McNally's Trial (11 page)

I was startled and tried not to show it. I was certain poppa hadn’t said a word about my duties to Mr. Whitcomb, and I couldn’t recall mentioning them to him, his wife, son, or anyone else at the party. The fact that my profession is discreet inquiries is hardly a secret in Palm Beach, but it was a mite unsettling to learn my host was aware of it.

“That’s true, sir,” I said. “Occasionally I do quiet investigations when discretion is required, rather man take inquiries to the authorities and risk unwanted publicity.”

“Quite understandable,” he said. “You must have had many unusual experiences.”

It was obviously an invitation to gab, and I was offended. Did he think me a babbler—or was he testing me?

“Most of what I do is exceedingly dull,” I told him. “I wouldn’t want to bore you—and naturally I must respect client confidentiality.”

It was a mild reprimand and he accepted it.

“Naturally,” he said, and we smiled at each other.

Wine finished, we walked down the long stairway to the ground level.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I want to look in at Sarah. Jason will see you out.”

“Thank you for a lovely luncheon,” I said, shaking his proffered hand. “And for letting me view those incredible models. Please give my best wishes to your wife and my hopes for her speedy and complete recovery.”

“We all hope for that,” he said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Archy, you’re good company. I look forward to seeing you again.”

He left me and the archaic majordomo appeared out of nowhere bearing my snazzy pink panama with a snake-skin band.

“Thank you, Jason,” I said. “It was a super luncheon.”

“Thank
you,
sir,” he quavered. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”

I looked around that magnificent entrance hall, a shining vault that seemed to go on forever.

“What a wonderful home,” I marveled.

“It was,” he said in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. But that’s what he said: “It was.” Of course I thought he was referring to Mrs. Whitcomb’s illness.

I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, pausing en route at a florist’s shop to have a cheerful arrangement of mums delivered to Mrs. Sarah with a note of thanks. The Whitcombs were, I knew, people who honored traditional etiquette, mailed birthday and Christmas cards, and never failed to visit sick friends. My parents are similar types. I, regrettably, am not.

I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Binky Watrous phoned.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me,” he burbled.

“You’re enceinte?” I inquired.

“Better! Mitzi Whitcomb called and wants to see me tonight. Her lesser half is going down to Miami on business and she’s all by her lonesome. Wants me to buy her a pizza and then we’ll go dancing. How about that!”

“Sounds like you’ve made a conquest, laddie,” I said. “Have fun but promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Not a word to Mitzi about our investigation of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Is that understood?”

“Of course.”

“Not one single word,” I warned him. “The lady may try to extract information in a friendly, offhand way, but you know nothing.”

“About what?” he said.

I sighed. I had feared he would be a trial; he was rapidly becoming an inquisition. “About
anything,”
I told him. “Just chat her up and keep the conversation frothy and inconsequential. Do your birdcalls for her.”

“Oh yeah!” he said happily. “I’ve got a new one—the yellow-bellied sapsucker.”

“That should enchant her,” I assured him. “And Binky, in the most casual way possible you might inquire what business is taking Oliver to Miami tonight. You understand?”

“Oh sure. I’ll ask her.”

“Don’t
ask
her. Say something similar to ‘Your husband must be a very busy man, driving to Miami at night.’ And then wait for her reaction.”

“I get it,” he said. “You want me to be subtle.”

“Yes, Binky, I want you to be subtle—right after you imitate the call of a yellow-bellied sapsucker.”

“I can do it,” he said eagerly. “I’ll get the goods on Oliver.”

“Call me tomorrow,” I said, stifling a groan, “and tell me how you made out.”

I hung up and put my head in my hands. He was going to commit a monumental balls-up, I just knew it. What concerned me most was not that Binky might reveal to Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb that they were subjects of an inquiry by McNally & Son, but that my father might learn I was employing a certified bedlamite in one of my discreet inquiries.

I could easily envision his reaction:
both
tangled eyebrow. twitched aloft, the bristly mustache drooping, and
VC
get a stare that shared pain and incredulity: “Have I raised my only son to be an utter dunce?”

I felt it best to leave the McNally Building and seek solace in a slow ocean swim and the comfort of the family cocktail hour and dinner later. I’m sure it was an excellent feast, but I could not help but regard it as a condemned man’s last meal.

I retired to my quarters and phoned Connie Garcia. You know, I do believe I half-hoped she had learned of my recent joust with Sunny Fogarty. If so, Connie would be aflame, steam spouting from her ears, and she would threaten me with physical punishments I don’t wish to detail here, not wishing to offend your sensibilities.

No, I am not suicidal. In hoping my one-and-several might condemn me, vociferously and at length, I was merely seeking normality in a world suddenly gone awry.

B
UT APPARENTLY MY DULCINEA
had not learned of the recent moral boo-boo I had committed, for she couldn’t have been more affectionate. We chatted for almost twenty minutes, and our conversation was all bubbles. We ended by agreeing to meet for dinner on Saturday night and exchanged vows of love and fidelity everlasting before hanging up.

It was a puzzlement. I mean, I loved the woman, I really did, but my devotion obviously wasn’t sufficient to restrain me from casting covetous eyes on others of the female persuasion. Are all men like that? I suspect we may be, and it’s disheartening. Certain absolutes, such as courage, are expected of the male gender, but faithfulness is not one of them. What’s worse, it’s usually treated with cynical amusement while a woman’s infidelity is roundly condemned.

I scribbled in my journal for the remainder of the evening, recording my impressions of the luncheon with Sarah and Horace Whitcomb. They were true patricians, I reckoned, whose breeding and bravery were being sorely tested. I thought they were enduring their trials with exemplary fortitude—which only proves how mistaken first impressions can be.

I awoke the next morning with the nagging suspicion it would prove to be an unproductive day. I was in a waiting mode: waiting for Sunny Fogarty to retrieve names and addresses from the airlines’ shipping invoices; waiting for our credit agency to return dossiers on the individuals listed; waiting for Sgt. Al Rogoff to report on what he had learned about Ernest Gorton from his police pals in Miami. It was, I decided, going to be a vacant day. Hah!

Nota bene: The following times are approximate.

9:30
A.M.
:

I had overslept, as was my custom, and finally clattered downstairs to a deserted kitchen, where I prepared a solitary breakfast. If memory serves—and mine usually doesn’t—I found a cold pork chop left over from our previous night’s dinner. I trimmed it carefully of fat and bone, and then inserted the round of meat between two toasted halves of an English muffin, with a dab of mayo. You might try it sometime. Chockful of goodness.

10:30
A.M.
:

I arrived at the McNally Building to find on my desk a message that Mr. Ernest Gorton had phoned and asked that I return his call as soon as possible. I debated a moment, fearing he might invite me to visit him in Miami. I had no intention of doing that, of course, but I was curious as to why he should follow up a casual meeting at a crowded party with a call three days later. I assumed he had a motive of which I wot not. And so I phoned.

“Archy!” he said heartily. “How’s by you?”

“Very well, thanks, Ernie,” I said. “And you?”

“Seventh heaven,” he proclaimed. “Listen, let me get right to the point.” He didn’t exactly say “pernt,” but it was close. “When we met the other night at the Whit-combs’ party, you hit me as a guy who likes wine. Am I correct?”

“Well, yes,” I said cautiously. “I enjoy a glass of good wine now and then.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he said with a sound halfway between a chuckle and a chortle. “You know anything about it?”

I was briefly nonplussed. “About wine, you mean? I do know a little, but I am no oenophile.”

“Whatever the hell that is,” he said. “Look, in my import-export business sometimes I luck on to a great deal and naturally I think of my close friends first.”

“Naturally,” I said, wondering when and how I had become his close friend.

“Suddenly I got this shipment of 1990 Chateau Margaux. That’s a good wallop, isn’t it?”

“An excellent drink,” I assured him.

“I can let you have it for a hundred bucks,” he said.

“Ernie,” I said as gently as I could, “the 1990 Margaux is a fine wine, but I can buy a bottle for less than a hundred at my local liquor emporium.”

“A bottle?” he said indignantly. “Who’s talking bottles? I’m offering you a case.”

Holy moly! I was stunned. A case of 1990 Chateau Margaux for a hundred dollars? Incredible. “Did it fall off the truck?” I said feebly.

“What do you care?” he demanded. “I got two cases left. If you want one you’ll hafta tell me now. And you’ll hafta pick it up. No delivery.”

“Ah, what a shame,” I said. “My car’s in the shop, and there’s no one I can trust to make the pickup. Ernie, I’ll have to skip on this one, but I do appreciate your thinking of me. Perhaps we can get together if you have any marvelous bargains like that in the future.”

He took rejection cheerfully. “All the time, Archy. For instance, right now I’m working on a deal for diamond-studded Rolex wristwatches. The real thing, not ripoffs. And the price will be right, believe me. Interested?”

“I may be,” I said carefully.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” And he hung up abruptly.

I sat there staring stupidly at the dead phone in my hand. What was that all about? Even if the Chateau Margaux was genuine and had been stolen, which I presumed it was and had been, a hundred dollars for a case was simply a ridiculous price, even for thieves attempting to fence their loot.

The only reason I could imagine for Gorton’s call was an effort to concretize our relationship. But I still could not fathom his motive. I did know the man made me uneasy. I did not think him simpleminded. No stumblewit he. I was convinced he was sure of what he was doing—and I’m not sure of anything except that you can’t put too much garlic on buttered escargot.

Then it occurred to me that maybe he had been testing my cupidity, just as Horace Whitcomb had tested my discretion. I was beginning to feel like a lab rat condemned to run a maze. I could only hope I would find the exit and the reward awaiting me: a nice wedge of ripe Brie.

11:15
A.M.
:

I phoned Binky Watrous, eager to learn all the juicy details of his evening with the supercharged Mitzi Whitcomb. He sounded hoarse, as if he had spent too many hours imitating the call of a hypertensive parrot.

“Sore throat?” I inquired solicitously.

“Sore everything,” he rasped. “Archy, I am unraveled, totally unraveled. All I want is a quick and merciful end to my suffering.”

“What a shame,” I said. “I was about to ask you to join me for a burger and a bucket of suds at the Pelican, but we’ll make it another—”

“I accept,” he interrupted hastily. “Give me an hour to get my bones in motion.”

“I gather you had a riotous night.”

“Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I asked Mitzi to divorce Oliver and marry me.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did.”

“And what did the lady reply to that?”

“She said, ‘Let’s practice first.’”

“See you in an hour,” I said.

1:30
P.M.
:

We had finished lunch and were dawdling over our second beers. Color had gradually returned to the pallid cheeks of my helot. When he arrived at the Pelican Club he had looked like something the cat dragged
out.
But a rare burger, a basket of FFs, and icy Rolling Rock had worked wonders; he was now his normal dorky self.

Unasked, he told me of his night with Mitzi Whitcomb. I shall not repeat the salacious details since I know you’re not interested in that sort of thing. “What an orgy it was!” he concluded.

“Binky,” I said, “can two people have an orgy? I thought it required a multitude.”

“We had an orgy,” he insisted. “Just the two of us. Archy, that woman scares me.”

“But you want to marry her.”

“That was last night. This morning I wanted to take a slow boat to Madagascar.”

“And where was Mitzi’s husband during this alleged debauch?”

“He called and said it was too late to drive home from Miami, so he was going to spend the night at Ernie Gorton’s place.”

Thick as thieves, those two, was my immediate reaction, and then I wondered if “thick” in that cliché meant intimate or stupid.

“Binky, did she toke during the evening?”

“Constantly,” he said gloomily. “Had a pack of neatly rolled ganja. No filters.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“A lot of nothing. She was flying, and I really shouldn’t have had that fifth vodka. Archy, I’ve never met such a harum-scarum female. I’ve done a few irresponsible things in my life, as you well know, but she makes me look like Albert Schweitzer.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“Wild horses—” he started, but I halted him with a raised palm.

“Binky, I
want
you to see her again. As often as Mitzi wishes. I think she may prove to be a valuable source of information pertaining to the Whitcomb case. Your role will be that of a mole, boring from within. And I select my words carefully.”

“Must I?” he cried. “Another night with her and I’ll be calling 911 for the paramedics to come and take me away.”