McNally's Dilemma (33 page)

Melva let out a cry just as Hattie put down the coffee tray. When the housekeeper spotted Veronica slumped in the chair, she joined in the histrionics.

“She’s breathing.” I shouted above the wailing. “And I doubt if there were enough pills in that small bottle to kill her. Now, keep your heads, both of you. Melva, dial 911, right now. As Veronica said, the charade is over.”

I used the gate phone to announce my arrival at the Fairhurst house. Hector must have been off because Peterson, not looking pleased, came down to let me in. I offered him a ride back to the house, which he accepted with little grace. Mrs. P. played butler at the front door and told me her employer was in the first-floor office, awaiting my appearance. It was Peterson, however, who led the way and announced me.

I was surprised to see both Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst in attendance. As soon as he dismissed his butler, Mr. Fairhurst said, “You remember my wife, Archy.”

“Of course,” I answered, with a nod toward Mrs. Fairhurst. She smiled a “how-do-you-do,” but didn’t offer me her hand. Both she and her husband were seated when I came into the office and Mr. Fairhurst stood to greet me.

“What do you have to report, Archy?” Mr. Fairhurst looked as anxious as an expectant father hovering outside the delivery room.

“I know who the blackmailer is, sir.”

I could see Mrs. Fairhurst’s eyes widen, but other than that, she gave no indication that she was in any way concerned with my news. Mr. Fairhurst looked as if he couldn’t wait to get his mitts on the trespasser.

“And he’s dead.” I allowed this bomb to drop as casually as I dared.

“Dead?” Mr. Fairhurst couldn’t believe that someone had usurped him of the deed.

“It was Geoff Williams, sir. The man you knew as Melva’s husband.”

The two of them looked at me in amazement as I related the story that would become public knowledge by tomorrow morning. “He must have seen the dates on the portraits when he was here with Melva and did a little research to learn the truth. I assume the fact that your grandfather wore woman’s clothing to escape the ship was a wild guess on Geoff’s part, and it worked.”

Mrs. Fairhurst had tears in her eyes as she shook her head and repeated again and again, “Poor Melva. Oh, that poor woman.”

“He was a bastard and a four-flusher,” Mr. Fairhurst said. “I knew it from the day he arrived in Palm Beach.”

“He had no money of his own, as you know,” I continued, “and thought he had struck gold with his knowledge.”

“But the second letter came after he was killed,” Mr. Fairhurst suddenly recalled.

“That’s right, sir. The man we knew as Geoff Williams mailed the first letter himself and gave the second to his son, whom you know as Seth Walker, to mail.”

Mrs. Fairhurst let out a little cry as her husband pounded his fist on the surface of his pedigreed antique desk.

“He planted his son in this household to keep an eye on things and, I imagine, for future reference. As you said, sir, he wasn’t about to stop after one try. He was looking for a steady income. And,” I quickly added, “the boy knows nothing. I traced him and his mother through the address in Boynton Beach. I’ll give you a full report of what happened after that. Suffice it to say for now that the boy confessed to mailing the second letter given to him by his father and swore he did not know what was in the letter or what his father was up to. I believe he’s completely innocent, sir.”

“How can we be sure?” Mr. Fairhurst demanded.

Here, my relief pitcher stepped in, and not a moment too soon. “I believe Mr. McNally, John, and so should you. A man like this Geoff Williams, or whatever his name is, wouldn’t share what he knew with anyone. He was a greedy and despicable person. Let it all end here. It’s Melva and her girl we have to think about now.”

Reluctantly, John Fairhurst nodded his head in agreement with his wife. “So be it. You did well, Archy. My check will be in the mail as soon as I receive your bill.”

“Thank you, sir.” I turned to Mrs. Fairhurst. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, ma’am.”

“The pleasure, Mr. McNally, was all mine.”

De mortuis nil nisi bonum.
Say nothing but good of the dead. And, in my own way, that’s just what I had done. Posthumously, I allowed Geoffrey Williams, or Jeffrey Wolinsky Sr., to do the right thing by his family. The heroic gesture was long overdue.

I
T WAS ALMOST DARK
when I arrived back home. Too late for my swim, I settled for a shower, a small marc, and an English Oval. Then I called Consuela Garcia.

“Archy? What’s going on? Rumors are flying up and down Ocean Boulevard faster than the traffic.”

Already? But of course. Hattie must have been on the horn with Mrs. Marsden before the ambulance, the police, and the lawyer, Bill Evans, arrived. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“When will that be?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night. How about dinner at your place?”

“How about dinner out,” she countered, “and not the Pelican Club.”

“Cafe L’Europa?”

“I accept,” she answered, faster than rumors, traffic, or a speeding bullet.

I could feel my wallet beginning to bleed as I said, “I assume Lady C.’s masked ball is history.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Archy. The invitations are out and the masked ball is very much on. Only now it’s going to be a ‘who-done-it?’ extravaganza. A theatrical agency in Miami has been hired to put it together. They orchestrate the mystery cruises for one of the big lines operating out of Fort Lauderdale. There will be a murder or two, and an investigation with Buzz in the role of Sam Spade.”

“What about his silk breeches?”

“He wears them as a disguise when he mingles with the guests, who are all suspects.”

“You must excuse me, Connie. I have to ring off now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to jump out the window.”

“Archy...”

My father sequestered me in the den before dinner, and I related my day from start to finish. He nodded from time to time but otherwise didn’t interrupt the story. When I finished, he said, “The girl has a good chance of getting off easy. Bigamy and sexual abuse will be the defense’s trump cards and they’ll play them for all they’re worth.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking, sir.”

“And John Fairhurst was satisfied with your explanation and conclusions?”

“He was.” And as I knew he would, Father didn’t pursue the subject.

“You’ve done very well, Archy.”

“Thank you, sir.” After a moment’s pause, I said, “I was wondering if you would be taking on any extra help for the holidays. You know how busy it gets this time of year with mail, packages, errands, and what have you.”

“Why do you ask, Archy?”

“Binky Watrous would be available if the need arose, sir.”

Father raised one eyebrow, and I can’t say as I blamed him. “I’ll give it some thought,” he promised. “Now, why don’t you prepare our cocktails. I expect your mother will be here any moment.”

“Yes, sir.” I went to the bar and began our ritual by filling the silver pitcher with ice. After preparing three perfect Sterling vodka martinis, I brought one to Father and said, “Now that you know John Fairhurst’s grandfather was a drag queen, I imagine you feel more amiable toward your father, Ready Freddy McNally of Minsky fame.”

Prescott McNally was not amused.

According to Lolly Spindrift, Lady Cynthia’s “who-done-it” was the premier social event of the new season. Phil Meecham was the “victim,” which enabled him to spend most of the night in Lady C.’s boudoir, playing dead with a generous supply of food and liquor to keep him company. Lady C. was the murderess brought to justice not by Buzz, the sleuth in silk breeches, but by a young man said to be a clairvoyant with remarkable talent with whom Lady C. was most impressed—and so the season has officially begun.

Lolly, the official guru on our society murder, let us all know that Veronica was declared mentally unfit to stand trial, and has been hospitalized until such time as she is able to answer for her crime. Given the circumstances, father doubts that she will ever be found guilty of first-degree murder, but will most likely get off with a plea of temporary insanity, her time in the sanatorium to be applied to any sentence she may be given.

What Lolly doesn’t know is that Melva, in spite of all her problems, has used her wealth and contacts to have the real Mrs. Williams placed in a private rehabilitation facility. She has also offered young Jeff support if he wishes to complete his education, with the goal a degree in computer science, long a dream of this surprising young man.

Melva has gone back to New York, her rented mansion eerily empty, and she told me she doubted if she would ever return to Palm Beach. That remains to be seen.

It is also rumored that the Fairhurst family portraits have been sent out to be “cleaned and refurbished.” Now there was an item I could have scooped Lolly on but chose professional integrity instead.

Binky is second in charge of the mail room at McNally & Son, a de facto title as our mail room consists solely of old Mr. Anderson, a post-office pensioner who is very near to retiring a second time. Mrs. Trelawney, I am told, adores Binky. Those doe eyes will do it all the time.

And finally, my dinner with Connie at L’Europa cost a week’s salary, but was worth every cent. Connie will also have Christmas dinner with us, where she will join in the traditional McNally yule toast, “God bless us, one and all.”

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W
HAT COULD BE
nicer than holding the hand of a beautiful young lady with the lights turned low? Why, holding the hand of a beautiful young lady with the lights turned off, that’s what. And when the young lady is none other than Elizabeth Fitzwilliams—“Fitz” to her intimates, whose number, according to Palm Beach gossip, is legion—the experience can be quite uplifting, if you get my drift.

I was restrained, literally and figuratively, from joining the ranks of Fitz’s intimates by that pillar of Palm Beach society, the formidable Penelope Tremaine—“Penny” to her intimates, whose pedigrees make up for their numerical paucity—who was holding my other hand.

Penny’s hand that wasn’t holding mine was attached to that of her husband, Vance Tremaine. Vance had a serious predilection for pretty young ladies, so it’s always wise to know exactly where his hands are with the likes of Fitz in the immediate vicinity.

Vance, in turn, held the hand of the charming Mrs. John Fairhurst. If Penny was a pillar of Palm Beach society, Emily Fairhurst was the concrete in which the pillar was embedded.

Moving right along, Emily held the hand of her secretary, Arnold Turnbolt, and to complete the circle, Arnold and Fitz played bookends to Palm Beach’s current diversion, Serge Ouspenskaya.

Me? I’m Archibald McNally—Archy to my intimates, whose number can be counted without going into the higher mathematics of double digits—of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law. Father is the attorney and I, having been expelled from Yale Law, am the son and director of a small department (employees: one) at McNally & Son assigned to Discreet Inquiries. We represent some of the wealthiest residents of the Town of Palm Beach, whose problems often require private investigation rather than the assistance of the local police. The very rich like to keep a low profile, especially when a spotlight might reveal them to be as foolish and sinful as lesser folks who don’t have a portfolio to call their own.

By now, those of you who are ardent readers of Conan Doyle, Dashiell Hammett and Dick Tracy know that on this (may the PB Chamber of Commerce forgive me) chilly January night we had not come together to play ring-around-the-rosy, form a daisy chain to protest the pollution of our planet or pray. We were, in fact, in the midst of Palm Beach’s latest craze—a stance. And lest you think that I have taken leave of my senses (and there are those, whose number is myriad, who would say that one cannot take leave of what one never possessed) I am here not as believer, agnostic or neophyte, but in pursuit of my duties as a discreet inquirer.

As we sit, emptying our minds—with this crowd a feat easier done than said—I will recapitulate, for those who do not have ready access to a crystal ball, the events that got me from home to here (in my fire-engine red Miata and not upon a flying carpet).

My office, in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, is slightly larger than a duplex coffin. I can only assume that my father relegated me to this minuscule closet to show those he employs that he, Prescott McNally, is not an adherent of nepotism. Though deprived of a window, he did permit me an air-conditioning vent; he has not, as yet, installed a razor-sharp pendulum in the ceiling, swinging in an ever widening and descending arc. Father is a devotee of Dickens, not Poe, and I am thankful for small blessings.

When my phone rang I picked it up after the third ring giving the impression, I hoped, that the caller was intruding upon a business conclave of paramount importance. It was Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s secretary, who knew better. “Mrs. Trelawney,” I cooed, “I was just about to call you.”