McNally's Trial (13 page)

“Sunny,” I said boldly, “I must tell you I have the feeling you’re not revealing all you know about this matter. I’m not implying you’re lying, only that you are deliberately holding back certain things that might possibly aid the investigation.”

She slowly removed her eyeglasses and became once again the sovereign and rather bristly woman I had imaged.

“That’s nonsense,” she said sharply. “I’ve told you all you need to know.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” I said. “Try telling me
everything.
I’m quite capable of separating the raisins from the rice pudding.”

She turned her head away. “I want to protect my job,” she said. “I told you and your father that from the start.”

“So you did. It’s a valid reason for your reticence, Sunny, but I don’t believe it’s the entire reason. You’re stiffing me and I’d like to know why.”

There was a silence that seemed to last for an hour, although I don’t suppose it was more than a few moments. Then she sighed and faced me again.

“There are some things, Archy,” she admitted. “But I swear to you they have absolutely nothing to do with your inquiry. Will you trust my judgment?”

“I’d rather trust mine.”

Then she flared. “Impossible!” she almost spat at me. “If you insist on knowing, perhaps we should end this right now.”

I drained the vodka bomb she had prepared. “Perhaps we should,” I said, rising. “I’ll inform my father that I’ve been unable to discover any evidence of wrongdoing at Whitcomb’s and recommend we close the case.”

It shook her.

“Archy,” she said pleadingly and held out a hand to me. “Don’t do that. Please. I admit I haven’t been as forthcoming as I might have been, but I do have a good motive, believe me. And it doesn’t affect the investigation; I swear it doesn’t. Don’t leave me in the lurch now, Archy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

What red-blooded American boy could resist an appeal like that? Not this boy.

“All right, Sunny,” I said. “I’ll stick around awhile and see what happens.”

She gave a little yelp of relief, bounced to her feet, and rushed to give me a chaste peck on the cheek. I was glad she hadn’t replaced her specs or I might have thrown myself upon her with a hoarse cry of brutal concupiscence.

But I knew there was to be no nice-nice that evening. She promised to inform me of the results of her inspection of the airlines’ shipping invoices. I promised to tell her whatever I could uncover about Dr. Omar K. Pflug.

Just before I departed she donned those damnable eyeglasses again, and my final vision was of a stalwart spectacled woman wearing brief cutoffs and a snug tank top.

Midnight:

Fantasy, fantasy, all is fantasy. But what would life be like without sweet dreams?

I
T WAS A VERY
virtuous Saturday. I awoke in time to breakfast with my parents. I played eighteen holes with a trio of cronies and never did I request a mulligan. I lunched at the country club, returned home for an energetic ocean swim, and dressed for my dinner date with Consuela Garcia. And not once during those active twelve hours did I imbibe an alcoholic drink. I was so proud—and so thirsty.

Connie and I met at La Veille Maison in Boca, and because the snowbirds had not yet arrived in any great numbers we were able to snag that snug little room (one table) to the right of the entryway. We immediately ordered champagne cocktails, just to get the gastric juices flowing, and Connie studied the menu while I studied her.

As usual, she looked smashing. She was wearing a black slithery something held aloft by spaghetti straps. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a boudoir. In a cozy public dining room it unnerved our waiter and added zest to my already ravenous appetite. We ordered sautéed pompano with pecan sauce but I knew, looking at my companion, that delightful dish would leave my hunger unassuaged.

Our conversation was casual and gossipy during dinner. But then, while we were lolling with espresso and tots of B&B, Connie remarked, “By the way, your pal Binky Watrous was seen dancing up a storm with Mitzi Whitcomb at a local disco. My informant reports both of them looked zonked.”

“No kidding?” I said. “Old Binky is moving in fast company.”

“Too fast for him,” Connie said. “I know Binky. He’s a sweet boy but nebbishy. Mitzi will chew him up and spit him over the left field fence.”

“A barracuda, is she?”

“I don’t really think so, Archy. Not from what I hear. I mean, she doesn’t deliberately set out to destroy men. She just doesn’t care. You know? She flits hither, thither, and yon, and thinks all her temporary partners do, too. But some of them get hurt.”

“Not Binky. He’s a bit of a flit himself.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I thought I was but I began to wonder. Could my bird-calling chum have surrendered his heart to this Blue Angel? He was a mental flyweight, but I didn’t want him wounded. My good deed—accepting him as an apprentice in the arcane profession of discreet inquiries—began to give mean attack of the Galloping Guilts. I decided I better attempt to cool Binky’s ardor and turn him to more profitable pursuits. Tatting, for example.

We strolled out to our cars. You may think it curious that we both drove separate vehicles and met at the restaurant, rather than my calling for her at her home as a gentleman should. But Connie preferred the two-car arrangement, I suppose, because it gave her independence. It certainly served her well on those occasions when our dinner dates ended in turbulent conflicts—usually the result of her having learned of my misconduct.

“Archy,” she said, “don’t bother following me home. I’ll be okay. And I want to get to sleep early. I’ve got a family thing in Miami tomorrow. One of my cousins is getting married. Sorry about that, pal.”

“Sorry about the marriage?”

She laughed and punched my arm. “You know what I mean: sorry I can’t ask you up for fun and games.”

I was tempted to quote the remark attributed to Voltaire: “I disapprove of what you say but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Instead, I just caroled, “We’ll make it another time.”

“Of course we will,” she agreed and gave me a warm, sticky kiss before we parted.

And so I drove home alone on that virtuous Saturday. I’m sure you know what was giving me the glooms. No f&g with Sunny Fogarty on Friday night. No f&g with Connie Garcia on Saturday night. I feared the small tonsure on the crown of my noodle might be more serious than I had imagined. You’ll admit two spurns in a row can be daunting to an always hopeful lothario.

But I am happy to report the day ended on an uptick. I arrived home, disrobed, and phoned Connie to make certain she was safe, sound, and behind a bolted and chained door. She was.

“Oh Archy,” she wailed. “I made such a horrible mistake tonight.”

“You didn’t order a second B and B?”

“No, silly. I didn’t insist you come home with me. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I wish you were here right now.”

“Another time,” I said grandly. “I’ve just undressed and am deep in volume three of
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Exciting stuff. Otherwise I’d be happy to pop over. But another night awaits us.”

“Promise?”

“Of course,” I assured her.

We had no sooner hung up when my phone jangled. I thought it might be Ms. Garcia demanding to know the exact date of that promised night, but it was Sunny Fogarty.

“Archy,” she said, “I want to apologize.”

“Whatever for?”

“Last night. I acted very foolishly and knew it the moment you walked out. I should have asked you to stay. Am I forgiven?”

“Of course,” I said grandly. Magnanimous me!

“I suppose it’s too late to invite you over now. Isn’t it?”

“’Fraid so,” I said. “I’m unclad and engrossed in the seventh volume of
The Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
Fascinating stuff. But there will be other nights.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her.

And then grinning, I drank a marc, smoked an English Oval, and listened to the original cast recording of “My Fair Lady.” I went to bed with my self-esteem healed and intact.

Continuing my righteous weekend, I accompanied my parents to church on Sunday morning. I was rewarded by the sight of an awesome contralto in the choir and immediately lost my senses. She was quite tall, broad-shouldered, with hair cut so short it might have been razored by a Parris Island barber. Fascinating woman, and I kept staring at her while listening to a sermon exhorting us to seek the beauty of God’s work on earth and be comforted thereby. Oh, how true, how indubitably true!

I thought I might audition for the choir the next time they had a casting call, but then I realized my chances were nil. I mean, my singing voice is serviceable for barroom ballads, but when it comes to such tunes as “Lead, Kindly Light,” you want a tenor with a better instinct for pitch—and more religious fervor than possessed by your humble scribe.

I arrived home still pondering how I might wangle an introduction to that impressive contralto. Ursi Olson told me Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb had phoned and asked I return her call. Father had retired to his study to begin excavating the national edition of
The New York Times,
and so I trudged upstairs to take off my Sunday go-to-meeting costume and call Mrs. Whitcomb.

“Archy,” she said, “I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, ma’am. I just returned from church.”

“Oh? Do you attend regularly?”

“No,” I said.

She laughed delightedly. “Didn’t think so,” she said. “I’ve given it up since I’ve been anchored to this ridiculous chair on wheels. But the pastor insists on dropping by regularly to provide what I’m sure he thinks of as ‘spiritual solace.’ Dreadful man. Archy, I called for two reasons. First, I want to thank you for the lovely flowers you sent.”

“A very small token of my gratitude for a marvelous luncheon.”

“Well, it was very thoughtful of you. The second thing is a request. Horace has gone to his club for an afternoon of golf that will take hours. I’d dearly love to have a chat with you—just the two of us—and I wondered if it might be possible for you to come visit for an hour or so.”

“Of course,” I said promptly, figuring I could return home in time for our Sunday dinner—an early afternoon feast usually followed by a major nap by all the McNallys. “I’ll be there in half an hour, Mrs. Whitcomb.”

“Sarah,” she said. “You
must
call me Sarah. I’ll have Jason chill a bottle of this year’s Fleurie Beaujolais. Will that do?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Sarah,” I vowed, and her giggle had a girlish quality.

I hurriedly pulled on informal duds and bounced downstairs. I paused at the kitchen to see what Ursi and Jamie were preparing. I began to salivate, for they were working on quarters of glazed duckling to be served with a cider sauce.

“Don’t you dare serve dinner without me,” I warned them. “Be back in an hour. And would you put out some of that cranberry relish, please.”

I was at the Whitcombs’ palazzo in slightly more than twenty minutes, but the trip seemed to take much less time because I was dreaming about Amazonian contraltos and glazed ducklings, I admit my mind doesn’t always work in lucid ways—but neither does yours.

The arthritic Jason met me at the door and slowly—oh, so slowly!—conducted me to the terrace where Mrs. Whitcomb was seated in her wheelchair at a shaded table covered with a jazzy abstract-patterned cloth. An ice bucket, complete with uncorked bottle, was set nearby, and my hostess’s glass was half full—or half empty.

She gave me a winsome smile and turned up her face. “Kissy,” she commanded, and I leaned to buss her cheek.

She was wearing her usual turban, in an indigo denim this time, and another of her voluminous, filmy gowns that stirred occasionally in a breeze coming off the lake. I took the chair opposite her. Jason, swaddling the dripping bottle in a napkin, added to Mrs. Whitcomb’s glass and then filled mine. He departed and I sipped the nectar.

“How do you like it?” Sarah asked.

“Heaven,” I pronounced.

“Well, you did go to church this morning,” she said mischievously, and I realized again this woman might be ill but her wit hadn’t dulled.

“Archy,” she said, “tell me something: Are all men idiots?”

I considered that query very, very carefully while savoring another taste of the young Beaujolais. “Perhaps ‘idiots’ is too harsh a condemnation, Sarah,” I said. “But I agree that most men are limited.”

“Limited,” she repeated. “Yes. Exactly. I knew I could depend on you.”

Then she was silent, staring out over the water. It was a thousand-yard stare, and I knew she was not seeing lake, shore, or tacking sailboats.

“I shouldn’t bother you with my problems,” she said finally.

“If not me—whom? If not now—when?” I tried to say it lightly and was rewarded with a wan smile as she turned to face me.

“All right,” she said. “Archy, I love my husband dearly, and I love my son dearly. The two are so unlike—really from different planets—but up to about six months ago they had a—what’s it called? A modus something.”

“Modus vivendi?” I suggested.

“That’s it! They had a sort of unspoken compromise. A live-and-let-live thing. They accepted and loved each other, I believe, even if their lifestyles are so opposite. Horace is a very stiff-necked man. He has his standards.”

“I am familiar with the type,” I murmured, thinking of my liege.

“Oliver is a hell-for-leather boy. Always has been. And yet the two of them managed to coexist. Horace took Oliver into the business and he’s performed brilliantly. Of course there have been disagreements, I can’t deny that, but nothing serious. Until, as I said, about six months ago when their relationship became cold and nasty. Their trivial arguments have become rancorous. Spiteful. Sometimes they say things to each other that frighten me. Archy, I’m not asking for your sympathy or pity, but I know I’ll be gone soon and I want my son and his father to be close and cherish one another when I’m no longer here to serve as umpire or referee or whatever you want to call it.”