McNally's Chance

by Lawrence Sanders

  “It should net you a good sum,” I remarked, my mind on other things.

  Algiers in July? Why not? It would broaden my horizons, among other things. I had been too long in Palm Beach pent, as the poet would say.

  Gilbert was laughing and I feared I had missed the joke. “This pink palazzo, my friend, is mortgaged to the hilt. The rich don’t pay cash for anything and a huge mortgage has many tax advantages. Now tell me why I would want to murder my benefactress?”

  I had to admit it. “You wouldn’t.”

  Tell that to the lady who’s auditioning for the role of chief witness for the prosecution and here she comes.”

  I sincerely hoped Bianca would not come rushing at us, waving a charm bracelet and shouting…

  Bianca came rushing at us waving a charm bracelet and shouting, “I found it. I found it.”

  Death, where is thy sting?

  “Get her out of here, mister, and don’t come back!” our charming host said by way of a fond farewell.

  Back in my car I read her the riot act. “That was the dumbest display I have ever seen in my life. You are loony, Bianca, with a capital L.”

  “Oh,” she pouted, ‘what difference does it make? He knows what we’re after.”

  “As of this moment we are not after anything and I suggest you stop playing Miss Marple and go find a job. The end.”

  Undaunted, she went right on. “Did you see the woman he’s living with?

  I met her upstairs. I think she’s a dominatrix.”

  This was too much. “Can it, Bianca.”

  “Okay. So, what did you think of Tony?”

  “I think he’s sleazy and a leech who never did an honest day’s work in life, and he would sell his soul to the devil for a buck, only he can’t because even on a slow day hell won’t have him.”

  “So…”

  “So nothing. It doesn’t make him a guy who would murder to no advantage. He’s no dummy, Bianca, and he wouldn’t bite the hand that feeds unless he’s got a key to the candy store. It’s against his religion. His wife’s death has left him penniless. Now get off his case and mine.”

  “Never!” Bianca cried. “Never.”

  Good grief, she sounded just like Gillian Wright.

  Eighteen

  Casa Gran.

  There was a panel truck parked near the main gate bearing the logo of a local security service and two guards on duty. These were clearly not Schuyler’s regular sentries, so they must have been hired for the occasion. More proof that he had interrupted his summer holiday in Southampton on short notice to put together a cocktail party in July.

  It made no sense but then Harry Schuyler always had more dollars than sense.

  The car in front of my Miata was being stopped at the gate and as I came to a halt behind it I noticed it carried a bumper sticker that read TROY APPLETON, in a blaze of red, white, and blue. It was a harbinger to which I paid scant attention. What was left of my mind after a morning with Bianca Courtney was focused on the Sabrina Wright mess and the Kasbah the ridiculous and the sublime. Or did I get that backward?

  The car ahead moved on and I moved up just as another car lined up behind me. For a quickie reception someone had done a good job of rallying the freeloaders. But then who would turn down an invitation to Casa Gran? The guard looked into the car and, satisfied that I wasn’t carrying an arsenal, waved me through the gate. No name check?

  This shindig was about as exclusive as a BYOB hop at the Feela Betta Thigh sorority house. Many are called and many more show up. Prescott would not have been pleased.

  Thanks to Mrs. Trelawney I had gotten into a blue suit to represent McNally & Son. For a touch of color I wore it with a tie of vermilion silk. That worked so well I placed a matching hankie in my breast pocket. Humming “I’ve Got to Be Me,” I hastened to Casa Gran at the appointed hour.

  It was a good mile drive from the gate to the house on a gracefully winding road. The flora, reputed to be in the care of fifty gardeners under the supervision of a landscape architect, was breathtaking, to say the least. After the final curve Casa Gran appeared like a shimmering mirage rising out of the sea.

  An amber marble palace sitting on twenty oceanfront acres with a spa and pool in the basement, another indoor pool on the second floor, another on the roof, and one out back, it also boasted tennis courts, both clay and grass courts, croquet, squash, and a baseball diamond for the kiddies. So much for the recreational facilities. The serious business of living was conducted in quarters larger than life.

  Like playing follow-the-leader I pulled up to the port-cochere where one of several car jockeys opened the Miata’s door and handed me a numbered ticket as I got out. Up the stairs to a grand portal guarded by a guy in a tux who pointed that away while intoning, “Cocktails in the solarium, sir.” I was on a marble terrace, wider than many country roads, which appeared to girdle the entire house. There was now a group of us, couples and singles, on the march.

  Where the terrace angled to follow the Casa Gran’s contours, the ocean came into view and my fellow travelers and I joined the party that spilled out of the solarium and onto the promenade. Waiters proffered trays of champagne and canapes, music came from nowhere, and the early evening air was alive with the tinkle of glasses and the hum of conversation. The sky over the Atlantic was growing dark and tiny white lights in trees and shrubs began to twinkle like diamonds. Hey, who knows, maybe they were diamonds.

  The solarium and terrace were separated by a series of glass doors that created a wall when all were closed and a multitude of entrances when all were open, as they were for the party. I made my way through the pretty people and entering a vast room full of more pretty people I found myself at a political caucus for state senator Troy Appleton. For this I got a by-hand invitation? No way. There was something rotten in Casa Gran; that’s why Archy was sent for. I say this with pride, not scorn.

  Troy Appleton and his wife stood in the center of the room receiving Harry Schuyler’s guests. Troy looked like Flash Gordon, all golden and smiling a million bucks worth of caps. His wife wore a chic ice-blue Paris frock that was so perfectly understated it told the world she had not only borrowed Jackie O’s hair, she had also latched on to Monsieur Givenchy. If Troy made it to Washington she would have to find herself an American couturier. I wondered if she thought Troy’s aspirations worth the compromise.

  Next to the smiling couple was Troy’s dad, Thomas Appleton. Our eyes locked on each other from across the room and poor Tom reacted as if he’d just seen a ghost. He actually blinked before he forced himself to break the visual contact. Tom Appleton was not happy to see me, therefore he had not insisted on my presence. I got in line, grabbing a dollop of caviar on a sliver of toast from a passing waiter. It was the real thing.

  “Hello. Glad you could make it.” Troy Appleton greeted me with a smile that must by now be hurting his face, and a handshake that attested to his prowess on a polo pony.

  I’m Archy McNally.”

  “Nice to know you, Archy. May I present my wife, Virginia.”

  Virginia gave me her hand, which was small and soft and warm. We touched fingers. “How do you do,” Virginia said. “I like your tie and pocket square, Mr. McNally. So original.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You are most kind.”

  And my father, Tom Appleton,” Troy continued his introductions.

  Tom and I shook hands. “How nice to meet you, sir,” I said as if I had never laid eyes on the man before this moment.

  Looking relieved, Tom said, “Same here, I’m sure. Please help yourself to a drink. If champagne is not your thing there’s a proper bar someplace in this mausoleum.”

  “I will. Best of luck to you, Troy. You have my vote.”

  “Well,” he said modestly, ‘it hasn’t come to that yet. We’re still testing the waters.”

  Was this a fund-raiser? Was I expected to write a check? Sorry, pal, I spent it all on a microwave oven and dinner for two at Charley’s Crab. And the id
ea of giving this crowd money was obscene.

  “Jump in,” I counseled. “He who hesitates is lost.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Troy said as he stuck his hand out to the guy behind me. “Hello. Glad you could make it.”

  The music came from two lovely ladies playing piano and flute. I made my way to where they were giving away the hard stuff and ordered a vodka martini with a twist. There were three bartenders in black tie to serve what looked like a stag line at the makeshift bar. When I turned to go in search of caviar and other edibles I found my way blocked by a man in blazer and ascot.

  “Archy McNally?” My host asked.

  Harry Schuyler looked like his own grandpa. The years had not been kind, but why should they have been? He had drained every ounce of life out of each one, leaving nothing in reserve. Life on Ocean Boulevard and Gin Lane had taken their toll. His hair was thinning, his face was lined, and he stooped in the manner of old men far too thin for their height.

  “It is, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”

  He was holding a glass filled with sparkling water. Were it spiked, it was with something of the colorless variety. “Your father handled some business for me awhile back,” Schuyler said. “I understand he’s out of town.”

  “On a cruise with mother. Not the best time of year to sail in the Caribbean, but it’s the only time he can get away. He will be disappointed to have missed the party.”

  “Nice of you to say so, but I doubt it’s true. This is not my affair, as you can plainly see. It’s a fund-raiser for young Troy by the way, you don’t have to ante up just because you came.”

  “I have no intention of doing so, sir.”

  “Smart boy. As I was saying, it’s not my gathering, not at all. Tommy Appleton called me up north and asked if he could use Casa Gran for the happening. The old ark has a certain cachet, as I’m sure you know, and it’s been used for far less worthy causes. Tommy and I were at Saint Paul’s together, so what the hell.

  “As it turned out it worked to my advantage. I wanted an excuse to get back here without people wondering why, and this was my ticket.” He concluded by taking a long swig of his drink.

  I sipped mine. It was one hell of a martini. The bartenders must have been told to pour liberally to get the folks in a giving mood. “Then you invited me so we could meet accidently on purpose.”

  “You don’t waste words or time, Mr. McNally, and that’s just what I want. When doing business I am a man of few words, and presently I am very short of time. I’ve heard good things about you and they are justified.” He took another swig.

  I’m at your service, Mr. Schuyler,” I volunteered.

  “Have you seen our roof garden?” he asked.

  “Only in Town and Country and Architectural Digest. This is my first visit to Casa Gran.”

  “Is that a martini you’ve got there?”

  “It is, sir.”

  He flagged the bartender and ordered another. “Don’t rush. I’ll leave mine, which is just designer water, and carry your spare. Now follow me.”

  He led me out of the solarium and into a room twice as big with a vaulted ceiling trimmed in gold leaf. It was furnished with a resplendent array of Queen Anne and Chippendale pieces of museum quality, as the merchants along Antique Row in West Palm describe their wares. “The Grand Salon of Casa Gran,” Schuyler lectured, sounding like a tour guide. “The proportions and ceiling are exact replicas of the great room in Catherine’s Palace at Tsarskoye Selo. Nana Dolly was mad for the Romanovs. They say the furniture rivals Winterthur.”

  It was stunning, and about as warm and inviting as an igloo. Where did nana Dolly kick off her shoes and kick up her heels? He opened another door and, for a change, we stepped into a small room. It was the elevator. A press of the button and we rose. The panel indicated four levels: B, 1, 2, 3. We entered on 1 and ascended to 3. Schuyler opened the door, stepped out ahead of me, and magically lit up the scene. Did I say ascended? Right to heaven.

  The pool, lit in a rainbow of colors, was the centerpiece. Surrounding it were more reminders of the landscape architect and his minions.

  Flowering trees, indigenous shrubs, and formal mini-gardens all theatrically illuminated. Replicas of Greek and Italian sculptures in marble looked down at us from their pedestals, most notably David, whose appendage was more in keeping with the gigantic original than this far smaller reproduction. Seeing my gaze, Schuyler remarked,

  “Nana Dolly had a sense of humor.”

  It was now dark, the sky had turned on its own twinklers and floodlights highlighted the beach below us and the eternal motion of the surf. The party had now spread out to the sandy terrain. “There are no words,” I said. “There really are no words.”

  Indicating a marble bench, Schuyler sat and I joined him. “I grew up here and it still impresses me. Drink up, Mr. McNally, or I’ll devour your spare and hasten my end.”

  That was the second time he had alluded to his poor health. “You can’t take the hooch, sir?”

  “Oh, I can take it all right, but it would only beg the inevitable and there is something I want to do before I depart this mortal coil,” he waved my spare across his princely domain. “Like attend my son’s wedding in September.

  “I have about six months to live, Mr. McNally. A year at the most. It seems my liver isn’t in the best of shape. I’m in no condition to withstand a transplant, should one become available, which is just as well. I would only mistreat that one, too. So, time is of the essence, son.”

  “For what, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “For stopping Sabrina Wright’s daughter from adding an addendum to my obit.”

  Surely I had heard wrong. The height and heady atmosphere must have clogged my ears. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Schuyler. You said…”

  “I told you I was a man of few words and believed you were, too. I know Sabrina came down here and hired you. I got wind of it in Southampton the day after Spindrift ran his blind item.”

  That blind item. Would it never rest in peace? “She did hire me, sir, for one day. She is no longer a client, nor are we in touch. Can I know your interest in Sabrina Wright and her daughter?”

  Ignoring my question, he bragged, “My son is a fine young man and he’s going to be a great research scientist, though God knows how he got that way coming from Linda and me. The boy is about to marry a lovely young lady in the same profession. Thanks to him I have been on the straight and narrow for several years and I intend to stay that way until they plant me. I will not have their wedding sullied by another scandal about his old man. I will not.”

  His voice shook and his hands trembled. I finished my martini and reached for my spare before it became a puddle. “Please don’t excite yourself, sir. I’m sure it won’t help your liver, or your situation, whatever that may be. Sabrina Wright hired me to find her husband who came down here looking for her daughter. It’s a little confusing, I know, but it’s the truth. I found him, or rather he found me, and that was the end of my association with Ms Wright.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he stated.

  “You may believe what you wish, Mr. Schuyler, but that’s the truth.”

  “As far as it goes, I’m sure.” He put down my empty glass and ran a hand through what was left of his hair. The guy was in a bad way and so was Archy. What was going on here?

  “The girl and her friend, a reporter they say, are snooping around old newspaper stories.” Schuyler repeated the scuttlebutt I had gotten from Ursi over my kippers and eggs. “Social items, if the gossips are right. There are those who believe she’s looking for her natural mother. Thanks to some magazine article, the world knows Sabrina adopted the girl.”

  “I know this,” I admitted cautiously.

  “It’s all bull because Sabrina is her natural mother. I know that for a fact,” he ranted. “So who is the girl looking for? Her father, who else? And why is she looking here? Because someone gave her a lead and the only person who could give her a lead was her m
other.”

  Here’s where I came in, I thought, but it wasn’t a film and I couldn’t leave. I told myself this wasn’t happening and didn’t believe me. I drank from my spare. “What is your interest in this, sir?” I held my breath and waited.

  “I told you I don’t have the luxury of time, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m the girl’s father.”

  My flabber was ruptured. My synapses ceased to synapse. Another contender had just entered the ring. Thirty years ago Sabrina Wright had come down to Ft Lauderdale for spring break and had screwed Tom, Dick, and Harry literally as well as figuratively. What a remarkable woman.

  The sounds of the night floated upward like incense rising from the High Priest’s censer the rumble of the surf, the peal of genteel laughter, the strains of cocktail music. Perhaps, if I counted to ten backward, I would wake up in my garret repeating, There is no place like home, there is no place like…

  “Did you hear me, Mr. McNally?”

  “I think you said you are Gillian’s father.”

  “You think right.”

  He told me the story of the young, the bad, and the beautiful on spring break in Ft Lauderdale three decades ago. It loses its punch the third time around. Fourth, if you included the lady’s version. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of Tom downstairs, wondering what the hell I was doing here. Had he seen Harry leading me out of the solarium?

  These old school chums were completely unaware that they were competing for the same title along with Dickey Cranston.

  Schuyler ended with, “Can you help me?”

  “Help you? How?”

  “Get Sabrina to pack up, go home, and take her daughter and the reporter with her.”

  “Why me, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “Because you know her. She contacted you for whatever reason the moment she got here. Who else but you?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “Sabrina wants to do exactly as you wish.”