The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  She laughed. “Many more than you think, I assure you. I call them ‘kindred souls.’ That’s a nice, old-fashioned phrase, isn’t it? Oh yes, there are many who feel as I do. Right here in Palm Beach, as a matter of fact. A number of us meet frequently to discuss out-of-body experiences and attempt to communicate with those who have already passed over.”

  I hoped she didn’t notice, but I came to attention like a gun dog on point.

  “Oh?” I said, as casually as I could. “These gatherings—something like a club, are they? You meet at members’ homes?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, seemingly gratified by my interest. “They’re orchestrated by our psychic adviser and held in her home. Mrs. Gloriana. A wonderful woman. So sensitive.”

  “That is fascinating,” I said, and it was because I now had a name. “Is she a medium? A seer?”

  “Not a seer,” Lydia said definitely. “Hertha doesn’t attempt to predict the future or tell your fortune or any claptrap like that. But I suppose you might call her a medium. We prefer to think of her as a channel, our means of communication to the great beyond.”

  She spoke so simply and sincerely that I had no inclination to snicker. I am something of an infidel myself but I never scorn belief. If you are convinced the earth is flat, that’s okay with me as long as it gives you comfort.

  “And this is Mrs. Gloriana’s profession?” I asked. “I mean, she does it for a living?”

  “Oh yes. But don’t get the idea that it’s some kind of a con game. Hertha is licensed and bonded.”

  “But she does charge for her services?” I said gently.

  “Of course she does,” Mrs. Gillsworth said. “And why shouldn’t she, since her talents are so special. But her fees are quite reasonable and she takes credit cards.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And these meetings—sort of like séances, are they?”

  “Well...” she said hesitantly, “somewhat. But there are no blobs of protoplasm floating in space or weird noises. We meet in a well-lighted room, sit in a circle around a table, and hold hands. To increase our psychic power, you see. Then Mrs. Gloriana tries to communicate with the other world. Her contact is a Mayan shaman who passed over hundreds of years ago. His name is Xatyl. Through him, Hertha attempts to reach people her clients wish to question. Sometimes they are famous people but usually they are relatives. I’ve spoken to my great-grandmother many times.”

  “And communication with the, ah, deceased is made through Xatyl via Mrs. Gloriana?”

  “Not always,” Lydia said sharply. “The contact fails as often as it succeeds. Sometimes the departed person requested is not available, or the line of communication is too faint to produce results because our combined psychic power that particular night is simply not strong enough to allow Mrs. Gloriana to get through to Xatyl.”

  “Incredible,” I said, shaking my head, “and positively entrancing. Does Mrs. Gloriana provide private, uh, consultations?”

  “Of course she does. But she’ll warn you that the chances of a successful contact are less for an individual than for a group. Because the psychic power is usually not sufficient, you see. A gathering of believers with linked hands generates much more energy than one person.”

  That seemed reasonable to me. If you accepted the original premise, it even sounded logical.

  “Tell me something else,” I said, “and this is just idle curiosity on my part, but has your husband ever attended the meetings with Mrs. Gloriana?”

  “Oh, Rod came to three or four,” she said lightly, “but then he just drifted away. He never scoffed, but he never accepted the concept wholeheartedly. Rod’s interests are more intellectual than spiritual. And he’s uncomfortable in groups. He needs solitude to create.”

  “I can appreciate that,” I said. “He has his work to do, and very important work it is, too.” I stood up. “Mrs. Gillsworth, I thank you for your time and hospitality.”

  “You intend to continue your investigation?”

  I nodded. “I can’t promise success, but I must try.”

  “I haven’t been much help, have I?”

  “I’m sure you’ve provided all the information you possibly can.”

  “And you promise not to take this ridiculous matter to the police? It’s really of no consequence.”

  I made no reply. She conducted me back through the house, then suddenly stopped and put a hand on my arm.

  “Wait just a moment, Archy,” she said. “I must show you something I brought back from Rhode Island for Rod’s collection. I found it at a country shop near Woonsocket.”

  Roderick Gillsworth collected antique canes and walking sticks. In fact, collecting was an absolute frenzy in Palm Beach, and the more outré the collectibles, the stronger the passion. I myself had succumbed to the madness and was buying up every crystal shotglass I could find. The star of my collection was an etched Lalique jigger.

  I had seen Gillsworth’s collection before, and he had some beauts, including several sword canes, one that concealed a dagger, a walking stick that held a half-pint of whiskey, and a formal evening stick which, when one peered through a small hole in the handle, revealed a tiny photo of a billowy maiden wearing nothing but long black stockings and a coy smile.

  The cane Lydia had brought her husband from Rhode Island was a polished, tapered cone of ash topped with a heavy head of sterling silver in the shape of a unicorn. It really was an impressive piece, probably about two hundred years old, and I longed to know what it cost—but didn’t ask, of course.

  I complimented Mrs. Gillsworth on her purchase and thanked her again for the pink lemonade. But I was not to escape so easily. She brought me that Eyelash begonia intended for my mother. I thought it should have been called a Godzilla begonia but thanked Lydia once again and lugged it out to the Miata. I drove home slowly, mulling over everything I had just learned. I am an amateur muller. I get that from my father, who is a world-class muller and has been known to ponder for two minutes trying to decide whether or not to salt a radish.

  Mother was still absent when I arrived home so I left the monstrous plant on her workbench in the potting shed. I had plenty of time for my ocean swim before the family cocktail hour. It was while plowing through the murky sea that I had an idea which was absolutely bonkers. What if Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth had written the poison-pen letter herself and mailed it to herself?

  I could think of several possible motives. (1) She wished to elicit sympathy from friends. (2) She wanted attention from her husband, who apparently spent most of his time cuddling with his muse. (3) She yearned for a little drama in a life that had become hopelessly humdrum. (4) She herself was around the bend and was now subject to irrational impulses.

  A case could be made for suspecting Lydia as the culprit, but it fell apart when I remembered the similarly printed ransom note delivered to the Willigans. I doubted if Mrs. Gillsworth even knew the Willigans, and it was absurd to believe her guilty of swiping their cat.

  I showered and dressed carefully for my date with Meg Trumble. I was in a Bulldog Drummond mood and wore total black: raw silk jacket, jeans, turtleneck, socks, and loafers. My father took one look, elevated an eyebrow, and commented, “You look like a shadow.” But of course his taste in male attire is stultified. He thinks my tasseled loafers are twee. I think of him as the Prince of Wingtips.

  “We sipped our martinis, and mother told us how delighted she was with Lydia Gillsworth’s gift. The pater asked offhandedly if I had made any progress with the “Gillsworth matter,” and I said I had not.

  “And the Willigans’ missing cat?” he added.

  “Negative,” I said, and was tempted to tell him I was convinced the two cases were connected. But I didn’t, fearing he might have me certified.

  We finished our drinks, and my parents went downstairs to dine. I went out to the Miata and sat long enough to smoke my third English Oval of the day, knowing that in Meg Trumble’s company I would have to forgo nicotine.

  Then
I drove down to the Willigans’ home, ruminating on where I could take Meg for dinner. It had to be someplace so distant that my presence with another woman might escape the notice of Consuela Garcia’s corps of informants. I finally decided to make the journey to Fort Lauderdale.

  I was familiar with W. Scott’s warning about tangled webs. But I wasn’t really practicing to deceive Connie.

  Was I?

  Chapter 4

  I HAD SUGGESTED TO Meg that she dress informally and so she did: Bermuda shorts of blue silk, a tank top the color of sea foam, and a jacket in a muted shepherd’s plaid that she wore over her shoulders cape-fashion. All undoubtedly informal, but so elegantly slender was her figure and so erect her carriage that she made even casual duds look as formal as a Givenchy ball gown.

  “Smashing,” I told her. “Have you ever modeled?”

  “I tried once,” she said, “but I don’t photograph well. I come out all edges and sharp corners. The photographer said I looked like a stack of slates.”

  “Stupid photographer,” I grumbled. “He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata.”

  Meg laughed. “Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?”

  “It’s a splendid classic dish,” I said.

  I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?

  “Couldn’t care less,” she said. “I’m so happy to get out of that house.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Problems?”

  “My brother-in-law,” she said. “I can’t stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don’t know how my sister puts up with him.”

  “Maybe she loves him,” I said mildly.

  Meg hooted. “Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she’s paying her dues. I’d never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I’d clean his clock.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “See that you do,” she said, so solemnly that I couldn’t decide if she was serious or putting me on.

  I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town & Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.

  “I think it’s going to rain,” Meg said.

  “It wouldn’t dare,” I said. “I planned a romantic evening, and it’s hard to be romantic when you’re sopping wet.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.

  Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn’t think it would last long—summer squalls rarely did—but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.

  “We can stop and put up the top,” I told Meg, “and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?”

  “You call it,” she said.

  So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.

  “Good choice,” Meg said. “I love chili.”

  Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn’t care if the Miata floated away in our absence.

  It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.

  The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.

  The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.

  “Tonight’s spassel,” he announced proudly, “is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver’ nice.”

  “Mild?” I asked him.

  “You crazy?” he said.

  But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that’s what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.

  I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel’s and served with sautéed peppers and onions and a lot of other swell stuff, all inflammatory. Meg asked for a diet cola and I ordered a bottle of Corona beer.

  “And a stomach pump for two,” I was tempted to add, but didn’t.

  I shall not attempt to describe the actual consumption of that combustible meal. Suffice to say that it was accompanied by gasps, brow-mopping, and frequent gulps of cold diet cola and Mexican beer. Our tonsils did not actually shriek in protest, but my stomach began to glow with an incandescent heat, presaging an insomniac night.

  Of more importance to this narrative was our conversation that evening, for it included tidbits of information that would have aided my investigation—if I had had the wit to recognize clues in Meg’s casual remarks. But I was too busy gnawing fried frog legs and swilling Corona to pay close attention. Do you suppose S. Holmes ever neglected a case because Mrs. Hudson brought him a plump mutton chop?

  “Good news,” Meg said, working on her chili. “I found an apartment. I already have the keys. I’m moving in tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful!” I said. “Where?”

  “Riviera Beach. It’s just a small place and I only have it till October. But the off-season rent is reasonable. I’m going to fly back to Pennsylvania, pack up more clothes and things, and then drive my Toyota back. Now I’ll be able to stop freeloading on my sister.”

  “And get away from Harry,” I added.

  “That’s the best part,” she said. “I’ll still see Laverne, of course, but not in that house.”

  We discussed her hope of becoming a personal trainer to Palm Beach residents seeking eternal youth through diet and exercise. I offered to supply a list of friends and acquaintances who might be potential clients.

  “That would be a big help, Archy,” she said gratefully. “Laverne has already given me some names, but I need more prospects. How about you?”

  I laughed. “I’m really not the disciplined grunt-and-groan type. I try to do a daily swim, as I told you, and I play tennis and golf occasionally. I admit I’m hardly in fighting trim, but regular workouts are not my cup of sake. Too lazy, I suspect. I’m surprised you’re willing to accept men as clients. I thought you’d limit your efforts to reducing female flab.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “I’ll be happy to train men. As a matter of fact, Harry Willigan has already volunteered to be my first client. But he’s not interested in improving his health and fitness.”

  “No?” I said. “What is he interested in?”

  I knew the answer to that, and it was just what I expected.

  “Me,” Meg Trumble said.

  Our entrees arrived and we plunged in.

  “I hope your sister isn’t aware of her husband’s interest,” I said.

  “Of course she’s aware. She trusts me, but secretly she’ll probably be relieved to have me out of the house.”


  That amused me. “If there was anything going on between you and Harry, your moving out wouldn’t end it. Facilitate it more likely.”

  “Well, there’s nothing going on,” she said crossly, “and never will be. I told you what I think of that man.”

  “I share your opinion,” I assured her. “He can be grim. It’s amazing that Laverne puts up with his nonsense.”

  “Oh, she ignores him as much as she can. And she has other interests. She’s taking tennis lessons, and she’s very active in local clubs. She’s at meetings two or three nights a week. But enough about Laverne and Harry. How are you making out on finding Peaches?”

  “Not very well,” I said. “No progress at all, except for one oddity that needs looking into.”

  I thought it would do no harm to tell her about the missing cat carrier. I thought it would surprise her, and that she’d immediately guess what I had already assumed: someone in the Willigan household had stuffed Peaches in the carrier and hauled her away.

  But Meg kept her head lowered, picked through the jambalaya for shrimp, and said only: “Oh, I’m sure it will turn up somewhere around the house.”

  We finished our dinner with scoops of lemon sherbet, which helped diminish the conflagration—but not enough.

  “Everything hokay?” the mustachioed waiter asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “If you don’t mind a charred epiglottis.”

  I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.

  “Yummy dinner,” Meg said. “Thank you. I really enjoyed it.”

  “We must dine there again,” I said. “Perhaps after the turn of the century.”

  The drive home was a delight. We sang “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No Mo’” and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do “Always,” and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.