“Yes?” she said.
“May I speak to the owner, please?”
She stiffened. “I am the owner,” she said haughtily.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I assumed that—”
“I know what you assumed,” she interrupted. “That it’s impossible for a woman to own and run an independent business, and therefore I must be a salesclerk or the wife or daughter of the owner.”
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “It’s just that—”
“Let me tell you something,” she carried on. “There are no secrets of business management known only to the male gender. There are many women who own and manage successful enterprises.”
“Very admirable, I’m sure,” I said, “but you are inferring a prejudice that simply doesn’t exist. I have known several stamp dealers in my lifetime, and without exception they have all been old, crotchety gentlemen. So naturally I was surprised to find a young, attractive female in the trade.”
And I gave her a 100-watt smile that had no effect whatsoever. She stared at me with narrowed eyes, obviously debating whether or not I was conning her, which, of course, I was. Finally she relented.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll accept your apology.”
I wasn’t aware that I had offered one, but didn’t dare tempt this gorgon’s wrath by mentioning it.
“Now then,” she continued, all business, “what can I do for you?”
I gave her the same song and dance I had given Bela Rubik: My law firm was handling the estate of a recently deceased Boca Raton real estate developer. Included in the inventory of his personal effects was a block of four Inverted Jenny postage stamps. For tax purposes we would like to establish the value of the stamps by determining the market price of a similar block currently being offered for sale.
H. Lantern shook her head. “Can’t be done,” she said decisively. “All stamps have different values, even those of the same issue. The value depends on the condition of the stamps.”
“You know that,” I said, “and I know that, but the IRS doesn’t know that. Quite frankly, we fear they are aware that a block of four Inverted Jennies was recently auctioned for a million dollars, and they are liable to insist that value be placed on the stamps included in the estate of our deceased client.”
“I could do an appraisal for you,” she offered.
I uttered a short, bitter laugh. “You think the IRS would accept that? Never! Right now their estimate of market value is the million-dollar sale in New York that received so much publicity. The only way we can counter that is by quoting the price of Inverted Jennies currently being offered for sale. We will pay fifty dollars per hour for your time if you would be willing to take on the job of discovering if any blocks of Inverted Jennies have recently come on the market and, if so, what the asking price is. I’m sure it’s less than a million dollars.”
I could see she wasn’t totally convinced by my scam, but the fifty dollars an hour was alluring, and I’m certain she asked herself what possible harm could she suffer by agreeing to my proposal. I could have enlightened her, but didn’t.
“A down payment?” she asked, and I knew I had her.
I gave her fifty in cash, took a signed receipt, and left her my business card. She promised to call as soon as she had made inquiries, talked to other dealers, and consulted philatelic periodicals. We shook hands, and she smiled before I departed. What a pleasant surprise!
Because I was so close, I cut over to Oakland Park Blvd. and took it eastward to the ocean. I decided to have a small lunch at Ireland’s Inn, a place I recalled from previous excursions to Lauderdale.
The day had started out clear and bright, but Florida’s weather is mercurial, and now the air was clotting up, a dark cloud bank was moving in from the south. So instead of lunching outside, practically on the beach, I opted to sit indoors at a window facing the sea. I ordered a turkey club sandwich, which I dearly love, and a bottle of nonalcoholic beer, for which I was developing a taste, and I hope you will not think the less of me for it.
There is no delicate method of eating a thick club sandwich; one must gobble. So while I gobbled and swigged my Buckler, I reviewed the interview with H. Lantern, whose given name turned out to be Hilda. She was a prickly woman (she would be incensed by that adjective), but I thought her competent enough and was convinced she’d do a conscientious job.
The rainsquall came over as I lunched. It really poured, then suddenly stopped, the sky blued, the sun shone. I paid my bill, went outside, and found to my delight that the parking valet had had the great good sense to move my open Miata under the portico before the deluge. I gave him a heavy tip and assured him that one day he would be president.
I was back in Palm Beach by three o’clock, drove past my home, admiring that dignified, stately edifice, and turned into the driveway of the Horowitz fiefdom. I asked Mrs. Marsden if the DuPeys were present, and she directed me to a Georgian-styled gazebo framed in a small grove of bottle palms beyond the pool area.
There I found the newlyweds lounging at a set of cast-iron garden furniture. On the table was a pitcher of what appeared to be iced sangria, along with a stack of plastic tumblers. I introduced myself, they introduced themselves and invited me to help myself to a drink. I did and sipped cautiously. It was intended to be sangria, all right, but made with some awful plonk. Dreadful stuff.
I congratulated the DuPeys on their recent nuptials, and they laughed heartily as if the marriage had been a lark and no one appreciated the joke more than they. They were holding hands when I arrived, and they continued to clasp paws during the entire interview. It was easy to see they were both sappy with love.
I started to address them in French, but Felice asked me prettily to speak English as she wasn’t certain of the syntax and also wanted to learn as many American idioms as possible. I obliged. I would have granted her every wish, for she was charming, a kitten with a mischievous grin and a full inventory of pouts and moues.
Alan, the benedict, was onion soup personified. I mean, give him a beret and a pencil-thin mustache and you’d have Lucky Pierre in the flesh. But he was bubbling with gaiety that not infrequently slopped over into hilarity. Did I hear the pitch of desperation there, as if he thought it better never to stop laughing or he might start screaming?
They were perfectly willing to answer questions about their personal lives. He wrote book reviews for a monthly Parisian literary journal, and she was an apprentice at Chanel, and wasn’t life grand? I began to understand what Consuela Garcia meant when she had condemned them for being “too nice.” The DuPeys’ happiness seemed excessive, almost cloying. You wouldn’t make an entire meal of caviar, would you? You would?
I resolutely turned to business, asked the usual questions, and heard nothing new. Chuckling Alan had seen his mother’s misprinted stamps several times in the past. Giggling Felice had seen them for the first time at dinner the evening they arrived. Neither had the slightest notion of who, staff or guests, might have nobbled the Inverted Jennies. And it was obvious from their manner that the theft ranked far down on their anxiety list.
It seemed nothing was to be learned from these lovebirds, and I was about to withdraw when I casually asked if they had enjoyed the cruise on Phil Meecham’s yacht the previous day. My innocent query elicited another eruption of uncontrolled glee.
“We never went,” Alan explained after his spasm of mirth had subsided. “The captain of the yacht—a splendid vessel!—said the sea was much too rough and we would all suffer mal de mer. So Monsieur Meecham proposed we remain tied to the dock and have a party right there.”
“Ooo, la!” his wife cried.
“And what a party,” Alan went on, rolling his eyes. “Four cases of a very good champagne—Moët Brut Imperial, you know—and the food! An orgie!”
“Four cases for the six of you?” I said. “I’d say that was ample.”
“More than six,” Felice said. “There were also fourteen other guests.”
/>
“Ten,” her husband corrected her gently. “Because the Smythes, Gina, and Angus left after the cruise was canceled. But I can tell you that those of us who remained put a big dent in Monsieur Meecham’s wine supply.”
“He was so fonny,” his wife added. “He wanted to make love to all of us!”
“I can imagine,” I said, bid them farewell, and departed while they were still convulsed with laughter and still holding hands.
I tried to tumble-dry my thoughts and realized that last bit of information was a lone sock. Here’s the scenario:
The time of the murder was reasonably well established. The clobbering of Bela Rubik’s occiput had occurred between the moment I spoke to him on the phone from my office and the moment I found the corpus delicti.
I had previously learned that all the six Horowitz houseguests were afloat on a cruise aboard Phil Meecham’s yacht the previous day.
That meant that if anyone in the Horowitz household was the killer, it had to be one of the staff.
But now I had learned that Doris and Harry Smythe, Gina Stanescu, and Angus Wolfson had left the moored yacht when the cruise was canceled. That meant I had to restore them to the list of suspects.
I consoled myself by reflecting that the original roster of eleven possibles had now dwindled to nine.
It’s called progress.
I drove away in a melancholy mood, wondering if I might achieve a more fulfilling life by becoming a real estate agent like everyone else in South Florida. Then I had another mournful thought: If Lady Cynthia’s butler hadn’t quit two weeks before the crimes were committed, he would have been the prime suspect. All the tomes I had read on criminal behavior were quite firm on that point: The butler always did it.
But my spirits rose when I arrived home, for Mrs. Olson informed me that Jennifer Towley had phoned while she was cleaning my suite.
“She sounds nice,” she said.
“She is nice,” I shouted back as I dashed upstairs to phone.
I lay back on my bed as I spoke to Jennifer and kicked my heels in the air, thinking the DuPeys’ happiness might be contagious. We talked of weighty things like the weather, the cost of fresh snapper, and the outrageous attempts by the State of Florida to ban thong bikinis on public beaches.
“Enough of this idle chitchat, Jennifer,” I said finally. “When may I see you again?”
“That’s why I called,” she said. “I’m having dinner with a client tonight, but I should be home by ten o’clock at the latest. Could you come over for a drink? There is something very important I want to say to you.”
“You’re going to propose?” I asked.
“No,” she said, not laughing. “This is very serious, Archy. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t have the courage. Now I’ve decided to tell you before you hear it from someone else.”
“All right,” I said, my joy balloon deflating, “I’ll be there at ten.”
“I won’t keep you long,” she promised.
“Keep me as long as you like,” I told her.
Then she did laugh, but it was a feeble one.
I hung up somewhat disquieted. It was her statement “This is serious, Archy” that put the quietus to my brief felicity. I’ve already told you what a carefree cove I am, or strive to be. I blame most of society’s ills on seriousness. Believe me, if everyone would sit on a whoopee cushion at least once a day, it would be a better world.
I know I was uncharacteristically withdrawn and silent that evening because my mother remarked on it. She asked if I was coming down with something. I was tempted to reply, “Love,” but instead I assured her I was in perfect health but merely distracted by the press of business. I don’t believe mother knew exactly what it was I did, but she accepted my explanation, although advising that a nice glass of warm milk before bedtime would enable me to sleep better.
I was at Jennifer Towley’s home a few minutes after ten o’clock, and she had something better to offer than warm milk: a liter of Absolut plunged into a crystal bucket of ice cubes. She had set out two tall shot glasses that looked like bud vases.
She was wearing one of her elegant Little Black Dresses. This one appeared to be conservatively cut, with a high neck and long sleeves. But when she turned around, I saw that it had no back whatsoever. As Felice DuPey might say, “Ooo, la!”
“I shall pour your first drink, Archy,” she said, “and then you must help yourself to more. I think you may need it.”
“Oh-oh,” I said, “that sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous,” she said. “Perhaps upsetting.”
She seated herself in a low armchair and tugged her skirt down to cover her bare knees. Now that was upsetting.
“I told you I was divorced,” she stated. “Towley is my maiden name. My married name was Bingham. My husband was Thomas Bingham. Does the name mean anything to you?”
I shook my head.
She sighed. “Several years ago he was arrested and convicted of felony theft. He stole about fifty thousand dollars from his employer, a wholesaler of plumbing supplies.”
I took a heavy gulp of my vodka. “Where did this happen?”
“Boca Raton. He did three years and four months at Raiford.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Jennifer, were you divorced before or after he was convicted?”
“About a year before,” she said. “Thank God. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have divorced him after he went to prison, would I?”
“I suppose not,” I said, thinking there were many women who would have, and admiring her.
“He was a gambler,” she said. “Absolutely addicted. He was handsome, well-educated, well-spoken. And a dynamite salesman. At a party one night the president of the company told me that Tom had a bright future: sales manager and then into the executive suite. He might even become CEO. He could have had all that, but he couldn’t stop gambling.”
“On what?”
“On everything! Horse races; dog races; baseball, football, and basketball games; lotteries; elections; the weather—you name it. And on his selling trips he always managed to get to Las Vegas or Atlantic City.”
“You were aware of his addiction?”
“Of course I was aware,” she said angrily. “How could I not be aware? I saw what was happening to our bank accounts, a second mortgage on our home, the dunning letters from creditors. And the interest on his credit card charges! It was a horrendous situation. I pleaded with him to get professional help: a psychologist, Gamblers Anonymous, talk to our minister—anything. But he refused to admit that he had a problem, that he was hopelessly addicted. You don’t have any addictions, do you, Archy?”
“One,” I said. “You.”
I do believe she blushed, but it may have been the rosy glow coming from the Tiffany lamp on the table. I helped myself to more Absolut. I couldn’t serve Jennifer; her full glass was untouched.
“I did everything I could,” she continued. “I loved Tom, I really did. He could be a splendid husband: kind, gentle, understanding. Except he had this terrible sickness.”
“I had a friend who was like that,” I said, lying but trying to be sympathetic. “And it is a sickness.”
“Things began to disappear from our home,” she went on. “Crystal, silverware, a few of my antiques. He was selling them. He was involved with loan sharks, and rough men began coming to our house or parking outside all night. I really couldn’t take any more of it so I filed for divorce. He wept and begged and swore he would stop betting. But he had done that a dozen times before, and I knew it was no good. I think the final straw was when I realized he was stealing money from my purse. So I divorced him. And a year later he went to prison.”
“A sad story,” I said.
“A soap opera,” she said with a strained smile. “It happens all the time, all over the country. I talked to a counselor who specialized in treating addictions, and he said no improvement could be expected until the addict acknowledged he was out of control and sought
help voluntarily. Tom wouldn’t do that.”
There was silence awhile. She sat with her head lowered, and I hoped she wasn’t going to cry. I’m an absolute klutz when it comes to dealing with weeping women.
“Something I haven’t asked you,” I said. “Any children?”
“No,” she said, lifting her chin to look at me, and I saw she was clear-eyed; her calm, direct gaze had returned. “Do you think it would have changed Tom if we had?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Who can predict human behavior? Did you say he’s out of prison?”
“Yes. He was released about a month ago.”
“Did you visit him while he was inside?”
“No.”
“Write to him?”
“Not really,” she said. “Just birthday and Christmas cards. But he wrote me frequently. He said being behind bars had made him realize how he had screwed up his life, and mine. He swore he was a changed man, and when he was released he’d never gamble again as long as he lived.”
“Do you believe him, Jennifer?”
“No.”
“Has he called you since he’s been out?”
“Four times.”
“And he wants you to take him back?”
Her eyes grew round. “How did you know?” she asked.
“Because that’s exactly what I’d do if I were in his place. Will you take him back?”
“Never!” she cried. “Archy, have you ever had nightmares?”
“Not often. Perhaps a half-dozen in my lifetime.”
“Well, I had a nightmare that lasted almost four years. I don’t want to go through that again.”
I asked, almost idly, “Where did he call you from—Boca?”
“No,” she said, “he’s living in Delray Beach.”
I think I stared at her with a look akin to the wild surmise of the men of stout Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien. Although how they managed to spot the Pacific Ocean from Connecticut I’ve never been able to understand.
“Delray Beach?” I repeated, and my voice sounded like a croak. “What’s he doing there?”
The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1 Page 9
