“Sorry,” I said.
“Not your fault,” she said, sniffling. “It’s memories. I’ll get over it.”
“Of course you will,” I said, not all that sure.
But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.
“Hey, Archy,” she said, “would you like to see it? It’s not too late, is it?”
“Not late at all,” I said, “and I’d like to see it.”
It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf. It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.
Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia’s espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.
I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.
“Of course it’s a little bleak right now,” Meg admitted. “It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there’s even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said. “Is the phone connected?”
“Not yet. I’ll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you’ll come over for dinner.”
“Love to,” I said. “We’ll have a housewarming.”
She looked at me speculatively. “We could have one right now,” she said. “It’s a king-sized bed.”
“I like to be treated royally,” I said.
I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.
I needn’t have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.
It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg’s fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.
Depleted (temporarily), we stared at each other with pleased recognition: two strangers who had discovered they spoke the same language.
“And you said you weren’t in fighting trim,” Meg scoffed. “You didn’t mention loving trim.”
“It was your doing,” I told her. “Your beauty and joie de vivre. I rose to the occasion and, with your assistance, shall do so again.”
“By all means,” she said, moving closer.
It was a bit after midnight when we departed from Riviera Beach and headed homeward. We had tarried in her new apartment long enough to bathe together in a delightfully cramped shower stall, using a sliver of soap as thin as a potato chip. The towels had all the absorbency of alençon, but by that time nothing could lessen our beaming felicity.
I pulled into the driveway of the Willigan estate, crawled out of the car, and went around to open Meg’s door. I held out a hand to assist her.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Trumble,” I said, completely po-faced. “The pleasure of your company at dinner was exceeded only by the kindness of your hospitality.”
“Thank you, Mr. McNally,” she said, just as deadpan. “I trust our paths may cross again.”
“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” I said, and then we both dissolved and kissed. Lingeringly.
Science defines a kiss as the close juxtaposition of two or more orbicular muscles in a state of contraction. Science has a lot to learn.
I drove home in an ecstatic mood, knowing there would be no insomnia and no nightmares that night. And there weren’t. I slept the sleep of the just.
Just exhausted and just content.
I awoke the next morning infected with a galloping case of joie de vivre I had obviously contracted from my companion of the night before. At breakfast, mother commented on my good humor and sought the cause.
“Did you have a pleasant dinner engagement, Archy?” she asked.
“Very.”
“Connie?”
“No,” I said. “Margaret Trumble, sister of Laverne Willigan. I think I may be in love.”
My father uttered a single syllable that sounded suspiciously like “Humph.”
I told him I would not be driving to the office with him that morning, as I sometimes did, but would be busy with discreet inquiries.
“Oh?” he said. “The cat?”
“No, sir,” I said. “The Gillsworth letter.”
He nodded. “The more important of the two. Do you have a lead?”
“Anorexic,” I said. “But it’s all I have.”
He left for the office, mother went out to the greenhouse to bid good morning to her begonias, and I went upstairs to my den. I brought my journal up to date, which didn’t take long, and then made a phone call.
“Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s residence,” she recited. “Consuela Garcia speaking.”
“Hi, Connie,” I said. “Archy. How about lunch today?”
“Love to,” she said, “but can’t. I’m working on the madam’s Fourth of July bash, and I’m having lunch with the fireworks people.”
Her friendly tone was gratifying. Obviously she had not been informed of my dinner date the previous night. And since we had agreed on an open relationship, I saw absolutely no reason to feel guilty. So why did I feel guilty?
“Another time then,” I said breezily.
“When?” she asked.
Meg Trumble had said she planned to fly back to King of Prussia, so that romance would be on hold until her return. It seemed an ideal time to reassure Connie that our attachment remained intact.
“Dinner tonight?” I suggested.
“You’re on,” she said. “How about Tex-Mex food?” For a brief instant my world tottered, but then she went on: “There’s a new place in Lantana that’s supposed to have great chili. Want to try it?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said bravely. “Pick you up around seven?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Oh, Connie, one more thing: Did you ever hear of a woman named Mrs. Hertha Gloriana?”
“The séance lady? Of course I’ve heard of her. A lot of people swear she’s a whiz.”
“You don’t happen to have her address and phone number, do you?”
“No, but I think she’s listed in the Yellow Pages.”
“The Yellow Pages!”
“Sure. Under Psychic Advisers. Why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It just seems odd to have Psychic Advisers listed in the Yellow Pages. I mean, if you had a tumor, would you look in the Yellow Pages for Brain Surgeons?”
“You know, Archy,” she said, “you have a freaky sense of humor.”
“I guess,” I said, sighing. “Thanks, Connie. See you tonight.”
I went downstairs to my father’s study. All his telephone directories had leather slipcovers. Stodgy? I agree. But you must understand that, to my knowledge, he wa
s the only man in South Florida who wore rubbers when it rained.
There she was in the Yellow Pages, listed under Psychic Advisers: a two-column display ad that stated Mrs. Hertha Gloriana was licensed, bonded, provided “advice and direction,” and accepted all major credit cards. It didn’t say if she was a Freudian, Jungian, or W. C. Fieldsian.
I decided a personal encounter was preferable to a phone call, so I boarded the Miata and headed for West Palm Beach. That city has seven times the population of the Town of Palm Beach and, as this is written, is in the process of shedding its image as a poor country cousin and enjoying a long overdue rejuvenation.
Mrs. Hertha Gloriana’s address was on Clematis Street in an area that was now awash with new office buildings, pricey boutiques, and quaint shoppes of all kinds. It would never be Worth Avenue, of course, but what will?
I had imagined the haunt of a medium would resemble one of those Dracula castles in the cartoons of Charles Addams. But Mrs. Gloriana had a fourth-floor suite in one of the new glass and stainless steel buildings.
Her office was impressive, the large, airy waiting room decorated in mauve and aqua. There was a man seated behind the receptionist’s desk. He was idly leafing through a copy of Vanity Fair and didn’t look up when I entered. He was about my age, a handsome devil in a dark, saturnine kind of way. And he was dressed beautifully. As you may have gathered, I fancy myself something of a Beau Brummell, but this dude made me look like Bozo the Clown.
He was wearing a suit of dove gray flannel that didn’t come off a plain pipe rack. His shirt had white French cuffs and a collar wide enough to accommodate a knitted black silk cravat tied in a Windsor knot. The body of the shirt was striped horizontally with lavender bands. What a dandy he was!
He finally looked up. “May I help you, sir?” he inquired pleasantly enough.
“May I speak to Mrs. Gloriana, please.”
He smiled. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Afraid not.”
“Mrs. Gloriana prefers appointments. Would you care to set a date?”
“No possibility of seeing her now?”
He pursed his lips and appeared to be giving my request serious consideration. “Mrs. Gloriana is busy with a client at the moment. May I ask how you learned of us?”
I didn’t believe mentioning the Yellow Pages would cut much ice. A personal recommendation might prove more efficacious.
“Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth suggested I consult Mrs. Gloriana.”
He brightened immediately. “Mrs. Gillsworth. Of course. A charming lady.”
He stood and came from behind the desk. He was a tall one and lean as a fencer. He was wearing, I noted, a heavy ring of Navaho silver set with a large turquoise in the expensive sky-blue shade.
“I’m Frank Gloriana,” he said. “Hertha’s husband.”
We shook hands. He had a hard, bony grip.
“Archibald McNally,” I said. “Happy to meet you.”
He stared at me a moment. “McNally?” he repeated. “The law firm across the lake?”
“That’s correct,” I said. “McNally and Son. I’m the son.”
His smile was cool. “I’ve heard excellent things about your outfit. As a matter of fact, I may need some legal advice shortly, and McNally and Son heads a short list of possibles I have drawn up.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “We have a number of specialized divisions, and I’m sure we can provide the services you require.”
“I’m sure you can. Your visit here today—it concerns some legal business of your firm?”
“Oh no,” I said hastily, “nothing like that. It’s a personal thing, and I’m afraid you’ll find it rather silly.”
“Try me,” he said.
“A close friend has lost his cat,” I said earnestly. “Lost, strayed, or stolen. He really loves the animal and has been worried sick since it’s been gone. He’s advertised but with no results. It occurred to me that Mrs. Gloriana might possibly be able to give me some hints or suggestions as to where his pet can be found.”
“It’s possible,” he said immediately. “Hertha has had remarkable success in visualizing where missing objects or people might be located. I don’t believe she’s ever worked on an animal before, but I see no reason why she couldn’t. She once enabled a builder in Atlanta to find his missing bulldozer.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Where was it?”
“In his foreman’s garage,” Gloriana said with a slightly sardonic smile. “Listen, why don’t you make yourself comfortable out here, and I’ll go in and see how much longer Hertha will be. Perhaps she’ll have time to fit you in before her next appointment.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said.
He departed through an inner door, closing it carefully behind him. I flopped into a mauve-and-aqua armchair alongside a glass cocktail table. It held a selection of thin books and magazines, most of them dealing with astrology, channeling, crystals, mysticism, and occult philosophies of the Far East.
There was also a stack of fliers, advertising circulars that looked as if they had been designed for mailing. A small sign read TAKE ONE—so I did. It stated that Mrs. Hertha Gloriana, a licensed and bonded adviser, would prepare a “psychic profile” for anyone providing her with the exact time, date, and place of birth, names of parents and grandparents, and a snapshot or personal possession of the sender.
The cost of the psychic profile was a hundred dollars in U.S. funds, payable in advance.
I was stuffing a copy of this intriguing offer into my jacket pocket when Frank Gloriana returned. He saw at once what I was doing.
“Our new project,” he said. “What do you think?”
“It makes no promises,” I observed.
“Oh no,” he said quickly, “no promises. The profile merely analyzes and suggests directions the subject might wish to take that could possibly enrich their lives. It is a serious attempt to provide psychic counseling. I assure you it is not a bunko scheme.”
“I never thought for a moment it was.”
“We’ve just started,” he said, “but the response to newspaper and magazine ads has encouraged me to plan a direct-mail campaign. I think it could turn out to be a very successful enterprise, and that’s the reason I may need legal advice on setting up a separate business venture.” He paused and laughed: a thin, toneless ha-ha. “But you didn’t come to listen to my business problems. Hertha is available now. Follow me, please.”
He led the way through that inner portal, down a short hallway to an interior room. The door stood open, and I could see the chamber was furnished more as a residential sitting room than a commercial office. A young woman—younger than Frank Gloriana by at least five years, I guessed—rose from a high-backed mauve-and-aqua wing chair as we entered.
“Dear,” he said, “this gentleman is Archibald McNally. Mr. McNally, my wife, Hertha. I’ll leave you two alone.”
And he left us, closing the hall door softly behind him.
She floated to me and offered a hand so soft and tender I feared I might crush it in my sinewy paw.
“Mrs. Gloriana,” I said, “this is a pleasure.”
I had always imagined a medium as an older woman, heavy through the bosom and hips, with dyed and frizzled hair, caked makeup, a frowsy appearance, and perhaps the overwhelming scent of patchouli. In this case, all wrong. Hertha Gloriana was, if you will pardon the wordplay, a very rare medium indeed.
She was definitely a Pre-Raphaelite type, with a nimbus of chestnut hair, skin as white and smooth as wax, and features so classic they might have graced a coin. There was something ethereal in her beauty, I thought, and something delicate and unworldly in her manner. She moved slowly with a languid ease, and if she had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. She was so insubstantial, you see.
“Mr. McNally,” she murmured, voice low and breathy, “Frank has told me why you are here. Perhaps I can help. Perhaps. But I cannot promise. You do unde
rstand that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said, trying to determine the exact shade of her eyes. Periwinkle blue, I finally decided. “I would appreciate your trying.”
“What is the cat’s name?”
“Peaches.”
“Female?”
“Yes.”
“What breed?”
“Persian, I believe.”
“Describe her, please.”
“Plump. Silver-gray with tabby markings.”
“How old?”
“I don’t really know,” I confessed. “Perhaps five years.”
“Affectionate?”
“Not really. Not with strangers.”
She nodded. “Please leave your address and phone number with my husband. If I’m able to do anything, he will contact you.”
Apparently our consultation was at an end, but she continued to stare at me. Our eyes were locked, and her gaze was so intent and unblinking that I wanted to look away but could not.
She came close. She was wearing a light floral scent. She put a hand gently on my arm. “You are troubled,” she said.
“About the cat? Well, yes. This close friend of mine is very—”
“No,” she interrupted, “not the cat. You, personally, are troubled.”
“Not really,” I said, my short laugh sounding nervous to me. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She continued to stare. “Two women, two loves,” she said. “That is troubling you.”
I wasn’t impressed; it smacked too much of a fortune teller on a carnival midway. Many men—at least many I know—are frequently involved with more than one woman. It’s hardly a unique situation, is it? Mrs. Gloriana was not demonstrating any special clairvoyant talent.
She stepped back and smiled: a tremulous smile, very vulnerable. “Do not worry,” she told me. “The problem will eventually be solved.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
“But not by you,” she added. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. McNally. I’ll do my best to get a message about Peaches.”
“Thank you,” I said and-turned away. I was at the door when I looked back. I hadn’t heard her move but she was seated again in the high-backed wing chair, regarding me gravely. I made up my mind.
The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1 Page 30
