“I’m not a virgin, Archy.”
Give unto me a break.
The McNally clan meets every evening at seven for cocktails in Father’s den where he mixes our martinis in a perfect silver shaker filled with perfect little ice cubes, pouring the result into perfect baccarat crystal glasses and garnished with perfect green olives. The only thing not perfect is the brew itself, thanks to the seigneur’s heavy hand with the vermouth. In this, as in all things, father is consistent when he measures out the ingredients including, so help me, the exact number of ice cubes.
Topics of conversation at this family gathering are limited to who did what that day. If I’m on a case, I will give Father a progress report.
He, in turn, will nod his approval or vocalize his disapproval after which he will keep us abreast of the antics of his more prestigious clients or drop a few of the names he rubbed shoulders with at last season’s Glitz at the Ritz Ball.
Mother, if she’s had a letter from my sister, Dora, in Arizona, will report on the family there with emphasis on the grandchildren, Rebecca, Rowena, and my godson, little Darcy. Or, after hearing a guest speaker at the C.A.S. (Current Affairs Society) she will tell us, in detail, what the lecturer had to impart. Mother joined the group out of concern for the ozone layer without quite knowing what ozone is.
I recall one guest speaker, a Ms Glynis Ives, self-proclaimed authority on the British royal family,
reporting that when King George VI and his queen, Elizabeth, visited the United States in 1939, they brought with them gallons of British water to be used for brewing their tea and had insisted on hot-water bottles for their beds in Washington, D.C.” in the springtime.
What this has to do with current affairs I do not know, nor would I dream of asking. But I record such information in my journal under the heading “Incidental Intelligence.”
As you can see, we lead a privileged lifestyle due not to my father’s flourishing law practice but to the man who greased the way to father’s success -his sire, Freddy McNally. Freddy was a bulb-nosed, prat falling burlesque comic on the Minsky circuit who worked with such headliners as the exotic dancer Trixie Forganza and Her Little Bag of Tricks. Grandpa Freddy invested not in the stock market but, on his many visits to Florida in the Roaring Twenties, put his money into Gold Coast real estate at a dime an acre. When Wall Street laid that egg, Freddy’s act soared.
While father is not ungrateful for Freddy’s foresight, he is not exactly joyous over Freddy’s chosen profession. The lord of the manor would prefer to have it believed that the McNally dynasty began with him and, based on my expectations, will no doubt end with him.
With two-thirds of the family not at home, our household was a microcosm of Palm Beach in the summer months when the population drops to nine thousand, from a winter high reputed to be close to thirty thousand. Since the pater and mater had gone to sea I had been taking my evening libation at the Pelican where the bar is presided over by Mr. Simon Pettibone, the club’s general manager, factotum, and, on numerous occasions, father confessor.
Simon Pettibone is a dignified African-American who, along with his wife and children, keeps the Pelican in tip-top shape and solvent, and accounts for the length of our membership waiting list. At this early hour I was Mr. Pettibone’s only customer. Priscilla Pettibone, Simon’s beautiful and sassy daughter, was busy setting tables in the bar and dining room and the Pettibone son, Leroy, who wears the toque blanche, was in the kitchen whipping up delights, This left Mrs.
Pettibone, our den mother, who I assumed was upstairs in their apartment over the shop getting dolled up to greet the evening diners.
Simon was watching the television screen showing a running tape of the day’s stock quotations.
Are we up or down?” I asked Mr. Pettibone.
“Sideways, Archy,” he answered. Simon Pettibone was also something of a Wall Street guru, whose tips were sought by club members who enjoyed a roll of the dice at that legal gambling casino in lower Manhattan.
Anticipating my order, he began to prepare a frozen daiquiri.
“I had a drink with a woman today, Mr. Pettibone, who ordered a Pink Lady.”
Mr. Pettibone paused in his work, closed his eyes and recited: “Two ounces gin, one teaspoon grenadine, one teaspoon cream, one egg white, shake with ice and pour. Cherry, optional.”
This was a game Simon Pettibone and I played ever since I had come upon a vintage mixology handbook and discovered such alluring alcohol bracers as a Sazerac, a Sweet Potootie, a Seventh Heaven, an Arise My Love, and, my favorite, a Soul Kiss. One evening at the club I ordered the latter and was rendered flummoxed when Simon Pettibone, without so much as a blink of the eye, mixed bourbon, dry vermouth, Dubonnet, and orange juice in exacting proportions and presented me with my order.
Not only did Simon Pettibone know the ingredients of all the drinks in a book that was a relic of Prohibition, he also added a few that were not in my mixology guide. To wit: an Oliver Twist a martini with both olive and lemon. I never asked Mr. Pettibone from whence came this profundity of the mixologist’s art.
Placing my daiquiri before me, he said, “I have a poser for you.”
“I’m at your service, Mr. P.”
“Do you know the name Henry Peavey?”
It had been a long, hard day, so I thought about this short and easy.
Not having Sofia Richmond to fill in the blanks, I came up with nothing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pettibone, I can’t say it means a thing to me. Should it?”
“I don’t know myself, Archy. Mrs. Pettibone got a letter from her cousin’s son, Lyle Washington, who lives in Sacramento. Lyle is the son of Hattie and Sam Washington. Henry Peavey was Hattie’s father.
Jasmine, Mrs. Pettibone, is a cousin of Sam Washington, not Hattie, and both of them are gone now.
“It seems Lyle was cleaning out the attic in the house left to him by his parents when he came upon his grandfather Peavey’s diary. His letter said it could be worth a fortune.”
“Why?” I responded.
“Beats me, Archy. I said Jasmine is related on the Washington side of the family and she’s never been very close to them as they’ve always lived in California. She knows even less about the Peaveys. Lyle wrote to Jasmine because, as he said in the letter, he understood we saw a lot of notables here in Palm Beach and he thought we might be helpful to him.”
“And that’s all he said?”
“That’s all, Archy. It looks to me as if Lyle just took it for granted that we, or at least Jasmine, knew the Peaveys and the significance of finding Henry’s diary.”
“Did Mrs. Pettibone call Lyle?” I asked.
“She did, and got no answer. Lyle is divorced and lives alone. She called Lyle’s daughter, who was just as mystified as we were. All she knew was that she got a call from her father who told her he was going south and for her to keep an eye on the house.”
“South?” I echoed. “Do the Peaveys have relatives in the south?”
Mr. Pettibone shook his head. “We don’t know and neither does Lyle’s daughter.”
“I think, Mr. Pettibone, all you can do now is wait for another communication from Lyle.”
“I agree, Archy. But you have to admit it’s a tantalizing puzzler.”
I would admit. I would also admit that after dealing with the trials and tribulations of Sabrina Wright, Binky Watrous, Hermioni Rutherford, Al Rogoff, and, by proxy, Bianca Courtney, I deserved an English Oval.
Therefore, I lit one.
“I thought you gave those up,” Priscilla said in passing.
“This is only my second today,” I told her.
“They say there’s never a second without a third,” Priscilla called over her shoulder.
I would admit that, too.
Five
It was one month after the summer solstice which gave me just enough daylight to get in my swim before joining the Olsons for pot luck. In honor of this mauve decade I selected a pair of mauve trunks adorne
d with orris braiding and a matching mesh belt. I pulled a white hooded terry robe over my shoulders and ambled across the A1A barefoot.
Amazing how traffic grinds to a halt when my wraithlike figure appears in the waning twilight. Will I meet my maker on one such balmy evening when a giddy teenager in a Porsche attempts to drive through me?
There are many who flee southern Florida in the summer for cooler climes and we natives are prone to say unto them, Ta-ta and don’t hurry back.” There is nothing like having an ocean all to yourself after a hard day in the salt mines. My shadow grew long as I walked across the tepid sand and the Atlantic was beginning to cool under a white moon, almost full, just peeking over the horizon. I swam my laps beneath a red sky, a mile north, before retracing my wet path back to my starting point. If it ain’t Eden, it’s a reasonable facsimile thereof.
When the family is all in residence we usually breakfast in the kitchen with Ursi cooking and serving after which she often joins us for a cup pa before father and I leave for the office and mother rushes to her beckoning begonias. Jamie Olson is sometimes present, lacing his black coffee with Aquavit while waiting to see if mother wants to go shopping at Publix, which I believe is the only supermarket in the world that offers valet parking, or hit the local nurseries in search of an orphaned begonia in need of TLC. For these excursions Jamie drives mother’s wood-paneled Ford wagon.
Evenings, we dressed for dinner in the formal dining room where father officiated and pontificated over the fine quality of his wine cellar, which, I must say, is superb. Being alone, I joined Ursi and Jamie in our commodious kitchen for the evening meal, and when the sire is away the offspring will play at selecting a wine of reputable vintage to enjoy with the fruits of Ursi’s labors.
Tonight, it was fricandeau, or loin of veal to the common folks. This she larded and braised and presented with roasted potatoes and onions, asparagus in lemon butter sauce, and, for color, glazed baby carrots.
For openers there was a spinach salad avec bacon and mushrooms, tossed with Ursi’s own warm bacon vinaigrette. If this is not the average American’s bill of fare on a warm summer evening, please remember that Palm Beach is not the average American seaside resort.
My contribution was a 1982 cabernet sauvignon. For appearances’ sake we toasted our benefactor, wishing him calm seas and a safe return.
Silently, I offered an invocation to Poseidon, adjuring him to treat my kin with more respect than he had shown poor Odysseus. I acknowledge the old gods because I am a firm believer in never burning my bridges and, who knows, if culottes can make a comeback, why not the original Olympians?
As expected, Ursi had spread the word of my involvement with the famous authoress Sabrina Wright. “They all knew that she was in town,” Ursi said, ‘thanks to Mr. Spindrift, but it was me who told them why she was here. You could say I had an exclusive.”
Any reaction?” I asked.
“Well, they all agreed that Ms Wright should stick to her books and let her daughter elope with the man she loves.”
That was predictable and did nothing to further my cause in locating Robert Silvester and, should he still be with them, Gillian Wright and Zack Ward. Sudden thought. Had he ever been with them? Did Robert Silvester in fact find Gillian and Zack? He told his wife he had, but it’s what my father would call hearsay. Then the guy disappears and therein lies the crux of the matter. Where had he gone, and why?
But Ursi had done my bidding. Lolly had told them Sabrina was in town and Ursi had connected me with the writer. Both Lolly and Ursi had the ear of those that mattered granted on different strata, but due to necessity the twain doth meet on Ocean Boulevard. Now, interested parties would know whom to contact if they had anything to share.
Jamie’s mandible, except when chewing, was as rigid as always, but then Jamie only spoke when he had something to say. I had dropped an ant in the pants of the Palm Beach noblesse and now had to wait on their sagacity, which, thankfully, did not hinge upon our national security.
Dessert was raspberry sorbet with Ursi’s own decadently fudgy brownies, plus a few actual berries for their antioxidant powers. Stoically refusing seconds, I withdrew to my leaky penthouse and settled in for the evening. Not having dressed for dinner summer flannels, lavender polo shirt of Sea Island cotton, white tasseled loafers and no socks of course -I went directly to my desk, got out my journal, and began recording my interview with Sabrina Wright and the case of “The Man That Got Away.” I thought a more apt title might be “The Men That Got Away,” not realizing at the time just how prophetic my own musings would be.
The men, of course, would include Gillian’s natural father, who had fled some thirty years ago; Zack Ward, who followed suit a week ago; and then Robert Silvester, just a few days ago. Originally, Gillian’s father and Silvester must have believed he was the subject of Lolly’s blind item. I omit Zack Ward because I’m sure he tipped off Lolly. Now that the Olsons had got my message out, Gillian’s father knew, or would soon know, that Sabrina was here in search of Gillian and her lover.
Would he believe it? If he did, would he find it inconvenient to have both his old flame and the result of their indiscretion on our tight little island? Too, he must be wondering why Gillian had sought asylum in Palm Beach. The guy’s feathered nest was suddenly rife with thorns.
I had no idea how I was going to go about finding Robert Silvester.
Both he and Zack Ward were strangers in our midst and therefore would not be privy to the gossip Ursi and Jamie had spread around Ocean Boulevard, so they could not link me with Sabrina. And even if they did, it was unlikely they would contact me. The deer does not attract the attention of the hunter.
So why did Zack tip off Lolly? Role reversal. Sabrina’s prey was playing the hunter. This case had all the trappings of a bedroom farce which comes with the territory when you get in the middle of domestic fisticuffs.
I undressed, washed, and donned a blue-and-white striped silk robe. I poured myself a small marc and refusing to break the rule never a second without a third I lit an English Oval.
At this juncture, as in the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. It is said that the average man thinks of sex once every thirty-seven seconds. I have no doubt that Binky Watrous was canvassed on that one. If you think I was mulling over the idea of calling Connie Garcia, you are wrong. In fact, I was thinking of Bianca Courtney and her crusade for justice. More to the point, I was thinking of Bianca Courtney and her position between a boy and a bear Binky Watrous and Al Rogoff.
What Bianca needed was a sheik in a blue-and-white striped silk robe, to sweep her onto his Arabian charger and gallop off into the sunset. I have these heroic fantasies every thirty-seven seconds. Was guilt a by-product of this fantasy? Absolutely not. I am true to Connie in my fashion, hence I remain single, which makes me more a puritan than a libertine.
Being a firm believer in the sanctity of marriage, I will not take the fatal step until I am prepared to draw a blank every thirty-seven seconds and become monogamous in thought, word, and deed, till death do us part. Being as far from that goal as the distance between our planet and infinity, I remain footloose and fancy-free. A cop-out?
Sure. But it proves that one can rationalize anything, crawl into bed, stroke your cheek good night and savor the restful sleep of the just.
“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”
Was I just lucky, or was I the plaything of an author in search of a plot? To appreciate the full impact of this morning call on my febrile brain, let me begin with enumerating on the roods I bore before the mountain came calling on Mohammed.
For breakfast Ursi presented me with eggs Benedict. For those who only know from scrambled to fried to hard boiled, this delight is a toasted English muffin, upon which is placed a succulent slice of frizzled Canadian bacon, over which we have a poached egg. The resulting composition is then doused with a delicate Hollandaise sauce. Once one of my favorite egg dis
hes, it now brings back memories I would rather forget. Other loving couples have their song. Connie and I have eggs Benedict.
One afternoon in the not too distant past, I was lunching at Testa’s with a charming young lady, unaware that Connie was also taking her midday meal there. Seeing us, Connie came directly to our table, toting her brunch plate. I thought she intended to join us uninvited, I might add. In the manner of civilized people, I rose to introduce her to my companion. What Connie did was open the waistband of my lime-green linen trousers and slip in two perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.
So much for breakfast and remembrance of things past, but not forgotten. I drove my Miata into the garage beneath the McNally building, exchanged a few words with Herb, our security guard, and took the elevator to the executive suite. Dear Mrs. Trelawney accepted my expense report with neither meticulous analysis nor sarcastic comment.
En garde, I thought, reaching for an imaginary epee. She signed it with a flourish and handed it back to me. Poised for battle, I waited for her first parry. My father’s private secretary has two passions in life: serving the master and giving me a hard time, not necessarily in that order.
I was loathe to turn my back on her and leave. Mrs. Trelawney wears a gray wig and, for all I know, packs heat. “Thank you,” I ventured, sadly. A day without sparring with Mrs. Trelawney is like a day without sunshine.
“I have you down for a microwave,” she stated.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney.”
“A microwave oven,” she expanded. If she thought this clarified her meaning, she was wrong.
“I seem to have come in in the middle of the movie, Mrs. Trelawney.
Could you go back to the opening scene?”
Looking over her glasses she said, “You didn’t come in in the middle of the movie, Archy. You came in in the middle of the workday.”
This was more like the Mrs. Trelawney I had come to love. My spirits rose as I geared for combat. “Does your spy in the garage below report the time of everyone’s arrival, or just mine?”
McNally's Chance Page 5
