McNally's Secret

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yeah,” Al said, sighing, “all that work for itty-bitty pieces of worthless paper. Well, I better get back to the palace and start the wheels turning.”

  “Just two more short items,” I said. “I struck out with Lady Horowitz. She just won’t tell me where she was when Bela Rubik was killed. And she refuses to let you take a look at her last will and testament. But my father said I could tell you that there’s nothing in that document that could have any possible effect on your investigation.”

  “How does he know?” the sergeant said bitterly. “He’s no cop.”

  “True,” I said, “but he’s no simp either. And he’s also a man of probity with a high regard for the law. Believe me, Al, if there was anything at all in the will that would help solve a theft and a homicide, he’d reveal it even if it meant breaching client-attorney confidentiality. My father’s morals are stratospheric. Sometimes I think he’s training to take over God’s job in case He resigns.”

  Rogoff laughed, flipped a hand at me, and strutted out, chewing on his cigar. I went back to the bar and slid my empty glass toward Mr. Pettibone.

  “Another, please,” I said.

  “You told me to cut you off,” he reminded me.

  “I lied,” I said.

  But the second was a sufficiency. Florida police are rough on even slightly tipsy drivers, and I had no desire to get racked up on a DUI charge. I drove the Escort back to the McNally Building at a sedate pace, switched to the Miata, and continued my homeward journey.

  I had time for an abbreviated ocean swim and arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the family cocktail hour. I dined with my parents that night and made a mindless jape about feeling exactly like our entree—soft-shelled crabs. Mother and father smiled politely.

  I retired to my suite and scribbled furiously in my journal until I had recorded everything that had happened, including my last conversation with Rogoff. Then I phoned Jennifer Towley and was happy to find her at home.

  “I miss you,” I told her.

  “And I miss you, too,” she replied. Divine female!

  “Good,” I said. “Then how about lunch tomorrow?”

  “Oh Archy, I’d love to,” she said, “but I just can’t. I’ve got to get caught up on my bookkeeping: billing, clients’ accounts, my own checkbook, and nonsense like that. I simply must spend the day at it.”

  Suspicion flared, and I wondered if she was actually meeting her ex-husband for lunch.

  “You’ve got to take a break in your accounting chores,” I said. “Why don’t I pick up some edible takeout food and show up at your place around noon. We can have a nosh together, and then I’ll take off and leave you to your ledgers.”

  “Marvelous idea,” she said at once. “Absolute genius.”

  “I thought so,” I said with a considerably leavened heart. “See you at noon tomorrow. Sleep well, dear.”

  “You, too,” she said, then added faintly, “darling.”

  I hung up delighted with her response and mortified at my initial jealous reaction. I must, I thought, learn to trust this woman who had invaded my right and left ventricles. It was not yet a Grand Passion but, like my mother’s begonias, my love needed only TLC to flower.

  I idly flipped the pages of my journal, resolutely turning my thoughts back to the theft of the Inverted Jennies. I set to work brooding, an activity aided by a very small tot of marc and the haunting wails of a Billie Holiday tape.

  Maybe, I acknowledged, Sgt. Al was right after all, and I did have a taste for complexity. Because I found I could not really believe that this whole foo-faraw was simply a case of a lamebrained and resentful chauffeur stealing from his employer. I didn’t want to believe that, perhaps because it reduced the entire investigation to banality and my own role to that of an office manager catching a junior clerk swiping paper clips.

  But it wasn’t complexity I favored so much, I finally decided, as intrigue and the convolutions of human hungers. I wished the Case of the Inverted Jennies to hold hidden surprises, unexpected revelations, and a startling denouement.

  I should have remembered what Aesop once told me:

  “We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified.”

  Chapter 12

  I BREAKFASTED WITH MY parents on Friday. Then my father departed for the office in his Lexus, mother scampered into the greenhouse to bid a bright “Good morning!” to her begonias, and I moved to the kitchen to have a heart-to-heart with our cook-housekeeper.

  “Ursi, luv,” I said, “I’ve contracted for a picnic today—a very special picnic for two. What would you suggest?”

  She accepted my question as a serious challenge, as I knew she would, and inspected her refrigerator and the shelves of her cupboards.

  “Lemon chicken,” she decided. “Baked, then chilled. German potato salad. The greens should be arugula and radicchio. For dessert, maybe a handful of those chocolate macaroons your mother bought.”

  “Sounds super to me,” I said. “I’m hungry already. Where’s our picnic hamper?”

  “In the utility room,” she said. “And don’t forget a bottle of wine.”

  “Fat chance,” I said.

  I brought her the wicker picnic hamper that had been in our family since Year One and contained enough cutlery, accessories, and china to supply an orgy of eight. I also selected a bottle of white zinfandel which I tucked onto the bottom shelf of the fridge. Our table wine was stacked in the utility room. The vintage stuff was kept in a massive temperature-controlled cabinet in my father’s study, protected by a combination padlock. R5-L8-R4, as well I knew.

  I hopped into the Miata and, as usual, turned its nose toward the Horowitz manse. There was one little question I had to ask Lady C. It had been bedeviling me since that talk with Rogoff.

  I banged the brass Bacchus on the front door, and eventually it was opened by the saucy housemaid, Clara Bodkin. She still had sleep in her eyes and looked all the more attractive for it.

  “Good morning, Clara,” I said.

  “Hi, Mr. McNally,” she said, and yawned. “The party’s not till tonight.”

  “I know,” I said, smiling, “and we’ll certainly be here. Is Lady Horowitz up and about?”

  “She’s in the sauna.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I guess I better come back another time.”

  “You can talk to her through the intercom,” Clara offered. “In the north wing just inside the terrace.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll find it.”

  “I love the way you smell,” she said suddenly.

  I remembered Simon Pettibone’s observation: Life is not merely strange, it is bee-zar.

  “It’s not me, Clara,” I said, “it’s Royal Copenhagen. But I appreciate the thought.”

  Lady Cynthia had two built-in saunas, dry and wet (if you’re going to do it, do it right), and the red light was burning over the door of the latter. The door itself was thick redwood planks and inserted at eye-level was a judas window of heavy glass. Alongside the door, fixed to the wall, was the intercom transmitter-receiver: a round knob of metal mesh.

  I tried to look through the glass, but it was so fogged with steam that I could see nothing. I addressed the intercom.

  “Lady Horowitz,” I called, “it’s Archy McNally. May I speak to you for a moment?”

  A brief wait, then she replied, her voice sounding thin and tinny. “You don’t have to shout,” she said. “I can hear you perfectly well. How are you, lad?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, and watched as her fingers wiped away the steam from the inside of the glass, and she peered out at me.

  “Care to join me?” she asked.

  “Not right now,” I said, laughing. “Just one short question and I’ll be on my way.”

  She disappeared from the window, but I continued staring inside with nary a qualm. I was certain she was aware of my scrutiny and just didn’t give a damn.

  She moved slowly through swirling clouds of vapor
like an Isadora Duncan dancer, seeming to float. She appeared to be performing a private exercise, for her knees rose high and her extended arms waved languidly. She was a white wraith; all I could see was that wondrous body pearled with steam. It made me forget age and believe in immortality.

  “What’s the question?” she asked.

  “Did you ever examine the back of those Inverted Jenny stamps?”

  Her face came close to the glass again and she stared at me. “Examine the back? Whatever for? Have you gone completely bonkers, lad?”

  “Just wondering,” I said hastily. In a moment the glass was fogged again and she was lost to view.

  I drove into town wondering if Lady Cynthia had been telling me the truth. People do lie, you know. I do. Frequently.

  I had been delegated by my parents to purchase an inexpensive going-away gift for Felice and Alan DuPey, to be presented that evening at the party. So I wandered Worth Avenue, viewing and regretfully rejecting all the glittering baubles that Street of Impossible Dreams has to offer.

  Finally, in a tiny shop on Hibiscus Avenue, I found something for the DuPeys I thought they’d cherish: two lovely polished seashells, as a remembrance of their stay in South Florida. One was a Banded Tulip, the other a Flame Auger. In size and shape, there was a definite physical symbolism in those shells, and I thought them a fitting gift for randy newly-weds. I admit my sense of humor sometimes verges on the depraved.

  I returned home and helped Ursi pack the picnic hamper, complete with a linen tablecloth and napkins. I added the chilled bottle of zinfandel (not forgetting a corkscrew) and set out for the home of Jennifer Towley across the lake.

  Her reaction to the picnic hamper was all I had hoped for.

  “You scoundrel!” she cried. “You told me it would be takeout food.”

  “So it is,” I said. “From the spotless kitchen of the Chez McNally.”

  “How wonderful everything looks,” she said, inspecting all the viands neatly packed in covered dishes. “Shall I set the dining room table?”

  “Don’t you dare,” I said. “This is an indoor picnic. We’ll eat on the floor.”

  And so we did, spreading the tablecloth over the worn dhurrie in her small office. We sat cross-legged, surrounded by file cabinets, books of fabric and wallpaper samples, a desk cluttered with documents, her word processor, and all the other odds and ends of a littered sanctum devoted to business.

  We lunched with enthusiasm, exclaiming over the flavor of the lemon chicken, the taste of oregano in the greens, the touch of garlic in the German potato salad. We were down to the macaroons and the remainder of the wine before we collapsed against furniture and talked lazily of this and that.

  Jennifer looked especially attractive that afternoon, hair piled up and tied with a mauve ribbon. Her face was free of makeup and seemed shockingly young. She wore an oversized sweatshirt with nothing printed on the front—thank God!—and pleated Bermuda shorts. Her feet were bare, and I saw once again those toes that had driven Clarence T. Frobisher mad with lust.

  “Have you heard from your ex lately?” I asked casually.

  “A few times,” she said just as casually. “He seems to be doing wonderfully. The man he works for is thinking of opening a branch store in West Palm Beach and asked Tom if he’d like to manage it.”

  “Sounds like a great opportunity. Has he mentioned anything about his gambling?”

  “Continually. He keeps assuring me that he’s cured.”

  “But you’ve heard those assurances before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “May I have another macaroon, please.”

  I watched her white teeth bite into the cookie, and I went through the now-familiar mental wrestle: tell or not tell. If she meant nothing to me, I would have told her at once that Thomas Bingham was up to his old tricks again. But she did mean something to me, a great deal, and so there would be a selfish motive in my revelation, and that would be base.

  One day I must try to draw up a blueprint of my moral code. Then, perhaps, I might know what the hell I’m doing and why I do it.

  “He wants me to have dinner with him,” Jennifer said in a low voice, not looking at me. “And he wants to visit me. Here.”

  “Oh?” I said. “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know how I feel,” she said, almost angrily, and raised her eyes to look directly at me. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “All right,” I said equably. “Then we shan’t.”

  “Let’s talk about you,” she said.

  “My favorite subject.”

  “What do you want to do with your life, Archy?”

  “I can’t write, paint, sculpt, compose, or play the piccolo. So I want to make my life a creation. I want to elevate artificiality into a fine art.”

  She laughed. “You’re putting me on.”

  I raised a palm. “Scout’s honor. And now let’s talk about you. What do you want to do with your life?”

  “I wish I knew,” she said. “I’m betwixt and between. A crazy, mixed-up kid. May I finish the wine?”

  “Of course. But there’s only a drop left. I should have brought two bottles.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “That would have pushed me over the edge. And I’ve got to get back to my bookkeeping; I’ll need a clear head.”

  I nodded. “I’ll pack up and be on my way.”

  She stared at me, and I couldn’t interpret that look. Something heavy was going on behind those luminous eyes, but I didn’t even guess what it might be.

  “No,” she said finally in a steady voice, “don’t do that. Not yet.”

  What a delicious afternoon that turned out to be, the most paradisiacal I had ever spent in my life. Most of the credit, of course, was due to Jennifer, who seemed to be a woman bereft of her senses. But if it was within my power to award a medal for actions above and beyond the call of duty, I would have pinned a gold star and ribbon to her sweatshirt—or affixed it to her bare bosom with a Band-Aid.

  I returned home so fatigued that I knew an ocean swim would risk instant immolation. So I took a nap, slept fast, and awoke in time to shower, dress, and join my parents for the ceremonial cocktail. Then we all set off for Lady Horowitz’s party, my father driving the Lexus and humming something that sounded vaguely like “On the Street Where You Live.”

  It was a sterling night, absolutely cloudless. And if there was no full moon, there were a jillion stars spangling the sky. A cool ocean breeze caressed, and the whole world seemed to have been spritzed by Giorgio. Perfect weather for an outdoor party. That was the luck of the wealthy—right? Remember the old Yiddish joke? A guy gets splattered by a passing bird, looks up and says, “For the rich you sing.”

  The pool-patio area was strung with Chinese lanterns. There was a hurricane lamp with scented candle on each table, plus a bowl of fresh narcissi. As they say in New York, “Gawjus!”

  A small portable bar had been set up in one corner, and service was provided by temps. Chef Jean Cuvier, wearing a high white toque, presided over the grill. All the other staff members were present as well as houseguests and about a dozen invited couples in various degrees of “informal dress,” from tailored jeans to sequined minidresses. For the record: I wore my silver-gray Ultrasuede jacket.

  Two small added notes on that night’s festivities: A three-piece combo played old show tunes amongst the palms, and a small red neon sign set atop the bar proclaimed: NO SMOKING.

  Since the McNallys knew most of the other guests present, there were many air-kisses and handshakes. My mother handed our gift to Felice and Alan DuPey, and they were delighted with the shells. I could see they made a polite effort to conceal their hilarity for, being French, they immediately saw the symbolism of those shapes. I was happy they hid their mirth; mother would have been horrified if they had tried to explain why the shells were so “fonny.”

  I headed for the bar to get in a party mood and was waiting for the ham-handed keep
to mix a vodka gimlet when my elbow was plucked. I turned to find the hostess, radiant in flowered evening pajamas and a silk turban that looked like a charlotte russe.

  “Good evening, Lady Cynthia,” I said. “Lovely party.”

  “Is it?” she said. “I hadn’t noticed. Listen, lad, what was that business this morning about my looking at the back of my Inverted Jennies?”

  “Oh, that was just nonsense,” I said.

  “Of course it was,” she said. “You ninny.” And she stroked my cheek with such a smarmy smile that I was certain she was lying. But for what purpose I could not fathom.

  She moved away and I sampled my drink. Passable but not notable. Carrying my glass, I joined the chattering throng and greeted several friends and acquaintances. I garnered two dinner invitations. Single women (mostly widows and divorcees) outnumber single men in Palm Beach, and hostesses are continually searching for the odd man to complete their table—and I’m as odd as they come.

  I spotted Angus Wolfson standing apart, observing the scene with what I imagined he thought was amused detachment. He was wearing an embroidered guayabera shirt that hung in folds on his shrunken frame, making him look like an emaciated barber. He was holding an opened Perrier, no glass, and I wondered if he was drinking directly from the bottle. I strolled over.

  “Good evening, Mr. Wolfson,” I said. “How are you feeling tonight?”

  He didn’t exactly glare at me but he came close. “You seem to have an obsessive interest in my health, young McNally,” he said.

  “Not obsessive,” I said, “but certainly concerned.”

  I thought he was about to give me the knife, but he caught himself, chuffed a small laugh, and took a swig from his bottle. “If you can’t become mean, nasty and grumpy,” he said, “what’s the point of growing old?”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, laughing.

  “Oh, you have a few years to go,” he said, looking at me with a peculiar expression. “Spend them wisely. Don’t try to set the world to right. No one can do that. Just accept it.”

  Either he was playing the Ancient Guru or his Perrier bottle was filled with gin. In either case, I had no desire to hear more of his homilies, so I smiled, nodded, and sauntered away. Besides, I had a bit of business to do.