McNally's Caper
McNally’s Caper
An Archy McNally Novel
By Vincent Lardo
1
A
FTER A GREAT DEAL
of heavy reflection I have come to the conclusion that everyone is nuts. And I mean
everyone
, not just a sprinkling of ding-a-lings.
You think me a misanthrope? Listen to this...
I am the chief (and sole member) of the Discreet Inquiries Department of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law. (My father is the Attorney, I am the Son.) We represent some very prestigious clients—and a scurvy few—in the Town of Palm Beach. Occasionally they request the services of a private and prudent investigator rather than take their problems to the police and risk seeing their tribulations luridly described in a supermarket tabloid, alongside a story headlined “Elvis Lands in UFO!”
One of our commercial clients is a sinfully luxe jewelry store on Worth Avenue. They had recently been plagued by a shoplifter who was boosting a choice selection of merchandise. Not their most costly baubles, of course; those were locked away in vaults and shown only in private. But they were losing a number of less expensive items—brooches, rings, bracelets, necklaces—that were on public display.
Their concealed video camera soon revealed the miscreant. They were shocked,
shocked
to recognize one of their best customers, a wealthy widow who dropped at least a hundred grand annually in legitimate purchases. I shall not reveal her name because you would immediately recognize it. Not wishing to prosecute such a valued patron, the jewelry store brought its distressing predicament to McNally & Son, and I was given the task of ending the lady’s pilfering without enraging her to the extent that she would purchase her diamond tiaras elsewhere, perhaps at Wal-Mart or Home Depot.
It was a nice piece of work and I started by learning all I could about the kleptomaniacal matron. I consulted Consuela Garcia first. Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest of our chatelaines. Connie is my inamorata and au courant with all the latest Palm Beach rumors, scandals, and skeletons that have not yet emerged from the closet.
I also phoned Lolly Spindrift, the gossip columnist on one of our local rags. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of the peccadilloes, kinks, and outré personal habits of even our most august residents.
From these two fonts of impropriety, if not of wisdom, I learned that the shoplifter in her younger years (several decades ago) had been an actress. Not a first-magnitude star, but a second-echelon player who had never quite made it to the top. I mean that in films she always lost the hero to the leading lady and in TV sitcoms she invariably played the wisecracking but sympathetic roommate. She did very well financially, I’m sure, but I doubt if sophomores ever Scotch-taped her photo to dormitory walls.
Then, her career in decline, she had the great good sense to marry a moneyed business executive whose corporation reaped satisfying profits by producing plastic place mats imprinted with classic scenes such as the Parthenon and Las Vegas at night. Upon his retirement the childless but apparently happy couple moved to Palm Beach. He died five years later on the tennis court while playing a third set in 104° heat, and his widow inherited a bundle.
Having learned all I needed to know about the lady in question, I had a videocassette made of all the snippets of tape taken by the jewelry store’s hidden TV cameras. The subject was easily recognizable and clearly shown slipping glittering items into her capacious handbag. She did it so deftly, so nonchalantly, I could only conclude she had long practiced the craft.
I decided my best strategy was a “cold call,” descending upon her suddenly without making an appointment and giving her the opportunity to prepare a defense. And so on a warmish evening in mid-September I tootled my flag-red Miata down the coast to the Via Palma. The lady’s home turned out to be a faux Spanish hacienda with the most spectacular landscaping I had ever seen.
The door was opened by a uniformed maid who accepted my business card and advised me to wait—outside. In a few moments the door was reopened and the matron herself stood before me, clad in hostess pajamas of ginger-colored silk.
“Yes, Mr. McNally,” she said, pleasantly enough, “what’s this all about?”
I mentioned the name of the client represented by my law firm and told her I wished to discuss a personal matter of some importance. She hesitated briefly, then asked me in. She led the way to a small sitting room where a television set was playing. And there, on the screen, was the lady herself, thirty years younger. I wondered if that was how she spent her evenings: watching reruns of ancient sitcoms in which she had performed.
She was a striking woman with a proud posture and complete self-possession. Her features had the tight, glacial look that bespoke a face-lift, and her figure was so trim and youthful that I imagined breast implants, a tummy tuck, and a rump elevation had been included in a package deal.
She switched off the TV and, without asking me to be seated, looked at me inquiringly. There was no way I could pussyfoot, but as gently as I could I explained that her favorite jewelry store was well aware of her shoplifting. If she doubted that, I said, I had brought along a videocassette that showed her in action.
I didn’t know what to expect: furious denial, tears, hysteria, perhaps even a physical assault on yrs. truly. What I received was a welcome surprise: a really brilliant smile.
“Hidden TV cameras, I suppose,” she said.
I nodded.
“That’s not fair,” she said with a charming pout. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. McNally?”
“I would indeed, thank you, ma’am.”
Five minutes later we were seated on a mauve velvet couch, sipping excellent kir royales, and discussing her criminal career like civilized people. I was immensely relieved.
“I suppose you think me a kleptomaniac,” she said easily.
“The thought had occurred to me,” I acknowledged.
She shook her head and artfully coiffed white curls bobbed about. “Not so,” she said. “I did not have a deprived childhood. I never lacked for a loving mate in my life. I have no feeling of insecurity nor do I desire to seek revenge against a cruel, unfeeling world.”
“Then
why
?” I asked, truly perplexed.
“Boredom,” she said promptly. “Shoplifting gives me a thrill. It’s such a naughty thing to do, you see. And at my age I must battle ennui as vigorously as I do arthritis. Can you understand that?”
I laughed. I
loved
this splendid woman. “Of course I understand,” I said. “But I’m afraid your motive, no matter how reasonable it may seem to you and me, would not constitute a convincing legal defense.”
“What is it the jewelry store wants?”
“Payment for or return of the items you have stolen. I presume you still have them?”
“I do.”
“What they
don’t
want,” I went on, “what they emphatically do not wish is to lose you as a customer. They value your patronage.”
“As well they should,” she said. “I spend a mint there. But they are very agreeable people, very eager to please. I should hate to go elsewhere for my trinkets.”
We looked at each other.
“You strike me as a very clever young man, Mr. McNally,” she said. “Can you suggest a solution?”
“Yes, I can,” I said without hesitation. “Continue shopping there. At the same time resume the depredations that relieve your boredom. But grant permission to the store to bill you monthly for the merchandise you steal.”
She laughed delightedly. “A wonderful solution!” she cried.
“It won’t spoil it for you to know that your thefts are being observed and you will be charged for them?”
She lifted her chin. “I am an actress,” she said with great dignity. “I know how to pretend.”
“Excellent,” I said, finishing my drink and rising. “I am sure our client will be delighted with the arrangement.”
She escorted me to the door and we clasped hands.
“Do come see me again,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I certainly shall. It’s been a delightful visit.”
“Hasn’t it?” she said and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
I drove home in a sportive mood. I was more convinced than ever that goofiness was engulfing the world, but I also admitted that if everyone acted in a sensible, logical fashion there would be little gainful employment for your humble correspondent.
I arrived at the McNally manse at about ten o’clock. I pulled into our three-car garage between my father’s black Lexus and mother’s antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. The lights in mon père’s study were still ablaze, and when I entered the house through the back door I saw the oak portal to his sanctum was ajar. It was his signal that he deigned to receive visitors. That evening, I knew, he was awaiting a report on my confrontation with the piratical widow.
He was seated behind his magisterial desk and, as usual, there was a glass of port at his elbow. And, as usual, he was smoking one of his silver-banded James Upshall pipes. And, as usual, he was reading one of his leather-bound volumes of Dickens. I admired his perseverance. He was determined to plow his way through that author’s entire oeuvre, and I could only hope he survived long enough to succeed.
He looked up when I entered and put his book aside. He invited me to pour myself a glass of port. I respectfully declined, not daring to tell him that I thought the last case he had bought was on the musty side. But I did relax in one of his club chairs and delivered an abbreviated account of my meeting with the bored shoplifter.
He did not laugh aloud but one of his hirsute eyebrows rose a good half-inch and he stroked his guardsman’s mustache with a knuckle, a sure sign that he was mightily amused.
“A win-win outcome, Archy,” he commented. “Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then he was silent and I knew he had slipped into his pondering mode. I have mentioned several times in previous tales that my father is a world-class muller, always meditating before making any meaningful pronouncement or taking any significant action. After all, he is an attorney and knows the dangers of hasty words and decisions. But is it absolutely necessary to ruminate for three minutes before resolving to add a drop of Tabasco to one’s deviled egg?
“Archy,” he said finally, “are you acquainted with Griswold Forsythe the Second?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” I replied. “The all-time champion bore of Palm Beach.”
“And his son, Griswold Forsythe the Third?”
“I know him also. A chip off the old blockhead.”
Father grimaced. He did not like me to jest about the clients of McNally & Son. He felt that since their fees paid for our steak au poivre we should accord them at least a modicum of respect.
“The senior Forsythe came to the office this afternoon,” mein papa continued. “His problem is somewhat akin to the case you have just concluded.”
I groaned. “He’s so antiquated he remembers the two-pants suit. Don’t tell me the old gaffer has become a shoplifter.”
“No, he is not a thief but he suspects someone in his home may be. He claims several items of value have disappeared.”
“Such as?”
“A first edition Edgar Allan Poe. A large, unset cushion-cut emerald belonging to his wife. A Georgian silver soup ladle. A small Benin bronze. An original Picasso lithograph. And other things.”