“No, no,” she protested. “Every day I have delivered a nice chopped chicken liver sandwich, a nice kosher dill, a hot tea with lemon, and a nice prune Danish. Listen, sonny, you’ll have lunch before you come to see me?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe a tuna fish salad with a glass of milk,” she suggested.
“That would be nice,” I agreed. Never!
I set out for the Gottschalk home wondering if I should bring Peter a get-well gift. But what on earth do you give a would-be suicide? Flowers? Bonbons? A bottle of vodka was obviously out of the question. And so I arrived empty-handed, dubious about this errand of mercy and what it might accomplish.
I was greeted at the door by Mei Lee but before we had time to exchange salutations she was brushed aside by Yvonne Chrisling, whose stern, almost outraged manner softened when she recognized me.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you, Archy,” she said. “The reporters have been driving us crazy.”
“I can imagine,” I said, and followed her inside. I thought the interior of the Gottschalk manse seemed even more disordered than I recalled from my previous visits.
“How are you coping, Yvonne?” I asked.
“We’re surviving,” she said with an imitation of a brave smile. “Things are in a horrible stew at the moment but I’m sure everything will soon straighten out.”
“Of course,” I said, which I didn’t believe for a minute. “I was hoping to see Peter. Is he home?”
“He’s here,” she admitted. “I suppose you heard what he did—or tried to do. I’m not certain he’s in any condition to receive visitors.”
“Please try,” I urged. “I promise not to upset him or stay too long.”
She bit her lower lip and I doubted Peter’s physical condition was her main concern. I was suddenly convinced she wanted him kept incommunicado for reasons I wot not of.
“Wait here,” she commanded.
I waited for what seemed to me an unreasonably long time. Finally she reappeared and conducted me to a second-floor bedroom.
“He’s awake,” she reported, “but not quite coherent. Don’t believe everything he tells you.”
I nodded. Yvonne leaned forward to give me a brief cheek kiss and a frozen smile. I thought that was okay. But then she did something so astounding I hesitate to repeat it, fearing you may believe I’m making it up. She goosed me. It’s the truth. I swear it. Then, after her astonishing assault, she stalked away without looking back, leaving me with my flabber totally gasted and wondering if I had strayed into a loony bin.
I had expected to find a wan invalid lying motionless in bed under a sheet, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Instead I found Peter wearing jeans and a T-shirt, bopping around the room barefoot, snapping his fingers to the best of acid jazz thundering from an enormous speaker. He had the courtesy to turn down the volume when I entered.
“Hiya, Archy,” he said with a feral grin. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“How are you feeling, Peter?” I asked. It was the best I could do.
“Just great,” he said blithely. “I can’t do anything right, can I? The problem was I had too much vodka, got so drunk I forgot to gulp enough pills. Next time I’ll know better.”
This discussion of the mechanics of self-destruction alarmed me. “I hope there won’t be any next time.”
He shrugged. “Not at the moment,” he said, and continued to jive about the room, still snapping his fingers. He seemed more gaunt than ever, eyes sunk deeper, his entire face a portrait of young desolation. Yet he was obviously in a hyperactive mood; even those recessed eyes were bright and glittering.
“Peter,” I said, “ever think of taking a trip? Get away from it all for a while. Maybe a European jaunt. Just as your sisters did. South of France and all that. Change of scene. Meet new people.”
He stopped dancing to stare at me. “Great idea,” he said. “I’ll do it. Change my way of living—right? And if that ain’t enough I’ll even change the way I strut my stuff. But not yet. I’ve got to see this through first.”
“See what through? The settlement of your father’s estate? The solution of his murder?”
He wasn’t offended by my rude questions. “Everything,” he said, nodding. “I know a lot now and can find out the rest.”
“Peter, you’re talking in riddles.”
He laughed so hard he lapsed into a fit of coughing. But gradually he calmed and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.
“They think I don’t know,” he said, the savage grin returning. “They think I’m too loopy to know. But I do know. The catbird seat. Isn’t that what it’s called? Sure. I’m in the catbird seat.”
I knew further prying would be useless. This conversation had skidded into dementia. But there was something I had to ask.
“Peter,” I said, “you’re not in any danger, are you?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, and then barked a laugh. “Except from myself.”
“If you need any help,” I told him, “physical assistance or just a listening ear, I’m available. Any hour.”
It wasn’t a majestic statement of sympathy, I admit, but it devastated him. He began weeping with great heaving sobs, palms to his face, his entire body trembling with anguish. I had absolutely no idea of how to deal with that and so, following my cowardly instincts, I made a hasty departure. So much for my errand of mercy.
I didn’t regain any measure of emotional equilibrium until I was seated at the bar of the Pelican Club, frantically gulping a Sterling on the rocks with a smidgen of aqua. Can you blame me? I had just been wantonly mauled by a beetle-browed dominatrix and had witnessed a vastly troubled lad reduced to the weeps by a simple offer of support. It was enough to drive a man to drink—and so it did.
I remained at the bar, hailed Priscilla, and asked her to bring me a gargantuan cheeseburger with side orders of peppered slaw and Leroy’s thick garlic potato chips.
“On a diet?” she said, and when I didn’t deign to retort to her impertinence she asked, “Still seeing Connie?”
I flipped a hand back and forth.
“Oh-oh,” Pris said. “Trouble in paradise. She was in the other day and wanted to know if I had seen you. I figured there was a problem. It’s your fault.”
“How dare you!” I cried indignantly.
“You’re a man, aren’t you? Ipso facto. Is that the right expression?”
“It is a legal term,” I admitted. “But it doesn’t apply in this particular case.”
“Hah!” she said, and went to fetch my cholesterol à la carte.
By the time I pointed the Miata southward toward Lantana and the office of Dr. Gussie Pearlberg I was in a chipper mood. All those yummy calories had restored the McNally sangfroid, and no one is sanger or froider than yrs. truly.
A short time later I was slumped in the lumpy armchair alongside Dr. Gussie’s bulky desk. I marveled at how this accomplished woman adroitly managed a chopped chicken liver sandwich, kosher dill, container of hot tea, and prune Danish while smoking a filter-tipped cigarette and listening to my concerns.
Actually it was she who ignited our conversation.
“Sonny,” she said, “the last time you were here you spoke about a client who feared his life was in danger. He had been the victim of several nasty acts of psychological terrorism. Was he the man who was recently murdered? The owner of the parrot store?”
“Yes,” I said. “Hiram Gottschalk. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know, but I read about it in the papers, heard about it on the radio and television, and I feared it might be your client. I am so sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as I. If I had moved faster...” My voice trailed away.
“Don’t blame yourself, bubeleh,” she advised. “Investigations take time; we both know that. Some of mine have been going on for ten years with no resolution. No, there is no reason for you to feel guilty. Some things are inevitable; we simply cannot forestall them. The news r
eports said only that he was stabbed to death while asleep. Stabbed where? In the heart? Or slashed? How many wounds?”
I drew a deep breath and decided to break my promise to Sgt. Rogoff. “He was stabbed through the eyes with a long stiletto-type weapon.”
She seemed more excited than outraged. “The eyes! Now that is significant. Indicative. Definitely indicative.”
“Of what?” I asked.
She ignored my question. “Who is handling the case?”
“Sergeant Al Rogoff. You know him of course.”
“Of course. A good professional policeman with all the talents, experience, and limitations of the breed. Does he have a suspect?”
I trusted her discretion completely. She could be drawn and quartered and never betray a confidence.
“Al does have a suspect,” I told her. “The murdered man’s son, Peter Gottschalk.”
“Oh?” she said, starting another cigarette. “Tell me about him.”
I told her everything I knew about Peter Gottschalk: physical description, wild mood swings, laughter and tears, recklessness and accidents, occasional incoherence, attempted suicide and his casual mention of trying it again. And his puzzling remarks about hidden plots within the Gottschalk household, things no one suspected he knew.
Although she didn’t interrupt, Dr. Gussie’s expression grew increasingly pained during my recital. It may have been the prune Danish but I doubted it.
I finished and asked, “What do you think?”
She stirred, shifting her weight irritably. “It would be unprofessional to venture an opinion without examining the subject personally, Archy; you know that.”
“Of course.”
“And naturally I would never offer my conclusions in a court of law without many interviews with this Peter Gottschalk.”
“Understood, Dr. Gussie. I am merely asking for a snap judgment, entre nous.”
She sighed. “Sonny, what you have just told me is almost a classical clinical analysis of bipolar affective disorder. You probably know it as manic-depression. I don’t like to term it a psychosis though many professionals do. I prefer to call it a mental illness. Its main characteristic is wild mood swings between elation and despair. From your description, I would guess Peter Gottschalk is a manic-depressive.”
“Do they commit suicide or try to?”
“If I told you how many,” she said sadly, “you wouldn’t believe. But only because their condition is not recognized and they go without treatment.”
“What is the treatment?”
“Mainly medication. Sometimes neuroleptics. For a long time lithium was the only thing available. But now there are more and better drugs which don’t have the side effects of lithium.”
“You haven’t used the word cure, Dr. Gussie.”
“No, and I won’t. All we can do at this time is treat the symptoms.”
“You mean a manic-depressive must continue to take medication for the remainder of his or her life?”
“Yes, and must be monitored regularly to make certain the results are satisfactory or if the dosage should be altered or another drug substituted.”
There was something additional I had to know. “You said suicide is common amongst untreated manic-depressives. Are they also prone to violence?”
“Frequently.”
“Homicide?”
She stared at me. “That I cannot tell you because I just don’t know. I have seen no studies of murders supposedly committed by manic-depressives.”
“But you think it possible they might kill while in a manic or depressed state?”
“Oh, bubeleh, we’re talking about people. Human beings. Anything is possible.”
I knew what must be done but didn’t have the courage to volunteer. “Can you suggest a way Peter might be helped?”
She saw through my cowardice at once and gave me a gentle smile. “You know what you must do, sonny. Convince him he must consult me or any other psychiatrist as soon as possible. And I mean immediately. If my off-the-cuff diagnosis is correct and he is suffering from bipolar disorder, he is in very great danger every day he goes without treatment.”
I groaned. “How do I tell Peter he is mentally ill and needs professional assistance? He’s liable to deck me.”
“Possibly,” she agreed calmly. “He may react with hostility. Or he may simply deny there is anything wrong with him. Or he may surprise you and agree he needs help. Whatever his reaction, you’ll have done what you must do. The final decision is his.”
“All right,” I said mournfully. “I’ll get through it somehow.”
She rose to pat my cheek. “Of course you will,” she said. “And you will succeed. You are a very charming, persuasive young man. If I were fifty years younger I would be writing you a billet-doux every day.”
“Billy, do?” I said innocently. “But my name is Archy.”
“Out!” she said, pointing to the door.
CHAPTER 18
DESPITE THE FINAL LIGHTHEARTED FILLIP, my conversation with Dr. Gussie left me in a subdued mood. The old chops were definitely in free fall, and a return to my cramped cul-de-sac in the McNally Building was not to be suffered. I needed a spot of alfresco brooding. How does one go about telling a chap he’s around the bend? He’s liable to reply, “So’s your old man,” or some other cutting remark, and that would be the end of that.
Dejected by this and other conundrums of the Gottschalk affair, I drove home, pulled in to our graveled turnaround, and alighted from my barouche. My spirits ascended instanter for Hobo came dashing to me. Clamped in his jaws was a short length of what appeared to be a sawed-off broom handle. He dropped the stick at my feet and looked up expectantly.
I laughed. Listen, it was his game, not mine; I hadn’t taught him Fetch or any other silly trick. But I picked up his baton and gave it a good toss. He whirled and raced after it. A moment later he came trotting back with the prize clenched in his teeth, dropped it and waited.
We continued our sport for about five minutes and I tired before he did. I think he was disappointed when I stroked his head, told him what a splendid retriever he was, and left him to find other entertainment. I went inside feeling upbucked after my short session with the frolicsome Hobo. He had a gift of conveying joy.
We all have our wonts, do we not, and one of mine is to dither when faced with a difficult decision. I was tempted to delay a confrontation with Peter Gottschalk to another day. Perhaps to the next century when, with luck, I might be dead. But that I realized was an ignoble snivel and so, as the Reverend Spooner might say, I lirded my groins and phoned the Gottschalk residence.
“Hello?” a wary female answered. I thought I recognized the voice of Julia or Judith.
“Hello,” I said. “Archy McNally here. Julia?”
“Judith.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “How are you enduring?”
“Such a drag,” she said. “We’ll be happy when it’s over. Julia and I decided we need R and R in Italy to recover. We love Milan. Ever been there?”
“Afraid not.”
“Divine boutiques. All the latest.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Actually I called to speak with Peter. Is he available?”
“No, he took off.”
“Took off?” I said, astonished. “But I spoke with him this morning. I mean he’s recovering from an attempted suicide, isn’t he. But he’s gone? Where?”
“Who knows?” she said. “He’s perpetually out to lunch. That young man really should be put away. Thanks for calling, Archy.”
She hung up abruptly, leaving me to stare at the silent phone and try to understand her blithe indifference. After all, Peter was her brother, a member of the family. One might expect his condition to be of more concern than Milanese boutiques. I was beginning to get antsy about the Gottschalk twins. Disturbing conduct on their part, wouldn’t you say?
I did my afternoon swim in a sea that was chilly but not painfully so. I attended the family cocktail ho
ur, during which nothing was mentioned about the death of Hiram Gottschalk. Mother said Hobo had padded into her potting shed, curled up in a patch of sunlight, and snoozed for almost an hour, waking occasionally to make certain she was still there.
“He’s such a dear doggie,” she said. “I talk to him and I really think he understands. Do you talk to him, Archy?”
“Frequently,” I said. “Although I can’t fully agree with his opinion of the International Monetary Fund.”
I do believe my father snorted.
Dinner that evening was lamb shanks—one of my thousand favorite dishes. I would have preferred mint jelly but Ursi served it with a ginger sauce. No complaints. Dessert was fresh strawberries drizzled with crème de menthe. A red zin to sluice it all down. Sometimes I imagine my arteries must resemble Federal Highway during the morning rush hour.
I retired to my third-floor digs intending to spend a quiet night adding to my record of the Gottschalk case. Then I might treat myself to a marc and listen to Ella Fitzgerald sing, “Lover, Come Back to Me,” and wonder how Connie Garcia could possibly be so cruel as not to phone me. Had I completely misjudged her? Was she totally heartless?
But the revelations and surprises of that confusing day had not yet ended. I received a phone call from my loyal but mentally disadvantaged henchman, Binky Watrous. And even before he spoke I thought I heard the brittle clinking of a tambourine in the background.
“Archy?” he said. “Is this Archy?”
“No,” I said, “this is Horace Walpole, author of ‘Mysterious Mother’ and other wildly popular fictions. Binky, what’s with you? Of course this is Archy and are you boiled and why do I hear the sound of a tambourine?”
“I am not boiled,” he said indignantly. “And I am calling from Bridget Houlihan’s apartment where we are rehearsing our first appearance at a nursing home in Riviera Beach.”
“Excellent,” I said. “And that’s why you called—to announce your theatrical debut?”
“Not exactly. Archy, something happened at Parrots Unlimited I think you should know about. Discreet inquiry stuff.”
“Oh? What happened?”
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