McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  I returned home thinking what a sweet woman she was. I felt empathy for the terror those dreadful letters aroused in Roderick Gillsworth. It may sound odd to you, but I now considered threats against Lydia’s life an act of blasphemy; that’s how convinced I was of her goodness.

  Back in my cave, I did little more than glance at the books she had loaned me. I read the introductions and scanned the chapter headings, then tossed the volumes aside. Oh, I planned to read them in their entirety eventually, but I knew it would be heavy going.

  I went for my ocean swim, dutifully attended the family cocktail hour, and at seven o’clock that evening I was waiting in the driveway of the Lady Cynthia Horowitz estate, having announced my arrival to the housekeeper. Ten minutes later Consuela Garcia came scampering out, slid into the Miata, and away we went.

  I don’t care how exacting your standards may be, I assure you, male or female, that if you ever saw Connie you’d think me a dolt for casting a libidinous eye at any other woman. She is not beautiful in a conventional way, but she is certainly attractive and so sparkling that she could persuade a golem to dance a gavotte.

  She is rather shortish and plumpish, but she sports a year-round tan and usually lets her long, glossy black hair float free. I think I mentioned previously that I once saw her in a string bikini. More impressive than Mount Rushmore, I assure you.

  That evening she was wearing a white silk shirt with white denim jeans. Atop her head was a jaunty straw boater with a cerise silk band. It had once been my hat, and it still rankled that it looked better on her than it had on me. All in all, she looked so fetching that once again I lamented my philandering. I suspect it may be due to a defective gene.

  I was happy to see the Pelican Club was not too mobbed when we arrived. Priscilla was able to seat us at a corner table in the dining area.

  “Just right for lovebirds,” she said, and looked at me. “Or should I say one lovebird and one cuckoo.”

  “What sass!” I said. Then to Connie: “It’s so hard to get good help these days.”

  “Watch yourself, Simon Legree,” Priscilla said, “or I’ll tell pop to slip a Mickey in your margarita.”

  “In that case I’ll have a vodka gimlet,” I said. “Connie?”

  “Ditto,” she said. “Pris, what’s Leroy pushing tonight?”

  “Yellowtail with saffron rice and an endive salad.”

  That’s what we both ordered, and after our drinks were brought, I wasted no time in broaching my nefarious plot. I handed Connie the Glorianas’ flier advertising individualized psychic profiles. She read it swiftly and then looked up at me.

  “A swindle?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “I’d like to prove it, and you can help. Have you ever met Hertha or Frank Gloriana?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think they’ve ever heard of you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now here’s what I’d like you to do: Answer the ad in your own name from your home address. But make up a completely phony woman. Fake the date and place of birth. Fake the names of parents and grandparents. Buy some cheap gimcrack and send it along as this nonexistent woman’s personal possession. I want to see what kind of a psychic profile you’ll get for an imaginary person.”

  Connie laughed. “You’re a tricky boyo, you know that? You really think the Glorianas will provide an analysis of a make-believe woman?”

  “For a hundred bucks they will,” I said. “I’ll bet on it. Send a personal check along with your letter, and I’ll make sure you get reimbursed. Will you do it?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’ll be fun. But why are you going to so much trouble, Archy?”

  I had a con ready.

  “An elderly gent is addicted to the mumbo jumbo the Glorianas are peddling. He’s spending a fortune on private séances, fake demonstrations of telepathy and psychokinesis, and similar stuff. His grown children, our clients, are furious, figuring the old man is wasting their inheritance. They think the Glorianas are frauds. My father told me to investigate.”

  Connie bought it.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’ll order a psychic profile for a woman who doesn’t exist. Ah, here’s our food. Now shut up and let me eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  We finished dinner in record time, stopped at the bar for ponies of Frangelico, and then I drove Connie back to the Horowitz mansion.

  “Sorry you have to work late,” I said. “Next time we’ll make a night of it.”

  “We better,” she said. “Archy, tell the truth. Have you been faithful to me?”

  I avoided a direct lie, as is my wont. Subterfuge is the name of the game.

  “Connie,” I said somberly, “I must be honest. Last week I flipped through a Playboy in the barbershop, and I confess I had lust in my heart.”

  She tried not to laugh but failed. “Just make sure it stays in your heart,” she said, “and doesn’t migrate southward. Thanks for the dinner, luv.”

  She gave me a very nice kiss, slid out of the Miata, and stalked back to her office. I waited until she was safely inside, and then I drove home singing “If You Knew Susie—Like I Know Susie.” Actually, I’ve never met a woman named Susie, but one never knows, do one?

  When I pulled into our driveway I saw Roderick Gillsworth’s gray Bentley parked on the turnaround. The windows of my father’s study were lighted, and he came out into the hallway when I entered.

  “Archy,” he said, “Gillsworth just arrived with bad news. Join us, please.”

  The poet was slumped in a leather club chair, biting at a thumbnail. The governor went behind his massive desk and I pulled up a straight chair.

  “Another letter arrived today,” my father said grimly and gestured toward a foolscap lying on the desk blotter. “Even more despicable than the others. And more frightening.”

  I hardly heard his final comments. I was thinking of “Another letter arrived today” and wondering why Lydia Gillsworth hadn’t mentioned it. But perhaps she had. I recalled that during our telephone conversation, she had said, “I hope this isn’t about that stupid letter I received.” I had assumed she was speaking about the previous letter, not referring to a new one.

  “Well, Archy?” father demanded impatiently, and I realized he had asked me something that simply hadn’t registered.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” I said. “Would you repeat the question?”

  He stared at me, obviously saddened by the imbecile he had sired. “I asked if you had made any progress at all in identifying the writer of this filth.”

  “No, sir,” I said, and let it go at that.

  Gillsworth groaned. “What are we going to do?” he said, his last word rising to a falsetto.

  I had never seen the man more distraught. In addition to the nail biting, he was blinking furiously and seemed unable to control a curious tremor of his jaw; it looked as if he was chewing rapidly.

  “Mr. Gillsworth,” I said, “I really think the police should be brought in. Or if your wife continues to forbid it, then private security guards should be hired. Round-the-clock. It will be costly, but I feel it’s necessary until the perpetrator can be found.”

  The seigneur fell into one of those semi-trances that signified he was giving my proposal heavy thought, examining the pros and cons, and considering all the options in-between.

  “Yes,” he said finally, “I think that would be wise. Mr. Gillsworth, we have dealt several times in the past with a security service that provides personal guards. We have always found their personnel trustworthy and reliable. May I have permission to employ guards for your wife, twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Oh God, yes!” Gillsworth cried, his skinny arms flapping. “Just the thing! Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “Where is Mrs. Gillsworth at the moment?” I asked.

  “She went to a séance this evening,” he said. “She should be home by now. May I use your phone?”

 
“Of course,” father said.

  Gillsworth stood, walked rather shakily to the desk phone, and dialed his number. He held the receiver clamped tightly to his head. While we all waited, I noted how he was perspiring. His face was sheened with sweat, and there was even a drop trembling at the tip of his avian honker. Poor devil, I thought; I knew exactly how he felt.

  Finally he hung up. “She’s not home,” he said hollowly.

  “No cause for alarm,” my father said. “She may have stayed a few extra moments at the séance. She drove her own car?”

  “Yes,” the poet said. “A Caprice. I don’t understand why she isn’t home. She’s rarely late.”

  “She may be delayed by traffic. Try again in five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest we all have a brandy. Archy, will you do the honors?”

  I welcomed the assignment. In truth, I had caught Gillsworth’s fear and needed a bit of Dutch courage. I went to the marble-topped sideboard and poured generous tots into three snifters. I served the poet and father.

  Gillsworth finished half of his drink in one gulp and gasped. “Yes,” he said, “that helps. Thank you.”

  “Father,” I said, “when you talk to the security people about personal guards, I think it might be smart to ask that female operatives be assigned. I believe Mrs. Gillsworth might be more inclined to accept the constant presence of women rather than men.”

  “Yes, yes!” Gillsworth said, animated by the cognac and flapping his arms again. “You’re quite right. A capital idea!”

  The senior McNally nodded. “Good thinking, Archy,” he said, and I felt I had been pardoned for my earlier inattention. “Mr. Gillsworth, would you have any objection if the female guard or guards actually moved into your home? Temporarily, of course.”

  “None at all,” the poet said. “We have extra bedrooms. I’d welcome the presence of someone who’ll watch over Lydia every minute I’m not with her. May I use the phone again?”

  “Naturally,” father said.

  He called, and a moment later I saw his entire body relax and he actually grinned.

  “You’re home, Lydia,” he said heartily. “All safe and sound? Good. Doors and windows locked? Glad to hear it. I’m at the McNallys’, dear, and I should be home in fifteen minutes or so. See you soon.”

  He hung up and rubbed his palms together briskly. “All’s well,” he reported. “I’ll stay with her until your security people arrive. When do you think that will be?”

  “Probably early in the morning,” father told him. “I’ll call the night supervisor, and he can get things started. I’ll request a female guard be sent to your home early tomorrow. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Eminently,” Gillsworth said, and finished his brandy. “I feel a lot better now. I’m going to tell Lydia I insist the guards remain until this whole horrible mess is cleared up. Thank you for your help, Mr. McNally—and you too, Archy. I better go now.”

  “I’ll see you to your car,” my father said. “Please wait here for me, Archy.”

  He went out with the client, and I sneaked another quick cognac. Just a small one.

  My father returned and regained his throne. “Personal guards are an excellent idea,” he said. “I only hope Mrs. Gillsworth doesn’t refuse them.”

  “I don’t believe she will, sir,” I said. “Especially if it’s explained that their assignment will not be made public. But I still think the police should be informed of the letters. Granted they cannot provide round-the-clock surveillance, but they might be able to trace the source of the paper used and identify the make of the printing machine that was used.”

  Father looked at me steadily. “Then you were telling the truth? You’ve made no progress at all?”

  “That’s not completely accurate,” I admitted, “but what I have is so slight that I didn’t want to mention it in Gillsworth’s presence.”

  Then I told him of Hertha and Frank Gloriana, who might or might not be frauds, and how Lydia attended their séances. I said nothing about Laverne Willigan’s connection with the Glorianas, nor did I mention that I believed the poison-pen letters and Peaches’ ransom note had been composed on the same word processor by the same author.

  Why didn’t I tell my father these things? Because they were very thin gruel indeed, vague hypotheses that would probably make no sense to anyone but me. Also, I must admit, I didn’t want to tell the pater everything I knew because he was so learned, so wise, so far my intellectual superior. What I was implying by my reticence was “I know something you don’t know!” Childish? You bet.

  He looked at me, somewhat bewildered. “You think the Glorianas are responsible for the threatening letters?”

  “I just don’t know, sir. But Mrs. Gillsworth gave me no other names. Apparently she’s convinced that no one in her social circle—relatives, friends, acquaintances—could possibly be capable of anything like that. So Hertha Gloriana is the only lead I have.”

  “It’s not much,” he said.

  “No,” I agreed, “it’s not. But they do say the medium is the message.”

  He gave me a sour smile. “Well, stay on it,” he commanded, “and keep me informed. Now I must call the security—”

  But just then his phone rang.

  He broke off speaking and stared at it a moment.

  “Now who on earth can that be?” he said and picked it up.

  “Prescott McNally,” he said crisply. Then:

  “What? What? Oh my God. Yes. Yes, of course. We’ll be there immediately.”

  He hung up slowly and turned a bleak face to me.

  “Lydia Gillsworth is dead,” he said. “Murdered.”

  I don’t often weep but I did that night.

  Chapter 6

  WE LATER LEARNED THAT Roderick Gillsworth had called 911 before phoning my father. By the time we arrived at the poet’s home, the police were there and we were not allowed inside. I was glad to see Sgt. Al Rogoff was the senior officer present and apparently in charge of the investigation.

  Father and I sat in the Lexus and waited as patiently as we could. I don’t believe we exchanged a dozen words; we were both stunned by the tragedy. His face was closed, and I stared unseeing at the starry sky and hoped Lydia Gillsworth had passed to a higher plane.

  Finally, close to midnight, Rogoff came out of the house and lumbered over to the Lexus. Al played the good ol’ boy because he thought it would further his career. But I happened to know he was a closet intellectual and a ballet maven. Other Florida cops might enjoy discussing the methods of Fred Bundy; the sergeant preferred talking about the technique of Rudolf Nureyev.

  “Mr. McNally,” he said, addressing my father, “we’re about to tape a voluntary statement by Roderick Gillsworth. He’d like you to be present. So would I, just to make sure everything is kosher.”

  “Of course,” father said, climbing out of the car. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

  “Al—” I started.

  “You stay out here, Archy,” he commanded in his official voice. “We’ve already got a mob scene in there.”

  “I have something important to tell you,” I said desperately.

  “Later,” he said, and he and my father marched into the Gillsworth home.

  So I sat alone for another hour, watching police officers and technicians from a fire-rescue truck search the grounds with flashlights and big lanterns. Finally Rogoff came out of the house alone and stood by my open window peeling the cellophane wrapper from one of his big cigars.

  “Your father is going to stay the night,” he reported. “With Gillsworth. He says to tell you to drive home. He’ll phone when he wants to be picked up.”

  I was shocked. “You mean Gillsworth wants to sleep in this house tonight? We could put him up or he could go to a hotel.”

  “Your father suggested it, but Gillsworth wants to stay here. It’s okay; I’ll leave a couple of men on the premises.”

  Then we were silent, watching as a wheeled stretcher was brought out of the ho
use. The body was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of a police ambulance, the door slammed. The vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan.

  “Al,” I said as steadily as I could, “how was she killed?”

  “Hit on the head repeatedly with a walking stick. It had a heavy silver spike for a handle. Pierced her skull.”

  “Don’t tell me it was in the shape of a unicorn.”

  He stared at me. “How did you know?”

  “She showed it to me. She brought it back from up north as a gift for her husband. He collected antique canes.”

  “Yeah, I saw his collection. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No. Something else. Remember my asking you about poison-pen letters? Lydia Gillsworth was the person getting them.”

  “Son of a bitch,” the sergeant said bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because she refused to let us take it to the police. And if we had, would you have provided twenty-four-hour protection?”

  “Probably not,” he conceded. “Where are the letters now?”

  “At home.”

  “How’s about you drive me there and hand them over. Then drive me back here. Okay? You weren’t planning to get to bed early, were you?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I drove, and Al sat beside me juicing up his cigar.

  “Tell me what happened,” I asked him.

  “Not a lot to tell,” he said. “Gillsworth was at your place, talked to his wife on the phone, told her he’d see her soon. He says he drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived.”

  “My God,” I said, “he almost walked in on a killing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did he see anyone when he drove up?”

  “Says not.”

  “Anything stolen?”