“Is your middle name Machiavelli or Borgia?”
“It happens to be Irving, but don’t tell anyone.”
I laughed and started out, then paused. “You’re staying?” I asked him.
“For a while. I thought I’d look around the house.”
“What for?”
“One never knows, do one?”
“Hey,” I protested, “that’s my line.”
“So it is,” Al said, “and you’re welcome to it.”
He was pouring himself another shot of Sterling when I left.
I started the Miata and drove up Via Del Lago toward the beach. As I did, a car turned off Ocean Boulevard and came toward me. I recognized that clunker, an ancient Chevy that needed an IV. And as it passed I recognized the driver from her carroty hair. It was Marita, the Gillsworths’ Haitian housekeeper who, according to Roderick, had been given two weeks off. I pulled to the curb, stopped, and watched in my side mirror.
Marita parked next to the police car, not at all daunted, got out, and went into the house. She was a tubby little woman who walked with a rolling gait. And there was no mistaking that dyed hair.
I started up again and drove homeward. I never doubted for a moment that she had been summoned by Sgt. Rogoff. Their meeting was prearranged, but for what purpose I couldn’t even guess. Obviously Al wasn’t telling me everything about his investigation. But then I wasn’t telling him everything about mine: e.g., the relationship between Laverne Willigan and the Glorianas.
There was something else I hadn’t told him, something I hadn’t really told myself, for it wasn’t a fact or even an idea; it was just a vague notion. And I have no intention of telling you what it was at this juncture. You’d only laugh.
The family cocktail hour and dinner went off with no untoward incidents that evening. After coffee, mother went to her television in the second-floor sitting room, father retired to Dickens in his study, and I trotted upstairs and got to work on my journal.
I was interrupted that night by two phone calls. The first was from Connie Garcia.
“You swine,” she started. “Why haven’t you called?”
“Busy, busy, busy,” I said. “I do have a job, you know, and I work hard at it. I’m not just another pretty face.”
She giggled. “I’ll testify to that. Have you been seeing Meg Trumble lately?”
“Haven’t seen her in days,” I said, feeling virtuous because I could be honest. “She may have gone back up north.”
“I hope she stays there,” Connie said. “Listen, I have a family thing for tomorrow night—a bridal shower for one of my cousins—but I’m available for lunch. Make me an offer.”
“Connie, would you care to have lunch with me tomorrow?”
“What a splendid idea! I’d love to. Pick me up around noon—okay?”
“You betcha. I have a new hat to show you—a puce beret.”
“Oh God,” she said.
I went back to my journal, scribbling along at a lively clip until I started on an account of my meeting with Irma Gloriana. Then I paused to lean back and stare at the stained ceiling, trying to bring her into sharper focus.
I had thought Frank Gloriana functioned as Hertha’s business manager. But Irma’s role in setting up the séance and her authoritative manner led me to believe that perhaps she was the CEO of the Gloriana ménage.
If the Glorianas were engaged in hanky-panky, as I was beginning to think they were, then Irma was the Ma Barker of the gang, a very robust and attractive chieftain. That would make son Frank her foppish henchman. But what part was Hertha playing? I could not believe that sweet, limpid innocent could be guilty of any wrongdoing. Her lips were too soft and warm for a criminal. (I know that is a ridiculous non sequitur; you don’t have to tell me.)
My musings were interrupted by the second phone call, this one from Roderick Gillsworth in Rhode Island.
“How are you getting along, Rod?” I asked.
“As well as can be expected,” he said. “Isn’t that what doctors say when the patient is in extremis? The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow after a church service at noon. Then I am expected to attend a buffet dinner at the home of an elderly aunt. I fear she may serve dandelion wine or chamomile tea so I shall be well fortified beforehand, I assure you. I’ll get through it somehow.”
“Of course you will. When are you returning?”
“I have a flight on Wednesday morning. Tell me, Archy, is there anything new on the investigation?”
I hesitated, long enough for him to say, “Well?”
“Nothing definite, no,” I said. “But I spoke to Sergeant Rogoff today and he was rather mystifying. He seemed quite pleased with himself, as if he had uncovered something important. But when I asked questions, all he’d do was wink.”
“Dreadful man,” Gillsworth said. “If I can’t get any satisfaction from him when I return on Wednesday, I intend to go directly to his superior and demand to be told what’s going on.”
I made no reply to that. “I stopped by your home early this evening, Rod,” I said. “Just to make certain it was locked up. Everything is fine.”
“Thank you, Archy,” he said. “I may call you again tomorrow to ask if you have learned anything new.”
“Of course.”
“I appreciate all that you and your father have done for me. You might tell him that I’ve been thinking about my new will. I’ll probably have the terms roughed out by the time I return.”
“Good,” I said. “He’ll be happy to hear that.”
I hung up, having lied as requested by Al Rogoff and wondering what the sergeant really wanted to accomplish by giving Gillsworth false hopes that the murder of his wife was nearing solution. Sometimes Al moves in mysterious ways.
It was almost midnight before I finished my journal entries. I decided I didn’t want to smoke, drink, or listen to Robert Johnson singing “Kind-hearted Woman Blues.” So I went to bed and thought happily of Meg Trumble arriving on the morrow. I hoped she would be kindhearted and I would have no cause to sing the blues.
I was awakened early Tuesday morning by the growling of what sounded like a brigade of power mowers. I stumbled to the window and looked down to see our landscape gardener’s crew hard at work. They showed up periodically to mow the lawn, trim shrubbery, and spray everything in sight.
They were making such a racket that I knew it would be futile to try resuming my dreamless slumber—which explains why I was showered, shaved, and dressed in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. It was such a rare occurrence that they looked at me in astonishment and mother asked anxiously, “Are you ill, Archy?”
I proved to her I was in fine fettle by consuming a herculean portion of eggs scrambled with onions and smoked salmon. Over coffee, I told my father about Gillsworth’s call the previous evening, and that the poet would be returning on Wednesday ready to draw up a new will.
He looked up from The Wall Street Journal long enough to nod. I then informed him I expected a hectic day so I would drive to the office in my own car rather than accompany him in the Lexus. That earned me a second nod before he went back to his paper. The master doesn’t like to be interrupted while he’s checking the current value of his treasury bonds.
I ran upstairs to collect a fresh box of English Ovals, my reading glasses, and the puce beret, which I rolled up and tucked into a jacket pocket. I wore my madras that day, a nifty number gaudy enough to enrage any passing bull.
I arrived at my miniature office just in time to receive a phone call from Mrs. Irma Gloriana.
“Good morning, Mr. McNally,” she said crisply and didn’t wait for a return greeting. “I have arranged a private séance for you and your companion tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Completely,” I said. “Shall we—”
“It will be held here in the apartment,” she continued. “We have found that an informal, homey setting is more likely to result in a successful sess
ion than a meeting held in a commercial office.”
“I can—”
“Please be prompt,” she went on, and I despaired of contributing to the conversation. “As you can imagine, these sittings are quite a strain on Hertha, and if they are delayed it only adds to her spiritual tension,”
“We’ll be on time,” I said hurriedly and just did get it out before she hung up.
What a peremptory woman she was! I wondered what had happened to her husband. Had he died of frustration because he couldn’t get a word in edgewise? Or had he divorced her for a more docile woman who welcomed small talk and could schmooze for hours about his gastritis and her bunions? My own guess was that Irma’s husband went out to buy a loaf of bread, vamoosed, and was now employed as a tobacco auctioneer.
I worked fitfully on my expense account that morning, a monthly task that challenged my creativity. My labors were interrupted by three phone calls from informants I had queried about the Glorianas’ financial status and credit rating.
By the time I had to leave for my luncheon date with Connie Garcia, I was convinced Al Rogoff had been right: the Glorianas were on their uppers. They weren’t candidates for welfare—far from it—but their bank balances were distressingly low, and they had an unenviable reputation for bouncing checks. They always made good, eventually, but rubber checks make bankers break out in a rash, and they usually suggest chronic paperhangers take their business elsewhere.
I drove back to the beach to pick up Connie, reflecting on the Glorianas’ impecunious state and dreaming up all kinds of fanciful scenarios to link their dreaded ailment, lackamoola, to the catnapping of Peaches. The connection seemed obvious; proving it was another kettle of flounder entirely.
When Ms. Garcia came bouncing out of her office in Lady Horowitz’s mansion, I was lounging nonchalantly alongside the Miata, my new beret atop my dome and tilted dashingly to one side. Connie took a long, open-mouthed look and then bent almost double in a paroxysm of mirth.
“Please!” she gasped. “Archy, please take it off. I can’t stand it! My ribs ache.”
Much affronted, I crammed the cap back in my pocket. Ut quod ali cibus est allis fuat acre venenum. Translation: One’s puce beret is another’s aching ribs.
But your hero’s generosity of spirit is sufficient to pardon a lapse of taste, and Connie’s insult to my headgear was soon forgiven as we headed for the Pelican Club.
There was a goodly crowd at the bar but surprisingly few members were seated in the dining area. We got our favorite corner table, and Priscilla strutted over to take our order.
“Archy,” Connie said, “show Pris your new hat.”
Obediently I dug the beret from my jacket pocket and tugged it on at a rakish tilt. Priscilla stared, aghast.
“You know, Connie,” she said, “the man really should be committed. It’s obvious his elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.”
“What’s obvious,” I said, removing the beret, “is that the two of you are fashion’s slaves but have no appreciation of style. Believe me, linen berets are the coming thing.”
“If they’re coming,” Priscilla said, “I’m going. You folks want to sit here arguing about goofy hats or do you want to order?”
Connie and I had vodka gimlets to start, and we both went for Leroy’s special of the day: a grilled grouper sandwich with spicy french fries, served with a salad of Bibb lettuce, red onions, and a vinaigrette sauce. A winner.
Connie attacked her food with enthusiasm and didn’t mention a word about proteins, cholesterol, or fat, for which I was thankful. Nutrition nuts are the world’s most boring dining companions. They make every bite a guilt trip, which forces me to gorge to prove my disdain for calories. I mean, if God had wanted us to nibble, He wouldn’t have created veal cordon bleu.
“By the way,” Connie said, looking up from her salad, “I sent in that application to the Glorianas, asking for a psychic profile.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Thank you, Connie. I hope you didn’t make it too ridiculous.”
“Nope. I just invented all the vital statistics, birthplace, names of parents, and so forth. And I bought a little red plastic heart at a gift shop and sent it along as my beloved personal possession. You really think the Glorianas will send me a phony profile?”
“As phony as your letter,” I assured her. “Let me know as soon as you receive a reply. Meanwhile I’ll get you a check from McNally and Son for services rendered.”
“I’m not worried,” she said. “But don’t leave town.”
We both laughed. She really was a jolly woman, and there was no side to her; what you saw was what you got. I think our problem—or rather my problem—was that we had become so familiar over the years that mystery was lacking; we knew each other too well. We were really more buddies than lovers, more contented than passionate. But content is never enough, is it? Which is why men and women cheat on each other, I suppose.
Thoughts like that saddened me, and I resolved to buy Connie a diamond tennis bracelet. Remorse can be costly—right?
I signed the tab for lunch, and Connie preceded me from the dining room and through the bar area. It was gratifying to see how many male noggins turned in her direction and to note the longing looks. She even drew appreciative glances from several of the females present, for Connie was an enormously attractive lady who radiated a buoyant delight in being alive, young, and full of fire.
I knew well that I was a fool to be unfaithful to her. But that knowledge didn’t deter me. I consoled myself with the thought that if we all acted in an intelligent, disciplined manner, what a dull world it would be. I’m sure Napoleon thought the same thing as he staggered home from Moscow.
We returned to the Horowitz estate and sat in the car a few moments before Connie went back to work. She turned sideways to look directly at me, her expression set.
“Archy,” she said in a firm voice, “you don’t want to break up again, do you?”
“Break up?” I cried. “Of course I don’t want to break up. What kind of nonsense is that?”
“You’ve been acting so strangely lately, so distant.”
“I told you how busy I’ve been. I know you’ve heard about Lydia Gillsworth being killed. Well, she was our client, and father wants me to assist the police in finding the murderer. We were both very deeply affected by her death.”
“I can understand that, but surely you’re not busy twenty-four hours a day. We haven’t had a night together for ages.”
“That’s not all my fault,” I pointed out. “We did have a small bacchanalia planned, but then you had to work late. You do recall that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t plan another mini-orgy. Archy, remember the time we went skinny-dipping in the ocean at midnight?”
“A memory I shall retain forever,” I said. “I got stung by a Portuguese man-of-war.”
“A very small sting.”
“On a very embarrassing portion of my anatomy. But you’re right, Connie; it has been a long time since we two were one.”
“Tomorrow night?” she suggested.
“Ah,” I said, the old neurons and dendrites working at blinding speed, “regretfully I cannot. I have a meeting with Sergeant Al Rogoff to help prepare a statement to the press on the investigation. How about the weekend? Perhaps Saturday night?”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll plan on it. Don’t disappoint me, Archy.”
“Have I ever?”
She gave me a rueful smile. “I better not answer that.” She leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for the lunch, luv. See you Saturday night. But do try to phone me before that—okay?”
“Of course,” I said. “Absolutely.”
She scampered into her office, and I drove home terrified that on some future date all the women I had wronged might hold a convention, compare grievances, and decide a prompt lynching of yrs. truly would be justified. I even imagined myself swinging from a palm tree, clad in no
thing but my silk briefs imprinted with an image of Pan tootling his syrinx to a bevy of naked dryads.
I had no idea when Meg Trumble might call to announce her arrival, so I decided to stick close to the phone, even forgoing my ocean swim so I wouldn’t miss her. I went directly to my quarters and switched the air conditioner to High Cool. It wasn’t all that hot, but it was oppressively muggy, and I stripped to my skivvies before setting to work.
I remembered I had promised Meg a list of friends and acquaintances who might be interested in employing a personal trainer. Consulting my address book, I compiled a choice selection of men and women, concentrating on the suety and notorious couch potatoes. At the end, just for a giggle, I added the name of Al Rogoff.
It came time to dress for the family cocktail hour, and I still hadn’t heard from Meg. It was quite possible she was delayed on the road for one reason or another, so I thought it best to dine at home with my parents. If she called after I had eaten, I could still take her to dinner but limit my own intake to fresh fruit, like a wedge of lime in a frozen daiquiri.
Actually, she didn’t phone until a little after nine o’clock. She was all apologies; heavy traffic and road construction had thrown her schedule out of kilter.
“I hope you went ahead and had dinner, Archy,” she said. “I’d hate to think you were starving because of me.”
“As a matter of fact I have eaten,” I confessed. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t keep our dinner date.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she protested. “I’ll just run out for a snack and we can make it another time. Perhaps tomorrow night, if you’re free.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” I said. “Listen, suppose we do this: I’ll pick up a pizza and something to drink and hustle it over to your place while the pie is still warm. Or you can heat it up in your oven. How does that sound?”
“Marvelous—if you’re sure you want to do it.”
“I do,” I said. “Be there within the hour.”
Recently a new pizzeria had opened on Federal Highway south of the Port of Palm Beach. It offered “designer pizzas” to be consumed on the premises or taken out in insulated boxes. I had tried it a few times and found the fare rather exotic. But then I’m strictly a pepperoni addict.
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