McNally's luck (21 page)

I went directly to my rooms when I arrived home. I stripped off the dull costume I was wearing and donned my favorite kimono, a jaunty silk number printed with an overall pattern of leaping gazelles. Then I put on reading glasses, sat at my desk, and went to work.

I was determined to play the devil's advocate, to view the evening's events as a cynic who completely disbelieved in alleged manifestations of the occult and had a perfectly rational explanation for what others might consider evidence of the supernatural.

I scribbled furiously, and this is what I came up with:

Hertha's knowledge of Meg Trumble:

Meg's sister, Laverne, was a client of the Glorianas and quite likely had her horoscope prepared by the medium. Hertha could easily be aware of Meg's birthdate, the death of her parents, Meg's interest in physical exercise.

The voices:

Of course no one was familiar with the voice of Xatyl, the Mayan shaman, and it would be relatively simple for an actress with a gift of mimicry to imitate the speech of an old man. The voice of John Trumble might offer a problem, but the man had been dead for eight years, and it was doubtful if Meg remembered the exact sound of his voice. More importantly, she wanted to believe and was eager to accept any masculine voice as that of her departed father.

Lydia Gillsworth's voice would be easy for Hertha to reproduce since Lydia had been present at several seances and was well known to the medium.

Hertha's knowledge of Archy McNally:

I have already speculated on how my date of birth might have been learned by the Glorianas. And I had mentioned to Irma at our first meeting that I had been reading books on spiritualism. I hadn't revealed that they had been loaned to me by Mrs. Gillsworth, but Lydia had attended her final seance after lending me the books and could have casually mentioned that she was assisting me.

I read over what I had written. I didn't claim that all my explanations and suppositions were one hundred percent accurate. But they could be. And they certainly had as much or more claim to the truth than ascribing all the revelations made by the medium to paranormal powers. If you had to bet, where would you put your money?

But acting the disbeliever and applying cold logic to the occurrences at the seance failed in one vital and bewildering instance. That was the medium's screams "Caprice! Caprice!" in answer to my query as to the identity of the murderer of Lydia Gillsworth. Those shocking screams had been uttered in the voices of both Lydia and Hertha.

I had told Irma and Frank Gloriana that the outburst probably meant that the killer had acted on a whim, a sudden impulse, and the murder was unpremeditated. That was pure malarkey, of course. I thought I knew what that shrieked "Caprice! Caprice!" really signified.

It was the car in which Lydia Gillsworth had driven home to her death.

I set out detecting on Thursday morning sans beret-which was certainly more socially acceptable than setting out sans culotte. It was my intention to visit the remaining three animal hospitals on my list, and I feared outre headgear might tarnish the image I wished to project: a worried swain seeking his lost love and her ailing cat.

But first I had a small chore to perform and phoned Roderick Gillsworth.

"Good morning, Rod," I said. "Archy McNally. Welcome home."

"Thank you, Archy," he said. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to be home."

"Rough time?" I inquired.

"Rough enough," he said. "I meant to call you Tuesday night after the funeral, but I had a duel with a bottle of California brandy. The bottle won."

"That's all right," I said. "There was nothing new to report anyway. Rod, I'd like to return your house keys. Will you be home this morning?"

Short pause. Then: "Only for another half-hour. I have some errands to run-supermarket shopping and all that. Including a liquor store so I can return your vodka."

"Don't worry about that. Could I pop over now? It'll just take a minute; I won't linger."

"Sure," he said, "come ahead."

When I arrived at the Gillsworth home, his gray Bentley was parked on the bricked driveway. I admired that vehicle. Subdued elegance. A bit staid for my taste but undeniably handsome.

I rang the bell, Rod opened the door, and I blinked. He usually wore solid blues, whites, and blacks, nothing flashy. But that morning he was clad in lime-green slacks with yellow patent leather loafers, complete with fringed tongues. And over a pink polo shirt was a Lilly Pulitzer sport jacket.

I don't know if you're familiar with that garment, but about twenty years ago it was de rigueur for the young bloods of Palm Beach. Ms. Pulitzer doted on flower prints, and a jacket of her fabric made every dude a walking hothouse. Rod's was a bouquet of daisies, mini carnations, and Dolores roses.

He saw my surprise and gave me an embarrassed smile. "A transformation," he said. "What?"

"Quite," I said.

"Lydia found the jacket in a thrift shop," he said. "A perfect fit, but I never had the courage to wear it. I'm wearing it now for her. You understand?"

I nodded, thinking that chintzy jacket had to be the world's strangest memorial.

"Come on in, Archy," he said. "Too early in the morning to offer you an eye-opener, I suppose."

"By about two hours," I said. "But thanks for the thought."

I moved inside and we stood talking in the hallway.

"Here are the keys, Rod," I said, handing them over. "Everything all right in the house when you returned?"

"Shipshape. Thank you for your trouble. And you've learned nothing new about the investigation from Sergeant Rogoff?"

"Not a word. The poison-pen letters Lydia received have been sent to the FBI lab for analysis. Rogoff should be getting a report soon."

"Do you think he'll tell you what the report says?"

"Probably."

"Then I wish you'd tell me," he said, and added testily, "That man simply refuses to let me know what's going on."

I had no desire to listen again to his complaints against Al, so I changed the subject. "By the way, Rod," I remarked, "I had an unusual experience last night. I attended a seance at the Glorianas'."

His face twisted into a tight smile. "Did you now? Good lord, I haven't been to one of those things in ages. I didn't know you were interested in spiritualism."

"Curiosity mostly," I said. "And the Glorianas are fascinating people."

He considered a moment. "Yes," he said finally, "I suppose you could call them fascinating. Lydia always said that the medium had a genuine psychic gift. Did Hertha tell you anything?"

"Nothing I didn't already know," I said. Then a question occurred to me. "Incidentally, Rod, do you happen to know if Irma, the mother-in-law, is widowed, divorced-or what? I was wondering and of course I didn't want to ask her directly. It would have sounded too much like prying."

Again he paused a moment before answering. Then: "I believe Lydia mentioned that Irma is a widow. Yes, now I recall; her husband was an army officer, killed in the Korean War."

"A strong woman," I opined. "Domineering."

"Do you really think so?" he said. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it? Dominant perhaps, but not domineering."

"You poets," I said, smiling. "You make a nice distinction between adjectives."

"I hate adjectives," he said. "And adverbs. They're so weak and floppy. Don't you agree?"

"Indubitably," I said, and we both laughed.

Your hero drove away wondering and happy. Wondering why the bird had suddenly transmogrified from crow to peacock, and happy that I had picked up another item to add to my journal: Mrs. Irma Gloriana was a widow.

I tooled over to West Palm Beach and started my search. It would add immeasurably to the dramatic impact of this narrative if I could detail fruitless visits to two emergency animal clinics and then conclude triumphantly by telling you I struck paydirt at the last on my list. But I have resolved to make this account as honest as is humanly possible, so I must confess that I succeeded at the first hospital I canvassed.

I performed my song and dance for the receptionist, a comely young miss. She seemed sympathetic and spoke into an intercom. In a moment a veterinarian exited from an inner office and accosted me. He was wearing a long white doctors' jacket with five-count 'em, five! — ballpoint pens clipped to a plastic shield in his breast pocket. He was a short, twitchy character who appeared to be of nerdish extraction.

I repeated my fictional plea, and he blinked furiously at me from behind smudged spectacles. I returned his flickering stare with a look I tried to make as honest and sincere as possible.

Apparently it worked, for he said in a reedy voice, "I have recently treated a female cat such as you describe, but a man brought her in, not a lady."

"A man?" I said thoughtfully. "That was undoubtedly her uncle. He frequently travels with her to prevent her being propositioned by uncouth strangers. She is an extremely attractive young woman. Could you describe the man, please, doctor?"

"Tall," he said. "Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so, I'd guess."

"Her uncle to a T," I cried. "I'm enormously relieved. And was Peaches seriously ill?"

"I cannot divulge that information," he said sternly. "Medical ethics."

"Of course," I said hastily. "Completely understandable. Would you be willing to give me their address, sir? I'm eager to offer them what assistance I can."

He went back into his office and returned a few minutes later to hand me a scribbled Post-It note.

"The man's name is Charles Girard," he said. "On Federal Highway. A strange address for someone as prosperous as he seemed to be."

"A temporary residence, I'm sure," I said. "I believe Mr. Girard and his niece are on their way to the Lesser Antilles. Thank you so much for your cooperation, doctor."

I had noticed a glass jar on the receptionist's desk. It bore a label requesting contributions for the feeding and rehabilitation of stray felines. The jar was half-filled with coins. I extracted a twenty-dol-lar bill from my wallet and stuffed it into the jar.

"For the hungry kitties," I said piously.

The vet blinked even more rapidly. "You are very generous," he commented.

"My pleasure," I said, and meant it.

I boogied out to the Miata. I was very, very pleased with the triumph of my charade. Surely you recall Danton's prescription for victory: "Audacity, more audacity, always audacity." How true, how true!

The veterinarian had been correct about the address given him by Charles Girard: it was a strange neighborhood. The buildings on that stretch of Federal Highway appeared to have been erected fifty years ago and never painted since. They were mostly one- and two-story commercial structures housing a boggling variety of businesses: taverns, used car lots, fast-food joints, and a depressing plethora of stores selling sickroom equipment and supplies.

But there were many vacant shops with For Rent signs in their dusty windows. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and defeated about the entire area, as if the Florida of shining malls and gleaming plazas had passed it by, leaving it to crumble away in the hot sun and salt wind.

I found the address the vet had provided. It proved to be a motel, and when I tell you it consisted of a dozen individual cabins, you can estimate when it was built. I guessed the late 1940s. I drove past and left the Miata in a small parking area beside a seemingly deserted enterprise that sold plastic lawn and patio furniture.

I walked slowly back to the Jo-Jean Motel and entered the office. It was not air conditioned, but a wood-bladed ceiling fan revolved lazily. A large, florid lady was perched on a stool behind the counter, bending over one of those supermarket newspapers that everyone denies reading and which sells about five million copies a week. She didn't look up when I came in.

"I beg your pardon," I said loudly, "but I'm looking for Mr. Charles Girard."

"South row, Cabin Four," she said, still perusing her tabloid. I could read the big headline upside down. It said: "Baby Born Whistling 'Dixie.' "

I went out into that searing sunlight again, found the south row of cabins. Then I stopped, stared, turned around, and walked hastily back to my Miata.

Parked alongside Cabin Four was Roderick Gillsworth's gray Bentley.

I headed back to the McNally Building, reflecting that I had refused Gillsworth's offer of an eye-opener that morning, but he had certainly provided one now. I was totally flummoxed. I couldn't conjure up even the most fantastic scenario to account for the poet visiting a man who apparently had catnapped Harry Willigan's pride and joy. It made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.

And that turned out to be a mistake. I was looking for rationality in a plot that might have been devised by the Three Stooges.

I was making a turn off Federal when it suddenly occurred to me that the Pelican Club was only a few minutes' drive away. The sun was inching toward the yardarm, and I decided that refreshment, liquid and solid, in a cool, dim haven was needed to clear my muddleheadedness and get the old ganglia vibrating again.

I lunched alone, waited upon by the saucy Priscilla. Ordinarily we'd have had a bout of chivying, but Pris recognized my mood, and after taking my order left me alone with my problems. I scarfed determinedly through a giant cheeseburger and a bowl of cold potato salad, and by the time I started on my second schooner of Heineken draft, the McNally spirits were bubbling once again. I finished lunch by devouring a wedge of key lime pie while silently reciting those fatuous lines from Henley's "Invictus," although I wasn't positive I was the captain of my soul. More like a Private First Class.

I paid my bill at the bar. Simon Pettibone was wearing a striped shirt with sleeve garters and a small black leather bow tie. With his square spectacles and tight helmet of gray hair, he radiated the wisdom and understanding of an upright publican familiar with all the world's enigmas.