McNally's Risk

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Me, too," I said. "Any word yet on that stained sheet or whatever it was we saw in the back of her Cherokee?"

  "Nothing yet. These tests take time; you know that."

  I stared at him a moment, then decided to put my vague notion to the test. "Are you a betting man, Al?"

  "I've been known to place a small wager now and then."

  "Tell you what," I said. "I'll bet you ten bucks I can tell you what those stains on the sheet are even before the tests are completed."

  "They're not blood," he said. "I told you she was strangled."

  "I know they're not blood. But I know what they are. Is it a bet?"

  "Okay," he said. "For ten bucks. What are they?"

  "Acrylic paint."

  He took a swig of his beer. "How the hell did you come up with that?"

  "A swami told me."

  "If you turn out to be right, tell the swami there's a job waiting for him in the PBPD."

  "I think I'm right," I said, "but I don't want your ten dollars. I want a favor instead."

  He groaned. "I'd rather pay the ten."

  "A simple favor," I said. "Get back to your Michigan contact and ask if they've got anything on Theodosia Johnson, Hector's daughter. The last name may be different but 'Theodosia' is probably for real. What woman would use that as an alias? And you met her this morning, you can describe her accurately. Or send Michigan a photo of that Silas Hawkin portrait."

  He looked at me a long time. "She's involved?" he asked.

  "I would prefer to think not."

  "Screw what you'd prefer," he said roughly. "Do you figure she is?"

  "As you just said about Marcia Hawkin, maybe yes, maybe no. This is one way to find out."

  "I guess," he said, sighing. "All right, I'll play your little game. I'll query Michigan just for the fun of it. But our sawbuck bet is still on."

  I finished my beer, grabbed a fistful of peanuts, and stood up. "I'm going home," I declared. "It's been a long, tumultuous day, and bed beckons."

  "Yeah," Rogoff said, "I could do with some shut-eye myself. Thanks for the beer."

  "And thank you for the peanuts," I said politely. "Al, let me know if anything turns up."

  "Sure," he said. "And Archy . . ."

  "Yes."

  "That Reuben Hagler sounds like a foursquare wrongo. Watch your back."

  "I always do," I said blithely.

  By the time I returned home my parents had retired. I ascended to my seventh heaven and prepared for bed. I had had quite enough mental stimulation for one day and decided to postpone adding recent revelations to my journal.

  I awoke on Friday morning ready for a fight or a frolic—or perhaps both simultaneously. Again I had overslept and was forced to construct my own breakfast. It consisted of leftover mini-pizzas from dinner the previous evening.

  Before leaving home I remembered to phone Consuela Garcia as I had promised. She was at work in her office and was already in a snit trying to answer the demands of Lady Horowitz. I was hoping for a lazy, affectionate chat, but Connie made it short and sweet. Well . . . not exactly. Just short. But she did agree to meet me for dinner that evening at the Pelican Club.

  I then tooled over to the McNally Building to check my messages (none) and incoming correspondence (none). My business day was starting auspiciously. I finished my inventive expense account, signed it with a flourish, and dropped the completed document on the desk of Ray Gelding, the firm's treasurer. He glanced at the total.

  "You've got to be kidding," he said.

  I treated that remark with the silent contempt it so richly deserved, bounced downstairs, and vaulted into the Miata for a drive to West Palm Beach and my appointment with Mrs. Jane Folsby.

  Her sister's home was located in a neighborhood I can only term bucolic and was more bungalow than South Florida split-level ranch. Rose bushes were plentiful and the front yard boasted two orchid trees that would have elicited gasps of awe from my mother. The house itself was freshly painted and had a semicircular stained-glass window over the front door. Very nice.

  Mrs. Folsby answered my knock and seemed pleased to see me. She led the way to a small, brightly furnished living room in the rear with windows mercifully facing north. Everything was flowered chintz but not overpowering, and the white wicker armchair I sat in was comfortable enough.

  She insisted on serving minted iced tea. I told her how delicious it was—which wasn't quite the truth. Then we agreed that South Florida was, indeed, hot in midsummer. We also concurred that crime rates were too high and youngsters today had little respect for their elders.

  Then there was a pause in this brilliant conversation. "About Marcia Hawkin ..." I prompted.

  "Yes," she said, looking down and moving a gold wedding band around and around on her finger. "I don't know how to say this, Mr. McNally."

  "Take your time," I said encouragingly. "I am not a policeman, you know, although Sergeant Al Rogoff is a close friend. But if you wish this conversation to remain confidential, I shall certainly respect your wishes."

  "That's for you to decide," she said. "The only reason I'm telling you is that a crime has been committed, and someone should be punished."

  I have previously described her as "old, large, creaky," and with a chirpy voice. But now I saw something in her I had not recognized before: strong will and stiff determination. Not a woman to be trifled with, and I wondered how she had endured the disorder of the Hawkin menage. Economic reasons, I supposed; she needed the money.

  "I hadn't been with the Hawkins long," she started, "before I realized something was going on."

  Again there was a short lull. I didn't want to spur her with questions, feeling it best to let her tell the story at her own pace.

  "Mrs. Louise Hawkin and Marcia . . ." she finally continued. "Always at each other. I thought it was because Louise was a stepmother. Sometimes daughters resent it. And her drinking so much," she added. "The missus, that is."

  I nodded.

  "But it was more than that," she went on. "I don't know how to tell this and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me, but I've got to say it."

  I waited.

  She looked away from me. "Silas Hawkin," she said, and her voice was dry, "the mister, he was bedding his daughter. I know that for a fact."

  I took a gulp of my iced tea. "You're certain of this, Mrs. Folsby?"

  "I am," she said firmly. "There is no doubt in my mind. I don't know how long it had been going on. Years, I'd guess. Before Silas married Louise. She was his third wife."

  "So I read in his obituary."

  "And Marcia was his daughter by the first. Yes, I think it had been going on for a long time."

  I drew a deep breath. "Marcia was very disturbed," I commented.

  "She had every right to be," Mrs. Folsby said angrily. "What her life must have been like! So naturally Louise was her enemy."

  "Naturally," I said.

  "I can't tell you how poisonous they were to each other. They had a fight once. And I mean a fight with slapping and kicking. The mister broke it up."

  "Dreadful," I said.

  "They hated each other," she said sadly. "Jealous, you see. Louise knew what was going on. Marcia was her rival. And Marcia saw Louise as her rival. All because of that awful man. He came on to me once. Can you believe it?"

  "Yes," I said, "I can believe it."

  "So that's why I think she did it."

  It took me a moment to sort that out. "Mrs. Folsby," I said, "are you suggesting that Louise may have murdered her stepdaughter?"

  "It does not behoove me to accuse her," she said primly. "But I think the matter should be looked into."

  "It shall be," I assured her. "May I have your permission to relay what you've told me to the authorities?"

  "Will you give them my name?"

  "Not if you don't wish it."

  "I do not," she said sharply. "But if you want to tell them the other things—well, that's up to you. I've done all I can d
o."

  "I understand completely," I said, "and I thank you for your honesty. And for your hospitality."

  I finished that wretched iced tea and rose to leave. She accompanied me to the front door. Just before I departed I said, "Mrs. Folsby, do you think Marcia Hawkin killed her father?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head, "she loved him too much."

  I drove back to the Island in a broody mood. I figured that conversation with Mrs. Folsby had yielded one Yes, one No, and one Maybe.

  The Yes was the information that Silas Hawkin was having an incestuous relationship with Marcia. After what Lolly Spindrift had told me of the man's sexual proclivities, I could believe it. And probably, as Mrs. Folsby had guessed, for many years.

  The No was her accusation—or suggestion—that Louise Hawkin had killed her stepdaughter. That I could not believe. Marcia had been strangled, and that is very, very rarely the modus operandi of a murderess. Also, I did not think Louise had the strength—to be crude, it takes muscle to wring a human neck—and what could possibly be her motive since Silas, the reason for the two women's enmity, had been eliminated.

  The Maybe was Mrs. Folsby's stout declaration that Marcia didn't murder her father because she loved him too much. Perhaps. But that unhinged child had also described daddy to me as the "horribilest" person in the world. Theirs could have been a love-hate affair in which the second verb finally triumphed over the first.

  It was then a bit past noon and I lunched alone at Bice, ordering a hearts-of-palm salad and a single glass of sauvignon blanc. Feeling justifiably virtuous at having put a choke collar on my appetite, I returned to the McNally Building and phoned Mrs. Trelawney. I asked if the seigneur might be available for a short conference. She was absent a moment and then returned to tell me I had been granted a ten-minute audience before the boss departed for lunch with a client.

  I scampered up to the sanctum and found him at his antique rolltop desk filling a briefcase with blue-bound documents.

  "Can't it wait, Archy?" he said irascibly.

  "Just take a moment, sir," I said. "It's something I think you should be aware of."

  I related exactly what Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth had told me of the prenuptial agreement demanded by Theodosia Johnson. The sire halted his packing to listen closely. And when I mentioned the amount requested, five million dollars, one of his tangled eyebrows rose slowly as I knew it would.

  "A tidy sum," he remarked wryly when I had finished. "I am not too familiar with the precedents of prenuptial agreements, but I shall certainly research the subject. Why didn't Chauncey consult me on this matter?"

  "Father," I said gently, "I think he's afraid of you."

  He actually snorted. "Nonsense," he said. "Am I an ogre?"

  "No, sir."

  "Of course not. And he obviously requires legal counsel. I suspect Chauncey's actual fear is having to inform his mother of what his fiancée has requested."

  "I'd say that's close to the mark," I agreed.

  He pondered a moment. "That young man does have a problem," he finally declared. "He's of age, of course, and can marry whomever he chooses without his mother's permission. But I can understand his not wishing to endanger his inheritance of the Smythe-Hersforth estate in toto. Any suggestions, Archy?"

  "Yes, sir," I said. "Let me stall him as long as I can. A few things have turned up in my investigation that lead me to believe the question of a prenuptial agreement may become moot."

  He stared at me. "Are you suggesting the young lady may prove to be unsuitable? Persona non grata, so to speak?"

  "Possibly," I acknowledged. "But not so much as her father."

  He nodded. "In that case I concur with your recommendation. Delay Chauncey's decision as best you can and redouble your efforts to bring this rather distasteful business to a successful conclusion."

  "Yes, father," I said, resisting an impulse to tug my forelock.

  I left his office and returned home for my ocean swim, then labored on my journal. I showered, dressed, attended the family cocktail hour, and departed for my dinner date with Connie Garcia.

  And, you know, during all that time I do not believe there was a single moment when I ceased glooming about Marcia Hawkin, her life and her death. The things we do to each other! Sometimes I think I'd rather be a cocker spaniel or even a hamster rather than a human being. But I did not choose my species and so I must learn to deal with it. And it would be nice if I could become a nobler example of Homo sapiens. But I know better than to hope.

  When I arrived at the Pelican Club that evening Connie was already standing at the bar surrounded by a ring of eager young studs.

  She was wearing a jumpsuit of burgundy velvet with an industrial zipper from neck to pipik. Her long black hair swung free and oversized golden hoops dangled from her lobes.

  But I knew it was mostly her warm vivacity that attracted that pack of hopefuls. Connie is a vibrant young woman with physical energy to spare and a spirit that seems continually effervescing. Add to that a roguish smile and Rabelaisian wit and you have a complete woman who, on a scale of 1 to 10, rates at least a 15.

  She saw me standing there like a forlorn bumpkin, excused herself, and came bopping over to grant me a half-hug and an air kiss.

  "Hiya, hon," she said cheerily. "I was early so I had a spritzer at the bar."

  "And why not?" I said. "You look glorious tonight, Connie."

  "You like?" she asked, twirling for my inspection. "The tush isn't too noticeable?"

  "Not too," I said. "Never too."

  "Let's go eat," she said. "I'm starving."

  I wish I could tell you the evening was an unalloyed delight, but I must confess that dinner was something less than a joyful occasion.

  It wasn't the food because chef Leroy Pettibone scored with a marvelous special of fried rabbit in a cranberry-orange sauce. And it wasn't Connie's fault because she was her usual bubbling self.

  No, the fault was totally mine. I knew it and was utterly incapable of summoning up the McNally esprit. I seemed unable to utter anything but banalities—mercifully brief banalities—and I realized I was behaving like a zombie on barbiturates.

  Finally Connie's chatter faded away, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "Archy," she said, "what's wrong with you tonight?"

  "Nothing."

  "Don't shuck me, sonny boy," she said angrily. "I know you too well. Is it because I've been dating other men, including your close friends?"

  "Of course not. Positively not. We agreed that we can see whomever we please."

  "Then what is it?"

  I never ever talk to anyone but my father and Sgt. Al Rogoff about details of my investigations. I mean I head the Department of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, and how discreet can they be if I blab? No, I am a closemouthed lad and fully intend to remain so.

  But at that moment I had to tell someone. I think it was because I needed to share the awful burden. I could understand why Mrs. Folsby had to tell me. It was just too much for one person to bear alone.

  "Connie," I said, "I know you love to gossip and so do I. I want to tell you something. I need to tell you, but I want your cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise that you won't repeat it to anyone."

  "Archy," she said, suddenly solemn, "do you trust me? I mean really trust me?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then I swear to you that whatever you tell me will go no farther."

  I nodded. "I believe you," I said, and I meant it. "Well, you've heard about Marcia Hawkin's death, haven't you?"

  "Of course. Now the police say she was murdered."

  "That's correct. But today I heard something else and it's been tearing me apart."

  I told her Silas Hawkin had been intimate with his daughter, probably for many years, beginning when she was quite young.

  Connie stared at me, her lustrous eyes widening. Suddenly she began weeping. Silently, but the tears flowed.

  "Oh God," I said helplessly. "I shoul
dn't have told you."

  She shook her head and held her napkin up to her face. Her shoulders continued to shudder and I knew she was sobbing soundlessly. I could do nothing but wait and curse myself for shattering her.

  Finally she calmed, dabbed at her swollen eyes, blinked. Her mouth still quivered and I feared the lacrimation might begin again.

  "The poor child," she said in an anguished voice. "The poor, poor child."

  "Yes," I said. "Can we move to the bar now and have a brandy? I think we both could use a buckup."

  We sat close together at the bar, held hands, and sipped our Remy Martins without speaking. I admit that telling Connie of the Hawkins' incestuous relationship afforded me a small measure of relief. Do you believe that sorrow is lessened by sharing? It must be so because old wisdom declares that misery loves company.

  What is amazing is that the pain seems to diminish slightly as it is transferred to another. I had no doubt that eventually, when Marcia's murder was solved, her secret would become known to the public. Then the distress, shared by millions, would dwindle away to become just another of the daily outrages we read about and eventually forget because to remember them all would be too painful to suffer.

  After a while we agreed it was time to leave. Connie didn't suggest I accompany her home, nor did I. Before we separated, we stood alongside her car locked in a tight embrace. There was nothing passionate about it. It was the trembling hug of two mourners surviving in a world that sometimes seems too cruel to be endured.

  15

  I awoke on Saturday and discovered my morosity had evaporated with the morning sun. What a relief that was! I don't mean to suggest I had totally forgotten Marcia Hawkin—I am not the froth-head my father seems to believe—but now I was able to accept her tragedy without reviling the human race or cursing fate.

  The new day helped, of course. The sky was lucent, a sweet sea breeze billowed our curtains, the birds and my mother were twittering and, all in all, it seemed a lucky gift to be animate. I celebrated by eating eight blueberry pancakes—count 'em: eight!—at breakfast.

  Then father departed for his customary Saturday morning foursome at his club, mother and Ursi went grocery shopping in our old Ford station wagon, and Jamie Olson disappeared somewhere on the grounds, muttering about the depredations of a rogue opossum he was determined to slay. And so I had the McNally manse to myself.