McNally's Dilemma (22 page)

“Now I want you to tell me.”

“Geoff Williams put in a good word for me with Mr. Fairhurst. That make you happy?”

“What would make me happy, pal, would not make you happy, believe me. What’s your connection with Geoff?”

“None, I hope. The guy is dead, isn’t he?”

I wouldn’t mind seeing Seth Walker in the same condition. “How did you two meet? And I want the truth.”

He stuck his free hand in his trouser pocket and looked at the ceiling. “He was an acquaintance of my mother’s.”

No surprise. It was just as I thought. Geoff doing a lady friend a favor. And Seth Walker was a surly blob who would one day choke on his own bile.

But now I had something else to think about. Was Seth’s mother our Mystery Woman? Melva said that she had been a young woman, but that was just a fleeting impression. Even Lady Horowitz, who was over seventy, had the figure and grace of a much younger woman. I had to keep reminding myself that I was here to locate a blackmailer, not Geoff’s last paramour.

“Geoff was in Palm Beach about a month ago, long before the family moved down for the season. Any idea what he was doing here?”

“No.”

“Did he see your mother?”

“He could have.”

“Is your mother in Palm Beach?”

“That’s as much as I’m saying about my mother, and you can tell Mr. Fairhurst I said so. You wanted to know how I got this job and I told you the truth, so don’t push your luck, Mr. McNally.”

“Don’t push yours, Seth—and by the way, is that your real name?”

“Yeah. Is Archy McNally your real name?” He dropped the cigarette on the concrete floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

I turned to go, paused, and turned back to face him. “Did you enjoy your chat with Veronica Manning at the Horowitz reception?”

“Christ, man, are you living in my back pocket?”

“Did you know she was Geoff’s stepdaughter?”

“I knew she was the best-looking chick in the room, and that’s all I cared about.”

“Don’t let Arnie hear that. He might lock his door the next time you go to his room to socialize.”

He took a step toward me, one fist raised, but thought better of it and expressed his anger with a few well-chosen cuss words.

Quitting while I was ahead, I waved bye-bye and was history.

Aside from how the blackmailer might have learned the Fairhurst secret, I wasn’t a step closer to collaring the miscreant.

I went back to the house to report to Mr. Fairhurst before leaving. Peterson led me to the den, where I found both Mr. Fairhurst and his wife busily engrossed in the afternoon newspapers. Lolly’s rag, I noticed, featured on its front page the blank outline of a woman’s face with a huge question mark where her nose should be.

Mr. Fairhurst introduced me to his wife, who acknowledged me by removing her glasses and eyeing me stem to stern before saying, “How do you do, Mr. McNally?”

Mrs. Fairhurst was what is often described as a handsome woman, meaning she was not now a beauty nor had she ever been. A bit horsey, one might say, with rather prominent teeth but a lovely complexion and a poise born of confidence in one’s self and her husband’s fortune. She wore the uniform of her class and generation—dark skirt, white blouse, and a beige cashmere cardigan.

“Have you finished here?” Mr. Fairhurst asked.

“Yes, sir, I have, but I’m afraid I have very little to report at this stage, aside from what I have already pointed out to you in the library.”

“I didn’t think you’d learn anything from my staff, Archy. And I’ve told Mrs. Fairhurst about your discovery.”

“Quite a shocker,” Mrs. Fairhurst admitted. “It was very clever of you to catch it, Mr. McNally.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” After glancing at the door, I asked if I could speak freely.

“Of course,” Mr. Fairhurst quickly put in. “Our servants don’t listen at keyholes.”

“You’ve mentioned your confidence in your staff before, sir, but I’m afraid I must remind you that someone in this house has surely been listening as well as looking.”

Mrs. Fairhurst, who had been pretending to read her paper, dropped the pretense and looked up.

“I don’t understand, Archy,” Mr. Fairhurst said.

“Well, sir, as we discussed, our letter writer may have figured out that your grandfather did not die on the
Titanic
by comparing the dates on the portraits. However, that does not explain how he knows that your ancestor got off the boat in drag. I beg your pardon—disguised as a woman.”

Mrs. Fairhurst began to fuss with her newspaper. Was it my crude language or something else? John Fairhurst III seemed oblivious to her reaction, but then, he seemed oblivious to everything that went on in his home—except, perhaps, the handsomely bound writing secreted away on the closed shelves.

“Good lord,” he cried, “I never thought of that. Did you, Emily?”

“No,” she said to her husband, “I didn’t.” After fidgeting a bit more in her seat, she added, “John, do you think we should drop this investigation?”

“Drop it? Why, whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, “drop it. Pay the horrible person the money and forget it ever happened.”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Fairhurst nearly shouted. “There’s no guarantee the man will stop with this one payoff. He’ll have us by the throat for the rest of our lives.”

There was no question that Mrs. Fairhurst was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Then let him go to the press and tell his story. What proof does he have but that brass plate? We can have it changed tomorrow,” she pleaded.

“My dear Emily,” her husband explained, “my father’s birth date is a matter of public record. We can’t change that.”

“But why has no one ever noticed the discrepancy before now?” she questioned.

“Because, ma’am,” I cut in, “I imagine no one ever cared enough to compare those dates. What I mean is, whoever heard of checking the date of a man’s death against the birth date of his son? As long as they aren’t years apart, to be sure. In this case it’s a mere three months and the years coincide.

“Now, a very devious person has gotten hold of the information and intends to grow rich on the knowledge. I must ask you both if at any time you discussed with anyone how your grandfather got off the
Titanic?”

“Never,” Mr. Fairhurst exclaimed.

His wife did not answer. Did her husband speak for both of them?

In deference to her, I asked, “Do you want me to continue with the investigation, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Then,” I advised, “all we can do now is wait for the letter telling us where and when to deliver the cash.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as it arrives,” Mr. Fairhurst assured me.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fairhurst. I’m sorry it wasn’t under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Thank you,” she said, “and I’m sorry if I sound a bit rattled. First that letter and now poor Melva. Have you seen her, Mr. McNally?”

“I have. If I said she was fine, it would be a lie, but she’s holding up and her lawyers are confident.”

“Mystery Woman!” Mrs. Fairhurst blurted. “There was never any mystery about that man’s indiscretions. He deserved what he got, I’d say.”

“Emily, please,” Mr. Fairhurst scolded.

“Tell Melva we’re thinking of her, Mr. McNally, and if she needs us, we’re here.” Mrs. Fairhurst got in the last word on the subject.

“I will, ma’am. And now I must be going.”

“We have confidence in you, Mr. McNally,” Mrs. Fairhurst said with a royal wave of her hand.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I responded, wondering whether she placed her confidence in my success or in my failure.

M
Y AFTERNOON AMONG THE
Fairhursts’ servants told me more about them than I cared to know, but nothing regarding the purpose of my visit. The brass plates under the portraits of the Fairhurst men told me that the current John Fairhurst had goofed royally when he ordered his father’s dates etched in metal. I’m sure he had actually come to believe the story of his grandfather’s gallantry, hence it had never occurred to him to alter his father’s birth date.

The lesson learned here is that the only way to perpetuate a lie is with more lies.

I also learned that Mrs. Fairhurst was concerned with the blackmail threat but for reasons different from her husband’s. I doubt it was the Fairhurst name she was anxious to protect, but her own. Mrs. Fairhurst clearly did not want the guilty party brought to justice. I wondered why. During the last great war, government posters reminded citizens that “Loose lips sink ships.” Did Mrs. Fairhurst forget this warning? I would have to have a chat with the woman without arousing her husband’s suspicions. I didn’t relish the chore.

Back home, I got out of my investigative garb—proper suit and tie—but beneath, the real Archy pulsated in red briefs and blue T-shirt, don’t-you-know. If I added a cape, Lois Lane wouldn’t know me from the real article. Instead, I donned my Speedos, yellow for this lovely late afternoon, and an ankle-length terry robe with hood. Cars paused for me as I crossed the A1A, thinking that a white monk was on his way to bless the waters.

The Atlantic was calm and welcoming, if a bit nippy, but then we were approaching the winter solstice. I completed my two-mile swim and was back in my digs in just over one hour. For my evening date, I selected yellow linen trousers, a lime-green sport coat of the same fabric, and Bally loafers. Thanks to Veronica’s less than complimentary remark regarding my berets, I ventured forth bareheaded.

There was still a small crowd in front of Melva’s gate looking for photo ops, and in the waning twilight they edged forward to see who was seeking admittance to the murder scene. I had purposely raised the Miata’s top to maintain as low a profile as possible and not one flashbulb popped as I gave my name to the security guard.

Veronica, looking lovely in a simple white piqué shift with a matching short-sleeved jacket, greeted me at the door. “Hattie is bringing Mother a tray,” she explained. “Do we have time for a drink?”

“We have all night,” I answered, following her into the drawing room, where a portable bar had been set up. On a lovely evening such as this, the solarium, with its glass walls and view of sky and ocean, would have been the ideal place for cocktails, but I assumed that room was still off-limits by choice rather than police insistence.

“You still have company out front,” I told her.

“I know. We’re prisoners in our own home and the only reason the phone is not ringing is because I’ve unplugged them again, just as Hattie did the other day. It’s horrid, Archy, just horrid.”

“We could hire Meecham’s yacht and use the back door.”

“And have them descend from the air? No, thanks.”

“It’s nothing that we didn’t expect,” I said, moving to the bar. “What’s your poison? It’ll help steady your nerves as long as you don’t make it a habit.”

“Vodka martini, please.” She sat in the chair usually occupied by her mother. As she crossed her stockingless legs, names like Grable, Charisse, and Miller popped into my mind.

I reached for the Sterling vodka—the rich know how to separate the hype from the real thing—and began mixing two perfect martinis.

Behind me, Veronica was still complaining. “And the television news is relentless on the subject. If World War Three broke out, it would get a ten-second mention between ‘The Hunt for the Mystery Woman’ and a commercial for acid indigestion.”

“I never watch television, and I would advise you to do the same, young lady. I hope you’re not subjecting your mother to that vast wasteland.”

“She spent most of the day in her room. I’m worried about her, Archy.”

“As well you might be. She’s had a shock and it will take time to wear off. Her medication is also keeping her down. Why don’t you call Dr. Pearlberg and see if she can’t come in and have a look at Melva.” I served her drink.

“Thank you, Archy. Maybe I’ll do that.” Veronica raised her glass and toasted, “Cheers, if that doesn’t sound too absurd.”

“It does, but cheers anyway.”

After taking a sip of the clear brew she stared at me as if the drink had suddenly cleared her vision. “My God, Archy, you look like a lime rickey.”

Am I to be spared nothing from this divine creature? “We’re in Florida, not drab New York,” I told her.

She smiled, then laughed. “You’re the best medicine in the world, Archy. Cheers, again.”

Thanks to Veronica, our exit was much more of a media event than my entrance had been. The popping flashbulbs turned night into day long enough to blind me. While waiting to recover my sight, I rolled down the Miata’s window and shouted to the security guard closing the gate behind us, “We’re going to Ta-Boo’ and should be back before midnight.”

I pulled out onto the A1A and headed south. “I take it we’re not going to Ta-Boo’,” Veronica said.

“You take it wrong. That’s exactly where we’re going.”

“And they’ll go to every restaurant in Palm Beach except Ta-Boo’.” Veronica got the point.

“Give the lady a cigar.”

I decided on Ta-Boo’ because we could eat in the bar, at those absurdly small round tables, and avoid the prying eyes of those in the main dining room. That was my first error of the evening. The bar was crowded with the young of Palm Beach—those who weren’t at Hillcrest this evening—and most of them knew Veronica. The sudden hush as we entered was quickly followed by a ripple of polite but rather strained chitchat. Deciding that we were the floor show, the hostess led us to a table that was in plain sight of the bar. All that would be lacking, I mused, was a spotlight. I pointed to an empty table in a rear corner and she quickly changed direction.

“Sorry,” I whispered to Veronica as we sat.

She shook her lovely blond tresses. “It would be the same no matter where we went,” she pointed out. “In fact, this corner table is what’s known as Siberia in café society circles. Perfect for us, I would say.”

Our waiter informed us that his name was Eric in a manner not unlike an overblown thespian reciting “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” I ordered two stand-up Sterling vodka martinis and asked for menus. “We’ll dine here,” I told Eric, who did an about-face with military precision.