The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I stared at him. “Al, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Sure you would,” I said. “Look, I know this is your case. You wear the badge; you’re the law. You can order me to butt out. You’re entitled to do that. But I’m telling you now I’m not going to do it. That woman meant a lot to me. So no matter what you say, I’m going to keep digging.”

  He looked at me strangely. “That’s okay,” he said. “You stay on it. Just keep me up to speed—all right?”

  We finished our coffee, went to the study where Rogoff collected the letters. When we came out into the hallway mother was waiting with a small overnight bag.

  “I packed father’s pajamas, robe, and slippers,” she said. “And his shaving gear and a fresh shirt for tomorrow morning.”

  I’ll never cease to be amazed at how practical women can be, even under stress. I imagine that when the flood came and Noah was herding everyone aboard the ark, Mrs. Noah plucked at his sleeve and asked, “Did you remember to empty the pan under the icebox?”

  Rogoff took the little valise and promised to deliver it to father. This time I drove the open Miata; after inhaling Al’s cigar, I wanted fresh air—lots of it.

  We didn’t speak on the trip back to the Gillsworth home. But when we arrived and the sergeant climbed out, he paused a moment.

  “Archy, I know Roderick Gillsworth was your father’s client. Was Mrs. Gillsworth?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “I hear she had plenty of money. Did your father draw her will?”

  “I don’t know, Al. Probably.”

  “Who inherits?”

  “I don’t know that either. Ask my father.”

  Then I drove back to the McNally fiefdom for the final time that night. I feared I’d have trouble getting to sleep but I didn’t. First I recited a brief prayer for a noble lady. I consider myself an agnostic—but just in case...

  The weekend had started badly and didn’t improve. The weather was no help; Saturday morning was dull and logy—just the way I felt when I awoke. I had an OJ, cinnamon bun, and coffee with Jamie Olson in the kitchen. He was wrapping a fresh Band-Aid around the cracked stem of his ancient briar. I had given him a gold-banded Dupont for Christmas, but he saved it for Sunday smoking.

  “Heard about Mrs. Gillsworth,” he said in a low voice. “Too bad.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was in the papers?”

  “Uh-huh. And on the TV.”

  “Jamie, if you hear anything about enemies she may have had, or maybe an argument with someone, I wish you’d let me know.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You asked about that Mrs. Willigan.”

  “So I did. What about her?”

  “She’s got a guy.”

  “Oh?” I said and took a gulp of my coffee. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  “Know who it is?”

  “Nope. No one knows.”

  “Then how do they know she’s got a guy?”

  He looked up at me. “The women know,” he said, and added sagely, “They always know.”

  “I guess,” I said and sighed.

  I went back upstairs to work on my journal. It was a slow, gloomy morning, and I couldn’t seem to get the McNally noodle into gear. I was stuck in neutral and all I could think about was pink lemonade and strawflowers in twig baskets. It wasn’t the first time a friend had died, but never so suddenly and so violently. It made me want to telephone every friend I had and say, “I love you.” I knew that was goofy but that’s the way I felt.

  My phone rang about ten-thirty, and I thought it would be my father asking me to come fetch him. But it was Leon Medallion, the Willigans’ houseman.

  “Hiya, Mr. McNally,” he said breezily. “Soupy weather—right?”

  “Right,” I said. “What’s up, Leon?”

  “Remember asking me about the cat carrier? Well, I found it. It was in the utility room, where it’s supposed to be. I guess I missed it the first time I looked.”

  “That’s probably what happened,” I said. “Thanks for calling, Leon.”

  I hung up and the old cerebrum slipped into gear. Not for a moment did I think Medallion had missed spotting Peaches’ carrier on his first search of the utility room. Then it was gone. Now it had been returned. Puzzling. And even more intriguing was the fact that I had mentioned the carrier’s disappearance to Meg Trumble.

  I was still diddling with that nonplus when my phone rang again. This time it was my father, announcing he was ready to return. He specifically requested that I drive the Lexus. He didn’t have to say that; I knew very well he thought riding in my red two-seater dented his dignity.

  He was waiting outside when I arrived at the Gillsworth home. He placed his overnight bag in the back and motioned for me to slide over to the passenger side so he could get behind the wheel. He thinks I drive too fast. But then he thinks motorized wheelchairs go too fast.

  “I’m going to drop you at home, Archy,” he said, “and then go to the office. Gillsworth wants me to inform his wife’s relatives.”

  “Shouldn’t he be doing that, sir?”

  “He should but he’s still considerably shaken and asked me to handle it. Not a task I welcome. Also, I want to review Lydia’s will.”

  “Did Sergeant Rogoff question you about that?”

  “He did, and Gillsworth had no objection to full disclosure. To the best of my recollection, she left several specific bequests to nieces, nephews, an aunt, and her alma mater. But the bulk of her estate goes to her husband.”

  “Hefty?” I asked”.

  “Quite,” he said. “I told the sergeant all that, and he asked for the names and addresses of the beneficiaries. He is a very thorough man.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed, “he is that. He wants me to continue my investigation of the poison-pen letters.”

  “So he said. I also want you to, Archy. Lydia was a fine lady, and I would not care to see this crime go unsolved or her murderer unpunished.”

  “Nor would I, father. Do you know where Rogoff is now?”

  “He came to the Gillsworth home early this morning. He was driving his pickup, and with Roderick’s permission he loaded the grandfather clock into the truck and drove off with it.”

  “The clock that was tipped over during the assault?”

  “Yes.”

  “What on earth does Al want with that?”

  “He didn’t say. Here we are. Please take my overnight bag inside and tell mother I’ll be at the office. I’ll phone her later.”

  I followed his instructions and then went into his study and used his phone to call the Glorianas’ office. I wasn’t certain mediums worked on Saturdays, but Frank Gloriana answered, and I identified myself.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. McNally,” he said. “About the missing cat... I intended to contact you on Monday.”

  “Then you have news for me?”

  “My wife has news,” he corrected me. “When might you be able to stop by?”

  “Now,” I said. “If that’s all right.”

  “Just let me check the appointment book,” he said so smoothly that I was convinced he was scamming me again. “Well, I see we have a very busy afternoon ahead of us, but if you can arrive within the hour I’m sure we can fit you in.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, playing Uriah Heep. “I’ll be there.”

  Mother wanted me to stay for lunch, but I had no appetite at all. And besides, I had recently noted that the waistbands of my slacks were shrinking alarmingly. So I went upstairs and pulled on a silver-gray Ultrasuede sport jacket over my violet polo shirt. Then I went outside and jumped into the Miata for the trip to West Palm Beach.

  As I’ve mentioned before, basically I’m a cheery sort of chap, and that black cloud that had been hovering over my head since I heard of Lydia Gillsworth’s death began to lift as I drove westward. That doesn’t mean I ceased to mourn, of course, or that I was any less determined
to avenge her. But the world continues to spin, and one must continue to spin along with it or step off. And I wasn’t ready to do that.

  Actually, I hadn’t called the Glorianas to inquire about Peaches. The fate of that miserable felid was small spuds compared to finding the killer of Lydia Gillsworth. But I reckoned the cat’s disappearance would serve as a good excuse for seeing the medium again. Not only did I want to learn more about her relationship to Lydia, but the woman herself fascinated me.

  When I entered the Glorianas’ suite there was no crush of clients Frank had forecast during our phone conversation. In fact, he was alone in that mauve and aqua office, listlessly turning the pages of a magazine and looking bored out of his skull. He glanced up as I came in, put the magazine aside, and rose to greet me.

  He was wearing an Armani double-breasted in taupe gabardine and sporting a regimental tie. It happened to be the stripe of the Royal Glasgow Yeomanry, a regiment of which I doubted he had ever been a member. We shook hands, and he reached to stroke the sleeve of my Ultrasuede jacket.

  “Nice,” he said. “Would you mind telling me what it cost?”

  I knew then he was no gentleman. “I don’t know,” I said. “It was a gift.” I think he guessed I was lying, but I didn’t care.

  He nodded and turned back to his desk. “I’ll tell Hertha you’re here,” he said, then paused with his hand on the phone. “We heard about Lydia Gillsworth,” he said. “Dreadful thing.”

  “Yes,” I said, “wasn’t it.”

  He pushed a button, spoke softly into the phone, and hung up. “She’s ready for you,” he reported. “This way, please.”

  He again conducted me down the hallway to his wife’s chamber. There were two other closed doors in that corridor but they were unmarked, and I had no idea what lay behind them. Gloriana ushered me into the medium’s sanctum, then withdrew.

  She was standing alongside her high-backed chair, and when the door closed she came floating forward to place her hands on my shoulders. I marveled at how petite she was: a very small wraith indeed, and seemingly fragile.

  “Lydia has gone over,” she said in that muted voice, “and you are desolated.”

  “It was a shock,” I agreed. “I still find it hard to accept.”

  She nodded, led me to her wing chair, and insisted I sit there. She remained standing before me. I thought it an awkward position for a conversation, but it didn’t seem to trouble her.

  “Did Lydia tell you how she felt about physical death?” she asked.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Then you must believe the spirit we both knew still exists. This is not the only world, you know.”

  She said that with such conviction that I could not doubt her sincerity. But I thought her a world-class fruitcake. Strangely, her feyness made her more attractive to me. I’m a foursquare hedonist myself, but I’ve always been intrigued by otherworldly types. They live as if they’re collecting Frequent Flier points for a one-way trip to the hereafter.

  “Mrs. Gloriana,” I started, but she held up a soft palm.

  “Please,” she said, “call me Hertha. I feel a great kinship with you. May I call you Archy?”

  “Of course,” I said, pleased. “Hertha, Lydia promised to bring me to one of your séances. In fact, she suggested the meeting last evening, but I was unable to make it. Perhaps if I had, things might have turned out differently.”

  “No,” she said, staring at me, “nothing would have changed. Do not blame yourself.”

  I hadn’t, but it was sweet of her to comfort me.

  “I would still like to attend one of your gatherings. Would that be possible?”

  She was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I was to be rejected.

  “There will be no more sessions until October, Archy,” she said finally. “So many people have gone north for the summer.”

  The off-season seemed a curious reason to halt spirit communication, but I supposed the medium charged per communicant, so there was a good commercial justification for it.

  “Do you ever hold private séances?” I asked. “Could that be arranged?”

  She turned and began to move back and forth, hugging her elbows. She was wearing a flowered dress of some gossamer stuff, and it wafted as she paced.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But the chances of success would be lessened. The psychic power of a circle of believers is naturally much stronger than that of an individual. I could ask Frank and his mother to join us. Would that be acceptable?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you have a friend or two you could bring along? Individuals who are sympathetic to spiritualism even if they are not yet firm believers?”

  “Yes, I think I could provide at least one person like that.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll plan a session and let you know when arrangements have been finalized.”

  Her language surprised me. She spoke as if she was scheduling a corporate teleconference.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it. And now about Peaches... Have you received any messages on the cat’s whereabouts?”

  She stopped moving and turned to face me. But instead of the intent gaze I expected, her eyes slowly closed.

  “Faint and indistinct,” she said, and now her wispy voice took on what I can only call a singsong quality. “The cat is alive and healthy. I see it in a very plain room. It’s just a single room with bed, dresser, small desk, armchair.” Her eyes opened. “I am sorry. Archy, but that is all I have. I cannot see where this room is located. But if you wish, I will keep trying.”

  “Please do,” I urged. “I think you’ve done wonders so far.”

  She didn’t reply, and I had nothing more to ask about Peaches. I rose, moved toward the door, then paused.

  “Hertha,” I said, “when we have our séance, do you think we could contact Lydia Gillsworth?”

  She looked at me gravely. “It might be possible.”

  “Could we ask her the name of her murderer?”

  “Yes,” she said, “we will ask.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Please let me know when the session will be held.”

  She nodded and then moved close to me. Very close. She lifted up on her toes and kissed me full on the mouth. It was not a kiss of commiseration between two fellow mourners. It was a physical kiss, sensual and stirring. Her lips were soft and warm. So much for my vision of her as a wraith. Ghosts don’t kiss, do they?

  She pulled away and must have seen my shock, for she smiled, opened the door, and gently pushed me out.

  There was no one in the reception room. The place seemed deserted.

  I drove home in a State of Utter: utterly startled, utterly confused, utterly flummoxed. I confess it wasn’t the catnapping or murder that inspired my mental muddle; it was that carnal kiss bestowed by Ms. Gloriana. What did she mean by it? Kisses usually have meaning, do they not? They can signal a promise, serve as a lure, demonstrate a passion—any number of swell things.

  Hertha’s kiss was an enigma I could not solve. It had to be significant, but where the import lay I could not decide. As you may have guessed, my ego is not fragile, but I could not believe the lady had suddenly been overwhelmed by my beauty and brio. I am no Godzilla, but I am no young Tyrone Power either. I mean women are not repelled by my appearance, but neither do they swoon in my presence or feel an irresistible desire to nibble my lips.

  I was still trying to puzzle out the mystery of that inexplicable kiss when I arrived home just as my father was garaging his Lexus. We paced back and forth together on the graveled turnaround before going inside.

  “Have you heard from Sergeant Rogoff?” he asked.

  “No, father. I expect he’s busy.”

  “Have you made any progress?”

  I was tempted to reply, “Yes, sir. I was smooched by a medium.” But I said, “No, sir. Nothing of importance. Was Lydia’s will as you remembered it?”

  He nodded. “Roderick is t
he main beneficiary—which causes a problem. We also drew his will: a simple document since his estate is hardly extensive. He leaves what little cash he has and his personal effects to his wife. He bequeaths the original manuscripts of his poems to the Library of Congress.”

  “They’ll be delighted,” I said.

  “Don’t be nasty, Archy,” he said sharply. “You and I may feel they are nonsense; others may see considerable literary merit.”

  I said nothing.

  “The problem,” my father continued, “is that Roderick is now a wealthy man. It is imperative that he revise his will as soon as possible. As things stand, the bulk of Lydia’s estate is in a kind of legal limbo. If Gillsworth should die before dictating a new will, the estate might be tied up for years. I’d like to suggest to him that a new testament is necessary, but the man is so emotionally disturbed at the moment that I hesitate to broach the subject. I invited him to dine with us tonight, but he begged off. Too upset, he said. That’s understandable.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I don’t suppose he’s quite realized the enormity of what’s happened. Do you think he is aware of his wife’s will?”

  “I know he is. He was present when I discussed the terms with Lydia. Let’s go in now. Considering recent events, I think we might schedule the family cocktail hour a bit earlier today.”

  “Second the motion,” I said.

  But despite the preprandial drinks and a fine dinner (duckling with cherry sauce), it was a lugubrious evening. Conversation faltered; the death of our neighbor seemed to make a mockery of good food and excellent wine. I think we all felt guilty, as if we should be fasting to show respect. Ridiculous, of course. An Irish wake makes much more sense.

  After dinner I retired to my nest and worked on my journal awhile. Then I tried to read those books on spiritualism Mrs. Gillsworth had lent me. Heavy going. But I began to understand the basic appeal of the faith. It does promise a kind of immortality, does it not? But then so does every other religious belief, offering heaven, paradise, nirvana—whatever one wishes to call it.