and help yourself to more if you like.” When I had refilled both our glasses the Gov, still nonplussed, ruminated, “An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler.

  Remarkable.”

  Father was never a gossip, but he could not conceal his excitement over this intimate look into the lives of three of the richest men in the country. Tom Appleton keeps a mistress, Dick Cranston has a drinking problem, and Harry Schuyler is not long for this world,” he went on.

  “Each of them thinks he is the father of Sabrina’s daughter and without even knowing which one is, she beat them all out of a fortune. What an extraordinary woman.”

  “She was, sir, but not very timid, I’m afraid. She ruled her family like a czarina and harbored a great resentment against those three men in spite of beating them at their own game, and continued to goad them when they met again this past week. For all that she was special and, as you said, extraordinary.”

  “You’ve seen the daughter. Do her looks give the father, away?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. She doesn’t resemble her mother either, but then I’m told my sister looks like mother and I look like an orphan,

  “You look like my father,” he said with foreboding.

  Having seen pictures of Freddy McNally I was aware of this, but as father likes to think the stork brought him (directly to Yale, I presume), I am mum on the subject. That I am a constant reminder of the McNally days on the burlesque circuit is a tough rood to tote around Palm Beach, believe me. Being tossed out of mein papa’s alma mater does not help my cause.

  “Who do you think did it, Archy?”

  “Cranston. He’s the most desperate and the murdering kind. Maybe he had one too many before his meeting with Sabrina.”

  “I cast my lot with Schulyer. As he said, he has nothing to lose.”