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 find 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 nothing 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.
&nb
sp; "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.
I drove to the pizza boutique to purchase a pie for Meg. I selected one consisting of eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes, and Gorgonzola on a thin crust. I was reminded of the time Peaches had barfed on my lavender loafers, but I was certain the vegetarian Ms. Trumble would love it. I also bought a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, my dream of a frozen daiquiri vanishing.
Meg opened the door for me with a broad smile and a cheek kiss, on the same spot favored by Connie Garcia not too many hours previously. As Willy Loman pointed out, it's important to be well-liked.
Meg looked smashing. She had obviously just showered; her spiky hair was still damp and her face was shiny. She was wearing white duck short-shorts and a skimpy knitted top that left her midriff bare. I swear that rib cage was designed by Brancusi.
Also, she smelled good.
Her apartment was crowded with unpacked suitcases, cartons, and bulging shopping bags. She cleared a space on a clunky cocktail table for the pizza box and brought us both iced Pepsis. She didn't bother heating up the pie but immediately began wolfing it down, occasionally rolling her eyes and uttering, "Yum!"
"Good lord," I said, "didn't you have anything to eat today?"
"A country breakfast at seven this morning," she said. "I'm really famished."
"I should think so. Meg, did you call me from your phone here?"
She shook her head. "From a gas station. But my phone will be connected in the morning. They promised."
"Fine," I said. "I may need to call. About tomorrow night, Meg-how would you like to go to a seance with me?"
I was afraid she might refuse or think the whole idea so hysterically off-the-wall that I wouldn't be able to introduce her to the Glorianas as a serious student of spiritualism. But she surprised me.
"Love to," she said promptly. "Laverne and I used to go to them all the time. I didn't know you were interested in New Age things."
"Oh yes," I lied brazenly. "I'm deep into crystals, ESP, telepathy, and all that. I've arranged a private seance with a local medium, her husband, and mother-in-law for tomorrow evening. The psychic is supposed to be very gifted. I've never attended a seance before, so I'm looking forward to it. You'll go with me then?"
"Of course. What time?"
"Nine o'clock. I thought we'd have dinner first. Suppose I pick you up at seven."
"I'll be ready," she said. She licked her fingers, crossed her sleek legs, settled back with her drink. She had demolished the entire pizza. But of course it was only the eight-inch size.
"That was delicious," she proclaimed. "Thank you, Archy; you saved my life. I wish I had something stronger than Pepsi to offer you. I'm going to load up the fridge tomorrow, get this place organized, and then start looking for clients."
"I'm glad you mentioned that," I said and handed her the list of potential customers I had prepared.
"Wonderful," she said, scanning the names. "I'm so glad you didn't forget. How can I ever thank you?"
I gave her my Groucho Marx leer. "I'll think of something," I said.
She laughed. "Oh, Archy," she said, "what a clown you are. Would you mind awfully if we skipped tonight? Right now I want to get unpacked and catch a million Zs."
"Of course," I said, upper lip stiffening. "You must be exhausted after all that driving." I stood up to leave. "I'll see you at seven tomorrow night, Meg."
She came close and hugged me tightly. I was breathlessly aware of her muscled arms. "Tomorrow will be different," she whispered. "I promise."
"Sleep well," I said as lightly as I could. I drove home thinking there really should be an over-the-counter remedy that cures habitual hoping.
Roderick Gillsworth didn't call that night-for which I was grateful.
10
Why do men's jackets and shirts button left over right while women's button right over left? I have asked this question of people at cocktail parties, and they invariably give me a frozen smile and move away.
But I'm sure there is an explanation for this buttoning conundrum that is at once profound and simple. I felt the same way about the disappearance of Peaches and the murder of Lydia Gillsworth. Those twin mysteries had a logical and satisfying solution if I could but find it.
I spent Wednesday morning slowly going over my journal, reading every entry twice. I found nothing that even hinted at some devilish plot that would account for a missing Felis domestica and the death of a poet's wife. All my diary contained was a jumble of facts and impressions. I could only pray that the seance that evening would yield a spectral suggestion that might inspire me.
I drove to the office and found on my desk, sealed in an envelope, a memo from Tim Hogan, temporary chief of our real estate section. It concerned the Glorianas' office and condo.
The commercial suite on Clematis Street had been leased for a year. The Glorianas had put up two months' rent as security but were currently a month behind in their payments. Similarly, their apartment had not been purchased but was rented on a month-to-month basis. At the moment, the Glorianas were current on their rent.
In both cases the references given were a bank and individuals in Atlanta. Hogan had thoughtfully provided names and addresses, but mentioned he could find no record of the references ever having been checked. That was unusual but not unheard of in the freewheeling world of South Florida real estate.
I called Sgt. Rogoff and told him what I had.
"Why don't you check them out, Al?" I suggested. "Just for the fun of it."
"Yeah," he said, "I will. But first I think I'll contact the Atlanta cops. Just in case."
"Do that," I urged. "It's the first real lead we've had on where the Glorianas operated before they arrived here."
I gave him the names and addresses of the Glorianas' references, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he had something. At that point I had no idea of where I might turn next in my discreet inquiries, so I decided to drive over to Worth Avenue and see if I could buy a tennis bracelet for Connie at a price that wouldn't land me in debtors' prison.
Then fate took a beneficent hand in the investigation-which proves that if you are pure of heart and eat your Wheaties, good things can happen to you.
I went down to the garage to board the Miata for the short drive over to Worth. Herb, our lumbering security guard, had come out of his glass cubicle and was leaning down to stroke the head of a cat rubbing against his shins. I strolled over.
"Got a new friend, Herb?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "A stray, Mr. McNally," he said. "He just came wandering down the ramp."
That had to be the longest, skinniest cat I had ever seen. It was a dusty black with a dirty-white blaze on its chest. One ear was hanging limply and looked bloodied. And the poor animal obviously hadn't had a decent table d'hote in weeks; its ribs and pelvic bones were poking.
But despite its miserable condition, it seemed to be in a lighthearted mood. It purred loudly under Herb's caresses, then came over to sniff at my shoes. I leaned to scratch under the chin. It liked that.
"Loo
ks hungry, Herb," I said.
"Sure does," he said. "Maybe I'll run up to the cafeteria and get it something to eat."
"Our cafeteria?" I said. "You're liable to be arrested for cruelty to animals. Are you going to adopt it?"
"Mebbe," he said. "But if I take it home with me, it's liable to get into my tropical fish tanks. You think it would be all right if I kept it around here? I'll bet it's a great mouser."
"It's okay with me," I said, "if you're willing to take care of it."
"I think I should take it to the vet first," he said worriedly. "I'll have that ear fixed up and get it a bath."
I stared down at the stray, and I swear it grinned at me. That was one devil-may-care cat. It looked a little like Errol Flynn in The Charge of the Light Brigade.
"You're going to be okay," the guard said, addressing his new pal. "The vet'll fix you up like new."
That's when it hit me. I clapped Herb on the shoulder. "God bless you," I said hoarsely, and he probably thought I was approving his kindness to a wounded and homeless beast.
I immediately returned to my office and dug out the Yellow Pages for what Southern Bell called Greater West Palm Beach. I turned to the listings for Veterinarians.
This was my reasoning: Suppose Peaches got sick while she was in the custody of the catnappers. That was possible, wasn't it? In fact, it was likely when the irascible animal found herself being held prisoner by strangers in unfamiliar surroundings. The thieves wouldn't want to risk the health of their fifty-grand hostage, so they'd hustle her to a vet. All I had to do was contact local veterinarians and ask if they had recently treated a fat, silver-gray Persian with a mean disposition.
It was a long shot, I admitted, but at the moment I didn't have any short shots.
But my brainstorm fizzled when I took a look at the Veterinarian listings in the Yellow Pages. There were pages and pages of them, seemingly hundreds of DVMs. It would take S. Holmes and a regiment of the Baker Street Irregulars a month of Sundays to check out all those names and addresses. Good idea, I decided, but imdamnedpossible to carry out.
McNally's luck (mcnally) Page 14
