McNally's luck (25 page)

I went galloping downstairs and found the mater in the greenhouse, chatting to her begonias.

"I know it's hot," she was saying, "but it's summer, and you must keep your spirits up."

"Hallo, luv," I said, swooping to kiss her velvety cheek. "And how is mommy baby feeling today?"

"Oh my," she said, "you are in a chipper mood. Are you in love again, Archy?"

"Quite possibly," I acknowledged. "I do feel strange stirrings about the heart, but of course it could be the onion sandwich I had for lunch. Listen, Mrs. McNally, do you have a meeting of the Current Affairs Society tonight?"

She paused, sprinkling can in hand, to look at me, puzzled. "Why, no," she said. "The next meeting isn't until July fifteenth. Why do you ask?"

"Just confused," I said. "As usual. See you for cocktails, but I have a dinner date tonight."

"Good for you," she said, beaming. "Someone nice, I hope."

"I hope so too," I said.

I went back upstairs convinced that the only current affair Laverne Willigan would attend to that night was her own. There seems to be a lot of adultery going around these days. I suspect it may be contagious.

I worked on my journal for the remainder of the afternoon, jotting down all the information I had learned about Roderick Gillsworth's death. I added the family history of the Glorianas as related by Al Rogoff, and what I had discovered that day of Otto's probable involvement in the catnapping of Peaches, aka Sweetums. I finished with an account of Laverne Willigan's apparent infidelity and her clumsy attempt to conceal it with a feeble falsehood.

Satisfied with my day's labors and the way in which the Gillsworth-Peaches case was slowly revealing its secrets, I closed up shop and went for my daily swim. I returned to shower and dress with particular care. I intended to dazzle Meg Trumble with sartorial splendor, which was why I selected a knitted shirt of plum-colored Sea Island cotton and a linen sport jacket of British racing green. Slacks of fawn silk. Cordovan loafers. No socks.

I displayed this costume at the family cocktail hour.

"Good God!" my father gasped.

I prayed Meg would be more favorably impressed by my imitation of a male bower bird. I was convinced I had been working dreadfully hard and needed a quiet evening to unwind, with no violent deaths, no catnappings, no shocking messages from the beyond. I imagined Meg and I would spend prime time together smiling and murmuring.

And later, surfeited with moussaka and overcome by gemiitlichkeit, she would grant me a session of catch-as-catch-can intimacy. Just the two of us. Alone in the world.

I rang her bell, quivering with eagerness like a gun dog on point. Meg greeted me with a winning smile. And behind her, seated in the living room, was Hertha Gloriana, who gave me a smile just as winning.

"Hertha is going to join us," Meg said happily. "Isn't that marvelous?"

I had dined with two women before, of course-most lads have-and I usually found it a pleasurable experience. To be honest, it gives one a pasha-like feeling: entertaining two from the harem, or perhaps interviewing wannabes. Male self-esteem, always in need of a lift, is given an injection of helium by the presence and flattering attention of not one but two (count 'em!) attractive ladies.

Having said all that, I must tell you from the outset that the evening was a disaster. Never have I felt so extraneous, so foreign. I began to wonder if men and women are not merely two different genders but are actually two different species.

It started when we arrived at the Cafe Istanbul. I selected a booth, Meg and Hertha preferred another, although as far as I could see the booths were identical. I expected to sit alongside Meg, with Her-tha, the third wheel, placed across the table from us. But the women insisted on dining side by side, so I sat alone, facing them.

Nothing so far to elevate a chap's dander, you say-and right you are. But it was only the beginning.

Hertha and Meg seemed to vie with each other in casting snide references to the conjunction of colors I was wearing. Even worse, the medium suggested I'd do well to ask her husband for tips on how to coordinate hues and fabrics in order to present a pleasing appearance.

"It's an idea," I said with a glassy smile, hoping the gnashing of my teeth was not audible. "And where is Frank this evening?"

My innocent question resulted in a convulsion of laughter by both, and it continued until our salad was served and the wine uncorked. I never did receive a reply to my query, though it was obvious that both my dinner partners knew the answer. Is there anything more maddening than an inside joke to which one is neither privy nor offered an explanation?

My essays at light-hearted conversation were similarly rejected. Both women remained po-faced in response to the truly hilarious tale of how Binky Watrous and I, somewhat in our cups, stole a garbage truck and drove it to Boca Raton. Nor did they seem interested in my favorite anecdote about Ferdy Attenborough, a member of the Pelican Club, who was debagged by his cronies and thrust into the ballroom during a formal dance at The Breakers.

As a matter of fact, the ladies didn't seem interested in me at all. But they spent a great deal of time whispering to each other-a shocking breach of good manners-and I recalled my uneasy feeling when I saw them sitting close and holding hands after the seance on Wednesday night. I began to get a disconcerting picture of who the third wheel really was.

Eventually that calamitous dinner came to an end, and I definitely did not suggest we go on to a nightclub for a bottle of bubbly and a spot of dancing. At the moment I felt biodegradable and ready for a New Jersey landfill.

We went back to Meg's apartment, with Hertha sitting on Meg's lap as she had before. I had no desire to linger, since it was painfully obvious that my presence was lending nothing to the festivities. And so, pleading an early morning engagement with my periodontist, I made my escape. The protests of the two women at my early departure were perfunctory, their farewells just as mechanical.

I drove away more thoughtful than angry. You may find this difficult to believe, but there are times, many of them, when my duties as chief of discreet inquiries for McNally amp; Son take precedence over the Sturm und Drang of my personal affairs.

So, in the wake of that discomfiting evening, I pondered less on the outrageous behavior of my two dining companions than on the present whereabouts and activities of Frank Gloriana. I didn't have to be Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin to deduce that Frank and Laverne Willigan had what Jamie Olson once referred to as a "rappaport."

To test my theory I decided to make a quick return trip to the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. This time I pulled into the motel area just long enough to confirm that Laverne's pink Porsche was parked outside Cabin Four.

Then I drove home, deriving some amusement from imagining Harry Willigan's reaction if he was to learn of his wife's involvement in the catnapping of Peaches. I had no intention of snitching on her, of course. It was simply not something a gentleman would do.

I arrived at my burrow to find a scrawled message slipped under the door. It was from Ursi Olson and stated that Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned early in the evening and requested I call him back.

I tried him first at police headquarters but was told he had left for the night. I then phoned him at his mobile home, and he picked up after the third ring.

"McNally," I said.

"You're home so early?" he said. "What happened-the girlfriend kick you out of bed?"

"You're close," I said. "What's happening, Al?"

"A lot. I finally got the FBI report on the Gillsworth and Willigan letters."

"Printed on the same machine?"

"Yep. I also have, a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner and some stuff from the lab. There are more tests to be made, but things are beginning to get sorted out. We better meet."

"Fine," I said. "I have something to tell you, too. I know who swiped the cat."

"Don't tell me it was Willie Sutton."

"No," I said, laughing. "Even better. When do you want to make it?"

"Tomorrow morning at ten," he said. "At Gillsworth's house."

"Why there?"

"We're going to reenact the murder. You get to play the victim."

"My favorite role," I said. "I rehearsed this evening."

"What?"

"Nothing," I said. "See you tomorrow."

I poured myself a small marc and spent a few hours reviewing my journal, paying particular attention to the entries dealing with Laverne Willigan, her feelings about her husband, her reactions to the snatching of Peaches, and the gossip Jamie had relayed about her alleged lover.

I poured a second marc and lighted a cigarette. Absorbing alcohol and inhaling nicotine with carefree abandon, I mused on Laverne's motive for assisting in the catnapping, for I was certain she was involved up to her toasted buns. I scribbled a few notes:

1. Laverne is a sensual young woman with a jumbo appetite for the pleasures of the good life.

2. She is married to Harry, an ill-natured dolt much older than she but with the gelt to provide the aforementioned delights.

3. She meets a rakishly handsome immoralist, Frank Gloriana. He is married to the psychic, Hertha, but has no scruples about cheating on his wife, especially when the possibility of a payoff exists. (Or perhaps the medium is aware of his infidelity and couldn't care less, being as amoral as he.)

4. Laverne and Frank become intimate, enjoying each other's company with absolutely no intention of leaving their respective spouses.

5. But Frank suffers from a bad case of the shorts. (Bounced checks, etc.)

6. Question: Did Laverne or Frank dream up the idea of swiping Peaches for a good chunk of walk-ing-around money?

7. Answer: My guess is that it was Frank's scam, but Laverne merrily goes along since it causes distress to her boorish husband, he can easily afford the bite, and not to aid Frank might result in her losing him.

8. She sneaks the cat out of the Willigan home in its carrier and delivers it to Cabin Four.

9. Frank slides the ransom notes under the Willi-gans' front door.

10. Laverne returns the carrier when she learns from her sister that I have noted its absence.

11. All that remains to be done is the glomming of the ransom and the return of Peaches to her hearth.

12. Everyone lives happily ever after.

I reread these notes, and everything seemed logical to me-and so banal I wanted to weep. I went to bed reflecting that there are really no new ways to sin.

If you discover any, I wish you'd let me know.

Saturday morning brought brilliant sunshine and a resurgence of the customary McNally confidence. This high lasted all of forty-five minutes until, while lathering my chops preparatory to shaving, I received a phone call from Consuela Garcia.

"Archy," she wailed, "our orgy tonight-it's off!"

The bright new day immediately dimmed. I had consoled myself, in typical masculine fashion, that despite my rejection by Meg Trumble on Friday night, there was always Connie awaiting me on Saturday. I had envisioned a debauch so profligate that it might even include our reciting in unison the limerick beginning, "There was a young man from Rangoon." But apparently it was not to be.

"Connie," I said, voice choked with frustration, "why ever not?"

"Because," she said, "I got a call from my cousin Lola in Miami. She and Max, her husband, are driving up to Disney World and want to stop off and spend the night in my place."

"Ridiculous!"

"I know, but I've got to let them, Archy, because I spent a weekend with them at Christmastime."

I sighed. "At least we can all have dinner together, can't we?"

"Archy," she said, "Max wears Bermuda shorts with white ankle socks and laced black shoes."

"No dinner," I said firmly.

"But I want to see you," she cried. "Can't the two of us have lunch even if there's no tiddledywinks later?"

"Of course we can," I said gamely. "Meet you at the Club noonish."

"You are an admirable man," she proclaimed.

"I concur," I said.

A zingy breakfast did wonders for my morale. Being of Scandinavian origin, the Olsons had a thing for herring. Ursi kept a variety on hand, and that was my morning repast: herring in wine, in mustard sauce, in dilled cream, and one lone kipper. I wolfed all this with schwarzbrot and sweet butter. I know iced vodka is the wash of choice with a feast of herring, but it was too early in the morning; I settled for black coffee.

Much refreshed and happy I had been blessed with a robust gut, I tooled the Miata southward to meet Sergeant Al. It was a splendid day, clear and soft. If you're going to reenact a murder, that was the weather for it. The glory of sun, sea, and sky made homicide seem a lark. No one could possibly die on a day like that.

Rogoff was waiting for me in the flowered sitting room of the Gillsworth manse. I thought his meaty face was sagging with weariness, and I made sympathetic noises about his strenuous labors and obvious lack of sufficient sleep.

He shrugged. "Comes with the territory," he growled. "How to be a successful cop: Work your ass off, be patient, and pray that you're lucky. You smell of fish. What did you have for breakfast?"

"Herring."

"I shouldn't complain," he said. "I had a hot pastrami sandwich and a kosher dill. Tell me about the crazy cat."

We sat in facing armchairs, and I recited all the evidence leading to my conclusion that Laverne Willigan and Frank Gloriana had conspired in the catnapping.

Al listened intently and grinned when I finished. "Yeah," he said, "I'll buy it: the two of them making nice-nice and cooking up a plot to swipe the old coot's pet for fifty grand. I love it, just love it. You figure the cat is still out at the motel?"