McNally's luck (7 page)

I showered and dressed carefully for my date with Meg Trumble. I was in a Bulldog Drummond mood and wore total black: raw silk jacket, jeans, turtle-neck, socks, and loafers. My father took one look, elevated an eyebrow, and commented, "You look like a shadow." But of course his taste in male attire is stultified. He thinks my tasseled loafers are twee. I think of him as the Prince of Wingtips.

We sipped our martinis, and mother told us how delighted she was with Lydia Gillsworth's gift. The pater asked offhandedly if I had made any progress with the "Gillsworth matter," and I said I had not.

"And the Willigans' missing cat?" he added.

"Negative," I said, and was tempted to tell him I was convinced the two cases were connected. But I didn't, fearing he might have me certified.

We finished our drinks, and my parents went downstairs to dine. I went out to the Miata and sat long enough to smoke my third English Oval of the day, knowing that in Meg Trumble's company I would have to forgo nicotine.

Then I drove down to the Willigans' home, ruminating on where I could take Meg for dinner. It had to be someplace so distant that my presence with another woman might escape the notice of Consuela Garcia's corps of informants. I finally decided to make the journey to Fort Lauderdale.

I was familiar with W. Scott's warning about tangled webs. But I wasn't really practicing to deceive Connie.

Was I?

I had suggested to Meg that she dress informally and so she did: Bermuda shorts of blue silk, a tank top the color of sea foam, and a jacket in a muted shepherd's plaid that she wore over her shoulders cape-fashion. All undoubtedly informal, but so elegantly slender was her figure and so erect her carriage that she made even casual duds look as formal as a Givenchy ball gown.

"Smashing," I told her. "Have you ever modeled?"

"I tried once," she said, "but I don't photograph well. I come out all edges and sharp corners. The photographer said I looked like a stack of slates."

"Stupid photographer," I grumbled. "He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata."

Meg laughed. "Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?" "It's a splendid classic dish," I said.

I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?

"Couldn't care less," she said. "I'm so happy to get out of that house."

"Oh?" I said. "Problems?"

"My brother-in-law," she said. "I can't stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don't know how my sister puts up with him."

"Maybe she loves him," I said mildly.

Meg hooted. "Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she's paying her dues. I'd never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I'd clean his clock."

"I'll remember that."

"See that you do," she said, so solemnly that I couldn't decide if she was serious or putting me on.

I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town amp; Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.

"I think it's going to rain," Meg said.

"It wouldn't dare," I said. "I planned a romantic evening, and it's hard to be romantic when you're sopping wet."

"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.

Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn't think it would last long-summer squalls rarely did-but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.

"We can stop and put up the top," I told Meg, "and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?"

"You call it," she said.

So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.

"Good choice," Meg said. "I love chili."

Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn't care if the Miata floated away in our absence.

It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.

The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.

The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.

"Tonight's spassel," he announced proudly, "is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver' nice."

"Mild?" I asked him.

"You crazy?" he said.

But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that's what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.

I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel's and served with sauteed peppers and onions and a lot of other swell stuff, all inflammatory. Meg asked for a diet cola and I ordered a bottle of Corona beer.

"And a stomach pump for two," I was tempted to add, but didn't.

I shall not attempt to describe the actual consumption of that combustible meal. Suffice to say that it was accompanied by gasps, brow-mopping, and frequent gulps of cold diet cola and Mexican beer. Our tonsils did not actually shriek in protest, but my stomach began to glow with an incandescent heat, presaging an insomniac night.

Of more importance to this narrative was our conversation that evening, for it included tidbits of information that would have aided my investigation-if I had had the wit to recognize clues in Meg's casual remarks. But I was too busy gnawing fried frog legs and swilling Corona to pay close attention. Do you suppose S. Holmes ever neglected a case because Mrs. Hudson brought him a plump mutton chop?

"Good news," Meg said, working on her chili. "I found an apartment. I already have the keys. I'm moving in tomorrow."

"Wonderful!" I said. "Where?"

"Riviera Beach. It's just a small place and I only have it till October. But the off-season rent is reasonable. I'm going to fly back to Pennsylvania, pack up more clothes and things, and then drive my Toyota back. Now I'll be able to stop freeloading on my sister."

"And get away from Harry," I added.

"That's the best part," she said. "I'll still see Laverne, of course, but not in that house."

We discussed her hope of becoming a personal trainer to Palm Beach residents seeking eternal youth through diet and exercise. I offered to supply a list of friends and acquaintances who might be potential clients.

"That would be a big help, Archy," she said gratefully. "Laverne has already given me some names, but I need more prospects. How about you?"

I laughed. "I'm really not the disciplined grunt-and-groan type. I try to do a daily swim, as I told you, and I play tennis and golf occasionally. I admit I'm hardly in fighting trim, but regular workouts are not my cup of sake. Too lazy, I suspect. I'm surprised you're willing to accept men as clients. I thought you'd limit your efforts to reducing female flab."

"Oh no," she said. "I'll be happy to train men. As a matter of fact, Harry Willigan has already volunteered to be my first client. But he's not interested in improving his health and fitness."

"No?" I said. "What is he interested in?"

I knew the answer to that, and it was just what I expected.

"Me," Meg Trumble said.

Our entrees arrived and we plunged in.

"I hope your sister isn't aware of her husband's interest," I said.

"Of course she's aware. She trusts me, but secretly she'll probably be relieved to have me out of the house."

That amused me. "If there was anything going on between you and Harry, your moving out wouldn't end it. Facilitate it more likely."

"Well, there's nothing going on," she said crossly, "and never will be. I told you what I think of that man."

"I share your opinion," I assured her. "He can be grim. It's amazing that Laverne puts up with his nonsense."

"Oh, she ignores him as much as she can. And she has other interests. She's taking tennis lessons, and she's very active in local clubs. She's at meetings two or three nights a week. But enough about Laverne and Harry. How are you making out on finding Peaches?"

"Not very well," I said. "No progress at all, except for one oddity that needs looking into."

I thought it would do no harm to tell her about the missing cat carrier. I thought it would surprise her, and that she'd immediately guess what I had already assumed: someone in the Willigan household had stuffed Peaches in the carrier and hauled her away.

But Meg kept her head lowered, picked through the jambalaya for shrimp, and said only: "Oh, I'm sure it will turn up somewhere around the house."

We finished our dinner with scoops of lemon sherbet, which helped diminish the conflagration-but not enough.

"Everything hokay?" the mustachioed waiter asked.

"Fine," I said. "If you don't mind a charred epiglottis."

I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.

"Yummy dinner," Meg said. "Thank you. I really enjoyed it."

"We must dine there again," I said. "Perhaps after the turn of the century."

The drive home was a delight. We sang "It Ain't Gonna Rain No Mo' " and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do "Always," and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.

"Sorry," I said.

"Not your fault," she said, sniffling. "It's memories. I'll get over it."

"Of course you will," I said, not all that sure.

But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.

"Hey, Archy," she said, "would you like to see it? It's not too late, is it?"

"Not late at all," I said, "and I'd like to see it."

It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf.

It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.

Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia's espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.

I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.

"Of course it's a little bleak right now," Meg admitted. "It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there's even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up."

"I'm sure you will," I said. "Is the phone connected?"

"Not yet. I'll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you'll come over for dinner."

"Love to," I said. "We'll have a housewarming."

She looked at me speculatively. "We could have one right now," she said. "It's a king-sized bed."

"I like to be treated royally," I said.

I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.

I needn't have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.

It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg's fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.