McNally's Puzzle (4 page)

As we munched our greeneries I offered Binky a few suggestions anent his assignment.

“If you are interviewed by Hiram Gottschalk, the owner,” I said, “I advise you to regale him with the recitation of your birdcalls. He is a confessed bird lover and I think your unusual talent may convince him to hire you on the spot.”

“Oh sure,” Binky said. “I’ll give him the cry of the yellow-thighed manakin. That’ll impress him. Say, Archy, this is really awful wine. Can’t we have a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck?”

“No,” I said. “When you arrive at Parrots Unlimited seek out the young lady I mentioned. She’ll aid your application for employment. You may mention my name; I’ve already alerted her to the possibility of your coming in. Her name is Bridget Houlihan.”

“Oh?” he said. “Of Irish descent?”

I looked at him. “Possibly,” I said. “Or perhaps Estonian. Binky, if you are hired—and I’m confident you will be—I want you to lavish all your multitudinous charms on the other employees. Learn their names, details of their private lives, observe personal habits, note relationships with fellow workers, including the manager, and especially sound out how they feel about their employer, Hiram Gottschalk.”

“In other words, you want me to snoop.”

“Exactly.”

“That’ll be fun,” he said happily. “I enjoy snooping, don’t you, Archy?”

“I prefer to consider it unobtrusive investigation,” I said stiffly. “But yes, snooping is what I require of you. I should also mention Mr. Gottschalk’s twin daughters are returning from a European trip tomorrow and will be feted at an informal welcome-home bash at the Gottschalk residence on Wednesday evening. Employees will be invited, so if all goes well I may see you there.”

“Hey,” he said, brightening, “this case is beginning to sound like one continuous round of merriment.”

I didn’t believe it would be but didn’t wish to disabuse my eager helot. We finished lunch and, feeling contrite about that blah chardonnay, I treated him to Rémy Martin at the bar. He finished his pony in two gulps—Binky is definitely not an accomplished sipper—and he departed in a blithe mood, vowing to apply for part-time employment at Parrots Unlimited as soon as he had enjoyed a postprandial nap.

I drove directly home in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, which I always imagined had originally been designed as a loo for pygmies. What a delight it was to reenter my air-conditioned aerie where every prospect pleased and only I was vile. I shucked off those fuddy-duddy threads I had donned to impress Mr. Gottschalk, lighted my first English Oval of the day, and got on the horn.

My first call was to Consuela Garcia, the young lady with whom I am intimate when she is not accusing me of real or fancied infidelities. Connie would, I knew, be hard at work as a social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of the wealthiest chatelaines of Palm Beach. Lady Cynthia has six ex-husbands, maybe a PB record, and at least six hundred enemies she zealously enrages with her acidic wit and political clout. I am thankful she considers me a friend.

Connie was happy to take a moment off from organizing a reception Lady Cynthia was planning for a visiting Zimbabwean griot.

We gibbered a few moments about such vital topics as Connie’s new recipe for spicy sautéed trout and a curious dream I had a few nights previously involving Irene Dunne, Akim Tamiroff, and a Ferris wheel.

“Listen, dear,” I said, “I have a problem.”

“The dream?”

“No, it concerns a chap named Peter Gottschalk. You know him?”

“Do I ever!” she said. “He’s always hitting on me at the Pelican. A real dingbat.”

“So I understand. You know I chair the Membership Committee, and we’ve had several complaints about his acting in an irrational way. We could throw him overboard of course and let him founder, but that seems cruel. Besides, he might sue. Simon Pettibone thinks it may be a mental disability and the poor boy needs professional help. Are you acquainted with his parents?”

“No, but I’ve met his twin sisters.”

“Have you now,” I said.

The reason for my subterfuge is obvious, is it not? If I had started candidly by asking, “Do you know the Gottschalk daughters?” Connie would immediately assume I was casting covetous eyes on one or both and demand to know the reason for my interest. I hadn’t lied, you understand, just dissembled. I’m rather crafty at that.

“What kind of females are they?” I asked casually. “I mean, do you think they’re sympathetic and understanding? Would they be willing to urge their brother to seek help for his crazy behavior?”

“I don’t know,” Connie said doubtfully. “Sometimes they act like a couple of ding-a-lings themselves. Maybe it runs in the family.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to attempt to enlist their assistance. I’d hate to chuck Peter Gottschalk from the Pelican Club simply for not acting in a reasonable manner.”

“That’s right, kiddo,” Connie said. “Set that requirement and you’ll be the first to go.” She hung up giggling.

I hadn’t learned much, had I? But that’s the way I work most of my cases: a slow, patient accretion of facts, observations, opinions, surmises, and sometimes apparently inconsequential details such as grammar, dress, and knowledge of how to eat an artichoke.

My second phone call was to Lolly Spindrift, who writes a gossip column for one of our local gazettes. Lol and I have had a profitable quid pro quo relationship for several years. Occasionally I feed him choice tidbits of skinny about my current cases (without compromising client confidentiality) and in return Lol gives me tasty morsels from his consummate knowledge of the high jinks and low jinks of Palm Beach residents.

“You swine!” he shrieked. “Hast thou forsaken me? Things have been so dull! My stable of tattletales seems to be infected with an epidemic of discretion. A horror! I have to struggle—
struggle
, darling!—to fill each day’s report. Tell me you have something juicy for dear old Lol.”

“Nothing exciting,” I admitted, “but it may be worth a line or two if you promise not to mention his name. Call him the scion of a wealthy Palm Beach family. He’s about to be booted out of an exclusive private club for improper behavior.”

“Name of scion?” Lol demanded. “Name of exclusive private club?”

“Peter Gottschalk,” I said. “The Pelican Club.”

He sighed. “Peter is a world-class nitwit and the Pelican is about as exclusive as Diners Club. Look, sweetie, this scoop you’re offering doesn’t quite rival the sinking of the
Titanic
.”

“I know, Lol, but I hoped it might be worth an item.”

“Only because I have nothing better. Now what do you want?”

“Do you have anything on the Gottschalk daughters?”

“Oh-ho,” he said, and I heard the sudden interest in his voice. “Do I detect a preoccupation with the Gottschalk family? Something going on there, luv?”

“Possibly,” I said. “If so, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I better be. The daughters are Judith and Julia. Identical twins. Two wildebeests. Not as fruity as their brother but almost. Maybe it runs in the family.” (Cf. Connie’s remark.)

“Unrestrained, one might say?”

“One might,” he agreed. “They’re very attractive, ducky, which may tickle your id, but they’re not my species, as you well know. The girls are remarkable look-alikes. Their favorite caper is to date the same man, separately and alternately, without revealing their deception. The poor stud thinks he’s bedding Judith. He might be. Or it might be Julia. They’re practically indistinguishable and think gulling their lovers is the funniest hoax in the world.”

“Surely they don’t dress alike.”

“Oh no, they don’t carry their twinship that far.”

“Ever married? Either or both?”

“Not to my knowledge. Only to each other.”

“Thank you, Lol,” I said gratefully. “You’ve been much help, as usual. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Do that,” he warned. “Or I may be forced to publish an entire column on the romantic peccadilloes of Archibald McNally.”

“Perish the thought.”

“I shall,” he said. “Temporarily.”

Although interested by what I had learned, I called a halt to sherlocking for the remainder of the afternoon. I tugged on cerise Speedo swimming trunks, added a terry Donald Duck cover-up and leather sandals, grabbed a towel, and went down to the sea for my daily dunk.

I did the usual two miles, south and back, flogging my flaccid muscles into action. Truthfully it was more of a wallow than a swim but I finished with a great sense of accomplishment, hoping
mens sana in corpore sano
really applied to me but with a lurking suspicion I flunked the
sano
part.

I returned to my den, showered away salt water and sand, and dressed casually in time to attend the family cocktail hour. This is not an hour of course, more like thirty minutes when the McNally tribe traditionally gathers in our second-floor sitting room for a pitcher of gin martinis mixed by the lord of the manor. After one wallop—and occasionally a small dividend—we all troop downstairs for dinner.

Dinner that night was sautéed yellowtail snapper with potato patties Ursi Olson had made with a few tablespoons of sherry. Good for Ursi! Dessert was a chocolate cheesecake. Ursi hadn’t made that; it was store-bought. It was excellent but so rich I could feel my arteries slowly hardening. I could scarcely finish a second slice.

Back in my digs I kicked off my mocs and donned reading glasses. Yes, despite my tender age, I do need specs for close-up work. I never wear them in public of course since they make me look like a cybernetic nerd and would utterly destroy my sedulously cultivated image of a cavalier, a dashing combination of D’Artagnan and Bugs Bunny.

I sat at my arthritic desk and started a fresh page in my journal. This is a professional diary in which I keep notes of my discreet inquiries. I am not yet a resident of la-la land, you understand, but now and then I do forget things and find a scribbled record an invaluable aid.

I wrote rapidly in my crabbed hieroglyphics, which even I sometimes have trouble deciphering. I started with my father’s alert: Hiram Gottschalk feared for his life. Then I added everything that had happened since: my visit to Parrots Unlimited, interview with the client, enlisting of Binky Watrous, and what I had learned from Simon Pettibone, Connie Garcia, and Lolly Spindrift.

Finally I dug out the list Mr. Gottschalk had given me of members of his household: family and staff. I was copying their names when one caused me to pause. His housekeeper and apparently mistress of the Gottschalk ménage was Yvonne Chrisling.

I distinctly recalled Hiram telling me the name of the manager of Parrots Unlimited. It was Ricardo Chrisling, an uncommon surname. I had to assume Yvonne and Ricardo were related. Wife and husband? Sister and brother? Mother and son? I found it intriguing and determined to seek a solution at the Gottschalk welcome-home party on Wednesday night.

It was close to eleven o’clock when I completed my labors and I was pouring myself a small marc as a reward when my phone rang. The caller was Sgt. Al Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department. Al and I have joined forces on several cases in the past. He provides me with official assistance when he can and I act as his dragoman to the arcane complexities of Palm Beach society.

Our relationship is, I truly believe, one of genuine friendship. But it does not lack on occasion a certain competitiveness. I mean when we’re cooperating on an investigation the sergeant doesn’t tell me all he knows, or guesses, and I return the favor. But that just adds a little cayenne to the stew, does it not?

“How’s it going, old buddy?” he asked.

“Swimmingly,” I replied. “And you?”

“Existing. The last squeal I had was an old dame boosting avocados from a local supermarket. Pretty exciting, huh? You working anything?”

“Nothing important. Dribs and drabs.”

“Oh sure,” he said. “Because if you were on something heavy you’d tell me about it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“When shrimp fly,” he said. “All right, I’m just checking in. If anything intriguing—your word, not mine—comes up, give me a shout. I’m bored out of my gourd.”

“Aren’t we all?” I said, and we disconnected. It wasn’t time to bring Al into the Gottschalk inquiry. Not yet it wasn’t and I hoped it never would be. But I was troubled by—what? Not a premonition—I rarely have those—but by a nagging unease caused by the three frightful accidents that had befallen Hiram Gottschalk. I did not take them lightly.

I like to go to sleep in a merry mood and so that night before retiring I listened to a recording of Tiny Tim singing “Tip-Toe thru the Tulips with Me.”

It helped.

I
AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING
knowing exactly what I intended to do. This was a rarity since I usually regain consciousness in a semibefuddled state, not quite knowing where I am or even
who
I am. I recall awakening one morning with the firm conviction that I was Oscar Homolka. I am not, of course, and never have been.

What I intended to do requires a smidgen of explanation.

A few years previously Sgt. Al Rogoff had introduced me to Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, a psychiatrist who had her home and office in Lantana. Dr. Pearlberg did not specialize in forensic psychiatry but on several occasions had provided local police departments with tentative psychological profiles of serial thieves, rapists, and killers. Her predictions had, in most cases, proved remarkably prescient.

She was a wonderful woman, eighty at least although she would only admit to being “of a certain age.” It was said she had been psychoanalyzed by Dr. Sigmund F. himself but I cannot vouch for that. She had outlived two husbands and three children but her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were her joy. She had absolutely no intention of retiring, and why on earth should she, since her mind was twice as nimble as shrinks half her age.

After making her acquaintance I had mentioned her acumen to my father and several times he had recommended her to clients or the relatives and friends of clients in need of psychiatric counseling, always with satisfactory results. The woman really was a blessing and it was she I intended to consult as soon as possible. Not in regard to my own shortcomings, I assure you; they’re incurable.