McNally's Dilemma (18 page)

Al made a sound like air escaping from a ballroom. “That’s not going to help us find the Mystery Woman, Archy. It’ll bring every kook in Palm Beach out of the woodwork that night, not to mention the press. I think I’d better pass this on to the chief. We might have to call out the National Guard. When’s the party to take place?”

“No official date yet, but I guess it’s ASAP. Lady Cynthia won’t want to be usurped by the real Mystery Woman coming forth and making the ball anticlimactic, to say the least. But if I have my way, it’ll never happen. I’m going to try to talk her out of it.”

“Will she listen to you?”

“I did her a favor once. She owes me.” I didn’t mention that she had already paid her debt by breaking it off with my father. But for what I did for her I think two for one, in my favor, would just about even the score. However, I was not sanguine. Not at all.

I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, removed a small envelope and passed it over to Al. “I think you could use this. The firm subscribes as a public-relations gesture but no one at McNally and Son is particularly interested in using it.”

He peeked inside the small white envelope and saw a season pass to the Miami City Ballet under the artistic direction of Edward Villella, Al’s secret idol. “This wouldn’t be a bribe?”

“You know better than that, Al.”

He grunted and stuck the envelope in his shirt pocket. He was too embarrassed to say thank you, but this in no way lessened his appreciation.

“What in tarnation?” Al suddenly exclaimed. “He looks like he’s been hit by a truck.”

Because my back was toward the door, I had to turn to see what had aroused my lunch partner and saw Binky Watrous coming toward us with the aid of a walker.

Binky approached, slowly, planting the walker firmly in front of him with each hesitant step. “Hi, Archy. Hello, Sergeant.”

“What happened to you?” Al asked.

“Tell him, Binky,” I urged. “The sergeant could use a laugh.”

“Archy’s dog bit me,” Binky said, and I must say here that even poor Binky looked uncomfortable with the explanation.

“Hobo?” Al exclaimed. “But he’s just a little guy.”

“Not as little as Binky Watrous,” I told Al.

“Archy, can we talk about this?” Binky looked miserable, and for one moment I almost relented before recalling that it was the Duchess, not Binky, I was locking horns with. Looking down I saw that Binky’s left foot was clad in what appeared to be a velvet bedroom slipper. A sickly blue velvet slipper.

“And may I remind you that one must wear shoes at all times in the dining room?”

“There are exceptions to all rules,” Binky informed me. “That’s why Seeing Eye dogs are allowed in the post office.”

“But the dog must be accompanied by a visually handicapped person. The dog cannot simply wander in, alone, and post a letter.”

“I’m handicapped,” Binky insisted.

“I hate to be a party pooper,” Al said, “but my lunch hour is about up and I’d like to get out of here while my sanity is still more or less intact.”

“I’m leaving, too, Sergeant,” I announced. “Perhaps this handicapped gentleman would like our table.” Al and I rose, and I said to Binky, “I had a job for you this afternoon, but seeing as you’re out on workers’ comp I’ll have to get someone else.”

“I can do it, Archy,” Binky pleaded with a look that tugged at my heartstrings. Those doe eyes will do it all the time. But I had to be strong, or the Duchess might run all over Hobo like a steamroller on a rampage.

“You rest today, Binky.” Catching Priscilla’s eye, I beckoned her over and said, “Please put Mr. Watrous’s lunch tab on my bill.”

“Thanks, Archy. I really appreciate that. I know I’ll be in better shape tomorrow.” Were there tears in those doe eyes?

“One can only hope, Binky. One can only hope.”

“You’re a heel,” Al Rogoff whispered as we made our way out. Or was that the voice of my conscience?

T
HE MYSTERY WOMAN COMMANDED
the headlines in all the tabloids, from Key West to Jacksonville and from Maine to the City of Angels. McNally & Son was immersed in a case of national interest, however peripherally, involving a name long synonymous with great wealth and landed gentry. And if that wasn’t enough to send the firm’s leader into a euphoric seizure, we were privately on the payroll of another name with similar attributes. The entrance to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way must have looked like the pearly gates to my sire, Prescott McNally. This had to be better than seeing Tiny Tim burn his crutch and dance a jig with the ghost of Christmas Past.

With the words “Mystery Woman,” had Lolly Spindrift coined a phrase and thereby earned a place in the gossip columnist’s hall of fame?

Would Lady C.’s masked ball indeed become more famous, or infamous, than Capote’s Black and White Ball?

Would Binky Watrous and the Duchess receive their unjust deserts from our insurers and live happily ever after?

Everyone suddenly had great expectations, thanks to Melva and the guy reclining on a cold marble slab in the morgue. Did anyone give a hoot for either of them? I cared about my friend Melva Williams, and so did her daughter. How I could best serve Melva was my dilemma. Allow the police and her lawyers to do their job and get on with the Fairhurst case, or continue to find answers to the questions that had kept me awake that fateful night. Veronica had solved the mystery of why her mother had the address of Hillcrest House ready and waiting for me, but the other puzzlers kept haunting me like the lingering fragrance of Veronica’s perfume.

Why was the alarm turned off at Melva’s front gate that night? Did Veronica, on her way out, forget to turn it on, or did someone purposely shut it down after Veronica had driven off? And, if so, who and why?

Why was Melva so sure it was Geoff returning when she heard a car arrive at the house? Why couldn’t it have been Veronica, who was also out that night?

What did Hattie say that evening that kept evading me like a disturbing dream the waking mind refuses to surrender or erase?

Would knowing the answers help Melva? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t know why I wasn’t sure. This was more perturbing than I cared to admit.

I had no trouble getting Jamie to follow me in Veronica’s Mercedes convertible as I headed for Melva’s place. Even the unromantic Jamie was not immune to the thrill of zipping along the A1A in a luxury vehicle on a balmy day in Palm Beach. Poor Binky. This would have been his shining hour. But the boy had to learn the lesson of that old biblical saying “As you sue, so shall you reap.”

Traffic was backed up for a mile as we neared our destination. Rubbernecking, no doubt. Melva must have gotten home hours ago, and one would imagine the gawkers would have dispersed by now. There were, to be sure, the freelance photographers who would practically camp on the highway in hopes of a shot of mother or daughter. Persistence is the attribute, after all, that brings home their bacon.

Melva’s front gate looked like the box office of a hit show, but the approach was being kept clear by Melva’s security guard. Upon request, I gave him my name and business. He put in a call to the house and a moment later opened the gate for Jamie and me. A few photographers took pictures of the Miata and Mercedes for no other reason than because we had passed muster with the sentry.

Hattie welcomed us with tears of joy, taking Jamie into her kitchen after directing me to the drawing room. I found Melva in the same chair I had left her in two nights ago. She wore a little black dress, but this one had never seen the inside of a shop in South Beach. She looked thinner and paler than on my last visit, but strangely serene. Medication, or the cigarette smoldering between her fingers? I bent to kiss her cheek.

“How can I ever thank you for caring for Veronica?” she said.

“I’ve never needed to be thanked for spending time with a beautiful woman. And she is both beautiful and a woman, Melva. When did all that happen?”

“When our backs were turned, no doubt. How are you, Archy?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” I sat in the chair I had occupied yesterday, talking to Lolly, which reminded me of the painful facts I had to pass on to Melva.

“That was my line, but you’re welcome to it.” She waved her cigarette toward me. “As you can see, you’re no longer in a smoke-free zone, so light up if it pleases you.”

It pleased, so I lit my first English Oval of the day. “Back to two packs a day, Melva?”

“No, Archy. In fact, I’ve broken my old record, but who’s counting? I’ve also spent two nights in jail and am alive to tell about it.”

“How goes it, Melva? No nonsense. Just the facts, ma’am.”

She put out her cigarette and adjusted herself more comfortably in the chair. “It was purgatory with a hint of the hell to follow. Does that answer your question?”

I couldn’t think of a more eloquent or a more depressing commentary. “You said it all in twenty-five words or less,” I told her. “What are your lawyers’ prognostications?”

“‘We are cautiously confident, Mrs. Williams.’ Does that also say it all in twenty-five words or less?” She reached for another cigarette. If she kept this up, the weed might save the state of Florida the cost of a long-term incarceration or... But I would rather not dwell on the alternative. “I think they mean we have a fighting chance,” she went on, “and I tend to agree. You know, Archy, I don’t even remember doing it, and I’m not practicing for the witness stand. I barely remember calling you that night.”

But you do remember, verbatim,
as well as can be expected under the circumstances.
Selective amnesia? I sounded cynical but I’ve been around long enough to know that he who thinks the worst is seldom disappointed. I took it Melva’s lawyers were now writing the script, and like a good little actress she would not ad-lib. Given the circumstances, who could blame her? But I was back to square one: Should I allow the police and her lawyers to do their job and get on with my business? Probably. But before I bowed out, I did have one bit of news to impose upon their cautious confidence.

“Lolly didn’t pick up Geoff that night, Melva.”

She looked at me for a long time before she answered. The reflexes were too slow for a sharp woman like Melva Williams. She was clearly on medication, and, once again, who could blame her? When she finally did answer it was simply to say, “I know. Veronica told us.”

“What did your lawyers say?”

She put out her cigarette. Now I knew where Veronica had picked up the “two puffs and you’re dead” habit. Was this the curse of the upper classes or the legacy of Bette Davis? I suspected the latter.

“They think,” she said, “what you think. Without Lolly’s corroboration I can’t prove what took place here two nights ago. People will either believe me or not.”

“Could Veronica have heard—”

“No, Archy. I’m sorry to say Veronica could not have heard anything. I was in my bedroom when Geoff came and told me he was expecting Lolly Spindrift to call for him. Veronica was in her room, preparing to go out for the evening, which she did before Geoff left. Hattie, as you already know, hadn’t left her room all day. We were quite alone when Geoff told me his plans. Or should I say, when Geoff lied to me.”

“Veronica had her car and Geoff left the Rolls. Someone picked him up, Melva.”

“The girl. Who else?”

“Pretty nervy, wasn’t it?”

She laughed or grunted, hard to tell which, and quipped, “Geoff was a pretty nervy guy.”

As Lolly and I had speculated, the girl must have been someone known to Lolly. Now I was more convinced of this than ever. It had to be someone who could have said they were calling for Geoff in place of Lolly if Melva was downstairs when the girl arrived. Unfortunately, Melva had been in her room—Hattie in her room—and Veronica had left the house. Blind luck? But who had lucked out? Certainly not Geoffrey Williams.

“We’ve got to find that girl, Melva. If we don’t, it’s us against the world.”

“Thank you for including yourself in my quest. You’re a true friend, Archy. As for the Mystery Woman—I could kill Lolly Spindrift for that infectious label—she will never come forward, and we both know that. I’m going to have to take my chances and go it alone. Lolly was my only hope, and all he’s done is literally add to the mystery rather than clear the air. We’re thinking of offering a reward for her identity. Not directly from us, of course. Maybe one of the newspapers or television stations. We would guarantee payment.”

“Risky. Someone might trace it to you and your lawyers.”

“No risk, no gain, isn’t that what they say? And we’ve heard the police have gotten at least a half dozen calls from potential Mystery Woman prospects. Two of them from Hollywood. Will they hold a lineup for me to inspect?”

I pounced on that one. “Can you remember what she looked like? Anything, Melva. Anything at all. Hair color, for starters.”

She shrugged and reached for another cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a health nut with my two or three English Ovals a day. “Brown,” she said. “And long. It covered her face as she did her thing.”

“When she stood and grabbed her clothes...”

Melva discounted this with a wave of her hand. “I was looking at Geoff and nowhere else. I can tell you she had a nice figure and, I think, was young.”

“Young as opposed to who, Grandma Moses?”

“Under thirty. How’s that?”

“Better, but no cigar.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I said, “I know you’re drawing blanks about that night, Melva, but you said when you heard a car arrive, you knew, or thought you knew, it was Geoff. Why? Why couldn’t it have been Veronica returning home?”

She looked at me as if I were a schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework. “You don’t have children, Archy, do you?”

“None that I know of.”

“Well, if, and when, you do have children that you know of, and they grow to become social creatures, you will learn never to expect them home before midnight. It was eleven or thereabouts when I heard that car. I never thought for a moment that it could be Veronica.”

And another mystery bit the dust. I was getting all the right answers, so I must have been asking all the wrong questions. Back to the drawing board, Archy.