“It’s so banal,” she said. “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t laugh,” I said. “I promise.”
Priscilla brought our food, glanced at Meg, gave me a scowl, then left us again. While we ate our lunch, Meg told me the story of her demolished romance. She had been right: it was banal.
It had been a high-voltage affair with a handsome rogue. He had vowed undying love and proposed marriage, but continually postponed the date: he wanted to build up his bank account, his mother was ill, his business was being reorganized, etc. The excuses went on for almost two years.
Then a girlfriend brought Meg a newspaper from her swain’s town. He had won a hefty prize in the state lottery. The front-page photograph showed him grinning at the camera, his arm about the waist of a woman identified as his wife. That was that.
“I was a fool,” Meg said mournfully. “I don’t blame him as much as I blame myself—for being such an idiot. I think that’s what hurts the most, that I could have been tricked so easily.”
“Did you enjoy the relationship?” I asked.
She toyed with her salad a moment, head lowered. “Oh yes,” she said finally, “I did. I really liked him, and we had some wonderful times together.”
“So it’s really a bruised ego that makes you weep.”
She sighed. “I guess I always had a high opinion of my intelligence. I know better now.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Intelligence had nothing to do with it. It’s your emotions that were involved, and you were too trusting, and so you were vulnerable and got hurt: a constant risk for the hopeful. But would you rather be a crusty cynic who denies all possibility of hopes coming true?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t want to be like that.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “Meg, when one is thrown from a horse, the accepted wisdom is to mount and ride again as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“You will be,” I assured her. “You’re too young, too attractive to be grounded.”
Then we finished our lunch in silence. I was happy to note that despite her sorrow she had a good appetite: she emptied the really enormous salad bowl.
“Basil,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “The name is Archy.”
She laughed. “In the salad, silly. It was delicious. Archy, are you really one of Laverne’s dearest friends?”
I tried to raise one eyebrow (my father’s shtick) and failed miserably. “Not quite,” I said. “Your sister has a penchant for hyperbole.”
“You mean she lies?”
“Of course not. She just exaggerates occasionally to add a little spice to life. Nothing wrong with that. No, my relationship with your sister and brother-in-law is more professional than personal.”
I handed over my business card and explained that I had been assigned by McNally & Son to locate the missing feline—the reason for my visit to Casa Blanco. I asked Meg when she had last seen Peaches, and she corroborated what Laverne had told me: she had been apartment hunting on the day the cat disappeared.
“Meg, do you think anyone on the staff might have had a hand in the catnapping?”
“I really don’t know,” she said. “None of them liked Peaches. And I didn’t either.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said, and told her the story of how the beast had regurgitated on my lavender suede loafers.
She laughed again and leaned forward to put a hand lightly on my arm. “Thank you for making me laugh, Archy,” she said. “I was afraid I had forgotten how.”
“Laughter is medicine,” I pontificated. “Even better than chicken soup. You must promise to have at least one good giggle a day, preferably just before bedtime.”
“I’ll try, doctor,” she vowed.
Coffee was another of her no-no’s and neither of us wanted dessert, so I signed the tab and we went out to the Miata. I drove Meg to the garage and just before she got out of the car she thanked me for lunch.
“And for being such a sympathetic listener,” she said. “I feel better. I hope I see you again.”
“You shall indeed,” I said, meaning that I would probably be nosing about Casa Blanco frequently in my search for Peaches.
But she looked intently into my eyes and repeated, “I do want to see you again,” and then whisked away.
There was no misinterpreting that; it seemed evident Ms. Trumble was ready to ride a horse again, and I was the nag selected. I didn’t know whether to be delighted or frightened. But I was certain I would not act wisely. Like most men, my life is often a contest between brains and glands. And you would do well to bet Gray Matter to place.
I returned to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, parked in our underground garage, and waved to Herb, the security guard. I took the elevator up to my tiny office and lo! on my desk was a telephone message: I was requested to call Consuela Garcia as soon as possible. I did.
“Hi, Connie,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Who was that baldy you had lunch with at the Pelican?” she demanded.
I believe it was Mr. Einstein who stated that nothing can move faster than the speed of light. It’s obvious Albert had no knowledge of the Palm Beach grapevine.
Chapter 2
I SPENT AT LEAST fifteen minutes trying to placate Connie. I explained that the luncheon had been professional business, part of an investigation into a catnapping. I said that Margaret Trumble, sister of Mrs. Laverne Willigan, had valuable testimony to offer, and I needed to question her away from the scene of the crime.
“Is she living with the Willigans?” Connie asked.
“Visiting.”
“For how long?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you going to see her again?”
“If my investigation requires it,” I said. “Connie, I am shocked—shocked!—by your suspicious tone. I only met Meg this morning and—”
“Oh-ho,” she said bitterly, “it’s Meg, is it?”
“Holy cow!” I burst out. “Laverne insisted I address her sister as Meg, and I complied as a matter of courtesy. Connie, your attitude is unworthy of you. What happened to our decision to have an open relationship: both of us free to date whomever we choose?”
“So you are going to see her again!”
“Only in the line of business.”
“Just make sure it’s not monkey business, buster,” she said darkly. “Watch your step; my spies are everywhere.”
And she hung up.
I did not take lightly her warning of “spies.” Consuela Garcia was secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of our wealthiest and most socially active matriarchs. Connie knew everyone in Palm Beach worth knowing, and many who weren’t. I had no doubt that she was capable of keeping tabs on my to-and-froing. After all, Palm Beach is a small town, especially in the offseason.
It was a sticky situation but, I reflected, there was more than one way to skin a cat. And recalling that old saw brought me back to the search for the missing Peaches. I only hoped the catnappers were also aware of the ancient adage.
I phoned Harry Willigan’s office, and a male receptionist answered. His employment, I reckoned, was Laverne’s doing; after marrying the boss, she wanted her hubby’s office cleared of further temptations. Smart lady. Harry had the reputation of being a willing victim of satyriasis.
I identified myself and asked for a personal meeting with Mr. Willigan as soon as possible. The receptionist was gone a few moments and then came back on the line to say that if I could come over immediately, I would be granted an audience to last no longer than a half-hour. I told him I was on my way.
Willigan’s office was only a block from the McNally Building. Ten minutes later I was seated alongside the tycoon’s littered desk, trying hard to conceal my distaste for a man who apparently thought a silk cowboy shirt with bolo tie and diamond clasp, silver identification bracelet, gold Piaget Polo, and a five-carat pinky ring were evidence of meri
t and distinction.
He was built like a mahogany stump and, to carry the arboreal analogy farther, his voice was a rough bark. I imagined he might have been a good-looking youth, but a lifetime of sour mash and prime ribs had taken their toll, and now his face was a crumpled road map of burst capillaries. The nose had the hue and shape of a large plum tomato.
“What are you doing about Sweetums?” he screamed at me.
I quietly explained that I had barely started my investigation but had already visited his home to learn the details of the catnapping from his wife. I intended to return to question the servants and make a more detailed search of the premises.
“No cops!” he shouted. “Those bastards claim they’ll kill Peaches if I go to the cops.”
I assured him I would not inform the police, and asked to see the ransom note. He had taken it from the safe prior to my arrival and flung it at me across the desk. I questioned how many people had handled it. The answer: he, Laverne, his receptionist, Leon Medallion and perhaps the other servants at Casa Blanco. That just about eliminated the possibility of retrieving any usable fingerprints from the note.
It was neatly printed on a sheet of good paper, and appeared to have been written on a word processor, as Willigan had told his wife. What caught my eye was the even right-hand margin. The spacing between words had been adjusted so that all lines were the same width. Rather rare in a ransom note—wouldn’t you say?
I asked if he had received any further communication from the catnappers, and Willigan said he hadn’t. I then inquired if there was anyone he thought might have snatched the cat. Did he have any enemies?
He glowered at me. “I got more enemies than you got friends,” he yelled. (A comparison I did not appreciate.) “Sure, I got enemies. You can’t cut the mustard the way I done without making enemies. But they’re all hard guys. They might shoot me in the back, but they wouldn’t steal my Sweetums for a lousy fifty grand. That’s penny-ante stuff to those bums.”
I couldn’t think of any additional questions to ask, so I thanked Willigan for his time and rose to leave. He walked me to the door, a meaty hand clamped on my shoulder.
“Listen, Archy,” he said in his normal, raucous voice, “you get Peaches back okay and there’s a nice buck in it for you.”
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, “but my father pays me a perfectly adequate salary.”
“Oh sure,” he said, trying to be jovial, “but a young stud like you can always use a little extra change. Am I right?”
Wretched man. How Laverne could endure his total lack of couth, I could not understand. But I suspected the Bloody Marys with fresh horseradish helped.
I walked back to the McNally Building, swung aboard the Miata, and headed for home. The old medulla oblongata had enough of the misadventure of Peaches for one day. I gave all those bored neurons a treat by turning my thoughts to Meg Trumble and Laverne Willigan.
I found it amazing that the two were sisters. I could see a slight resemblance in their features, but their carcasses were totally dissimilar. If they stood side by side, Meg on the left, they’d look like the number 18.
And their personalities were so unlike. Laverne was a bouncy extrovert, Meg more introspective, a serious woman. I thought she was not as coarsely woven as Laverne, not as many slubs. As of that moment I was not smitten, but she intrigued me. There was a mystery to her that challenged. Laverne was about as mysterious as a baked potato.
I pulled into the driveway of the McNally castle, a tall Tudorish pile with a mansard roof of copper that leaked. I parked on the graveled turnaround in front of our three-car garage, making sure I did not block the entrance to the left-hand bay where my father always sheltered his big Lexus. The middle space was occupied by an old, wood-bodied Ford station wagon, used mostly for shopping and to transport my mother’s plants to flower shows.
I found her in the small greenhouse talking to her begonias, as usual. Her name was Madelaine, and she was a paid-up member of the Union of Ditsy Mommies. But she was an absolutely glorious woman, warm and loving. I had seen her wedding pictures, when she became Mrs. Prescott McNally, and she was radiant then. Now, pushing seventy, she was even more beautiful. I speak not as a dutiful son but as an eager student of pulchritude. (I carried in my wallet a small photo of Kay Kendall.)
Mother’s specs had slipped down on her nose, and she didn’t see me sneak up. I kissed her velvety cheek, and she closed her eyes.
“Ronald Colman?” she asked. “John Barrymore?”
“Tyrone Power,” I told her.
“My favorite,” she said, opening her eyes. “He was so wonderful in The Postman Always Rings Twice.”
“Mother, that was John Garfield.”
“I loved him, too,” she said. “Where have they all gone, Archy?”
“To the great Loew’s in the sky,” I said. “But I’m still here.”
“And I love you most,” she said promptly, patting my cheek. “Ursi is baking scallops tonight. Isn’t that nice?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’m in a scallopy mood. Ask father to open one of those bottles of muscadet he’s been hoarding.”
“Why don’t you ask him, Archy?”
“Because he’ll tell me that a jug chablis is good enough. But if you ask, he’ll break out the good stuff. He’s putty in your hands.”
“He is?” she said. “Since when?”
I kissed her again and went up to my suite to change. “Suite” is a grandiloquent word to describe a small sitting room, cramped bedroom, and claustrophobic bathroom on the third floor. But you couldn’t beat the rent. Zip. And it was my private aerie. I had no complaints whatsoever.
I pulled on modest swimming trunks (shocking pink), a terry coverup, and sandals. Then I grabbed a towel and went down to the beach. The Atlantic was practically lapping at our doorstep; just cross Ocean Boulevard and there it was, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. The chop was not strong enough to give me second thoughts.
I try to swim two miles a day. Not out and back; that’s for idiots. I swam parallel to the shore, about fifty feet out. I go a mile north or south and then return. I don’t exactly wallow, as I told Meg Trumble, but I sort of plow along. However, since it is the only physical exercise I get—other than an occasional game of darts at the Pelican Club—it makes me feel virtuous and does wonders for the appetite. And thirst.
My father is very big on tradition. One of the ceremonies he insists on honoring is the cocktail hour, a preprandial get-together that usually lasts thirty minutes during which we imbibe martinis he mixes to the original formula of three parts gin to one of vermouth. Not dry enough for you? Complain to Prescott McNally, but be prepared to face a raised eyebrow—and a hairy one at that.
“Are you going out tonight, Archy?” my father asked that evening at the family gathering.
“No, sir,” I said, “I hadn’t planned to.”
“Good,” he said. “Roderick Gillsworth phoned this afternoon and wants to come over at nine o’clock. It concerns some matter he didn’t wish to discuss at the office.”
“And you want me to be present?” I asked, somewhat surprised.
The governor chomped on his olive which, in a small departure from his love of the hallowed, had been stuffed with a sliver of jalapeno. “Yes,” he said, “Gillsworth particularly asked that you sit in.”
“And how is Lydia?” mother asked, referring to the client’s wife.
Father knitted his brows which, considering their hirsuteness, might have resulted in a sweater. “I asked,” he said, “but the man didn’t give me a direct answer. Very odd. Shall we go down to dinner?”
The scallops were super, the flavor enhanced by a muscadet the lord of the manor had consented to uncork. He’s inclined to be a bit mingy with his vintage wines. It makes little difference to mother, who drinks only sauterne with dinner—a dreadful habit my father and I have never persuaded her to break. But I like a rare wine occasionally: something that doesn’t come in a b
ottle with a handle and screw-top.
For dessert, Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, served big slices of a succulent honeydew with wedges of fresh lime. Surfeited, I climbed upstairs to my cave and did a spot of work before Roderick Gillsworth arrived.
During discreet inquiries in the past I had learned to keep a record of my investigations in a ledger. I have a tendency to forget things that may or may not turn out to be important.
So I scribbled short notes on the cases in which I was engaged. That evening I started a new chapter on the catnapping of the malevolent Peaches. I jotted down everything I had learned during the day, which wasn’t a great deal. When finished, I put my completed notes aside and glanced at my Mickey Mouse wristwatch (an original, not a reproduction). I saw that I had a quarter-hour before my presence was required in my father’s study, to listen to what was troubling our client. I spent the time recalling what I knew of Roderick Gillsworth.
He was a poet, self-proclaimed. His first book, The Joy of Flatulence, was so obscure and prolix that critics were convinced he was a genius, and on the strength of their ecstatic reviews TJOF sold 527 copies. But Gillsworth’s subsequent volumes didn’t do as well, and he accepted employment as poet-in-residence at an exclusive liberal arts college for women in New Hampshire.
There he married one of his students, Lydia Barkham. She was heiress to a fortune in old money accumulated by a Rhode Island family that began by making string, graduated to rope, moved on to steel cables, and eventually sold out to a Japanese conglomerate at such a humongous price that one financial commentator termed it “Partial revenge for Pearl Harbor.”
Lydia and Roderick Gillsworth moved to Palm Beach in the late 1970s and, despite their wealth, bought a relatively modest home on Via Del Lago, about a block from the beach. They lived quietly, entertained infrequently, and apparently had little interest in tennis, golf, or polo. This did not make them pariahs, of course, but they were considered somewhat odd. According to Palm Beach gossips (the entire population) the Gillsworths had what the French label a marriage blanc, and what your grandmother probably called a “marriage in name only.” Naturally I cannot vouch for that.
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