McNally's Risk (19 page)

“Marcia,” I said, “I don’t wish to pry. I know nothing about your personal affairs and have no desire to know. But if you’re in a sticky situation and would like advice, assistance, or just encouragement, I’d be happy to help.”

“I don’t need help,” she said disdainfully. “From you or anyone else. Daddy is dead and can’t tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do. I’m in control of my own life now. For the first time. And I know how to do it.”

I was convinced she didn’t. She wasn’t a child, she was an infant, an impetuous, disturbed, and possibly violent infant. I saw no way to aid her without becoming immersed in the same madness that was obviously engulfing her. So I did nothing. Save yourself. It’s a hard and sometimes cruel dictum. But it’s the first law of survival.

“I wish you the best, Squirrel,” I said. “I hope all your plans succeed.” I opened the door of the Cherokee, holding that damned white envelope. “Please let me know how you make out.”

“Sure,” she said with an elfin grin that broke my heart.

I stood there and watched her gun up the ramp and out of the garage. I was in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, so I remounted the Miata and headed for home. I needed a long, slow ocean swim, the family cocktail hour, and a merry dinner with my parents to reassure me that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

And it worked—for a while. I arose from the table feeling content and full of beans (actually they were haricots verts with slivered almonds), but then my father summoned me to his study. I followed him with the premonition that my serene mood was soon to evaporate.

“Glass of port, Archy?” he inquired.

That cinched it. When the patriarch invites me to have a postprandial libation it usually means he’s going to give me a world-class migraine in the form of an unwelcome assignment. The proffered drink is his a priori apology

He did the pouring, from one of his crystal decanters into Waterford goblets. He seated himself behind his massive desk and I took the nearest leather club chair. We sipped our wine. I thought it rather musty but I didn’t tell him that.

“Anything new on Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth’s young lady?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I replied. “Nothing definite.”

“His mother came in today. Apparently her son has proposed and the woman in question has accepted. Were you aware of that, Archy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wish you had informed me.”

“I learned of it only last night, father.”

He accepted that. “Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth was quite upset. Perhaps indignant would be more accurate.”

“I can imagine.”

“However, I think she is reconciled to the fact that her son is determined to marry. Unless, of course, your investigation should prove the lady to be completely unsuitable.”

“I’ve uncovered nothing to date that would disqualify her, sir.” Naturally I said nothing of uncovering the lady herself.

“But you’re continuing your investigation?”

“Yes, father, I am.”

“Good. But our client has raised another objection. Before she gives her final blessing to the match she is determined to retrieve her son’s letters to that unfortunate woman in Fort Lauderdale—what was her name?”

“Shirley Feebling.”

“Yes. Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth fears that if she gives her approval, it’s possible that before, during, or shortly after the marriage those embarrassing letters might surface as a cover story in one of our more lurid tabloids.”

“She has a point.”

“Indeed she does, Archy. I told her of the efforts I have made, with the assistance of Sergeant Rogoff, to seek the return of the letters from the Lauderdale police, to no avail. Their position is that they can release no evidence, particularly that found at the murder scene, until the case is cleared.”

“That’s understandable, father.”

“Of course it is,” he said crossly. “They’re entirely in the right, even though Chauncey is not a suspect. So apparently his letters will remain in their possession until the homicide of Miss Feebling is solved.”

He looked at me intently, knuckling his Brillo mustache. I knew what he wanted me to say and I said it.

“Let me look into it, father.”

“Yes, Archy,” he said gratefully, “you do that. Nothing illegal, of course. Do not, in any way, shape, or form, interfere with the official investigation. But though I admire your ingenuity, I must tell you I doubt you will succeed where, to date, the police have failed. However, I want to be able to assure our client that McNally and Son has done its best to accede to her wishes.” He paused a moment and gave me a wry smile. “Also,” he added, “your investigation should result in a large number of billable hours.”

I laughed. “I expect it will, father,” I said.

He finished his glass of wine and stood up. It was my dismissal. The moment I left he would pack and light one of his James Upshall pipes, pour another port, and get back to Dickens. I wondered if he had started
The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

“Kindly keep me informed of the progress of your investigation,” he said. Very patrician. I admired him. He had the intonation just right.

I nodded, left his study, and started upstairs. I paused at the second-floor sitting room, where mother was watching a rerun of “The Honeymooners.” I kissed her good-night and she patted my cheek while laughing delightedly at Ralph Kramden. I continued up to my own cloister.

It had been a long, arduous day, and instead of a shower I opted for a bath. I frothed the water with a mildly scented oil and launched a squadron of rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag. Then I slid in with a moan of contentment.

An hour later I was dried and had donned one of my favorite kimonos, the one printed with images of Elmer Fudd at play. I sat at my desk and worked hard at my journal, recording everything that had happened since the last entry. I do work hard, you know, though I suspect you may think I’m just another pretty face.

I remembered to jot notes on what Luther Grabow had told me of Silas Hawkin’s intention to paint a nude on wood; the insane luncheon with Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler; and the even madder conversation with Marcia Hawkin in an underground garage.

That last item reminded me to take the white envelope from my jacket pocket and slip it into the top desk drawer. But before I did that, I held it up to the strong light of my student lamp. Unfortunately it appeared to be a security envelope— one of those with an overall pattern printed on the inside— and I could decipher nothing of what Squirrel might have written on the letter within. Frustrating, but I swear I was not tempted to steam it open. Subsequent events made me wish to hell I had.

Finished with my scribbling, I reviewed everything I had written since my initial interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. Even more frustrating, for it seemed to me I had compiled a compendium of disparate facts and fancies. If there was a pattern, a design no matter how bizarre, I simply could not see it. Mishmash would be an apt description.

And now there was another spud in the stew: my father’s request that I investigate the murder of Shirley Feebling. I could understand his doubts that I would succeed where, so far, the Lauderdale homicide detectives had failed. But neither the squire nor the police, as far as I knew, were aware of the existence of Reuben Hagler, the “old buddy” of Hector Johnson, father of the woman I had been assigned to dissect.

There were connections, I was convinced, but they were so tenuous as to be ungraspable. (There is such a word; you can look it up.) After a long bout of jumbled pondering I decided I had no choice but to engineer another meeting with Pinky Schatz, close friend of the slain Shirl Feebling. I could not forget my impression that the bouncy Ms. Schatz had lied to me because of fear. But fear of whom I could not imagine. Unless he drove a gunmetal Cadillac.

All this Sturm und Drang was so depressing. I really don’t know how psychiatrists do it. I mean they listen to woeful confessions of ridden people every day. All they hear is weeping, wailing, and the gnashing of teeth: stories of hate, abuse, greed, lust, violence, and other swell stuff. Who could blame the shrinks if they went home at night and, to survive, read fairy tales—or anything that ends “And they lived happily ever after.”

I suppose I was in that mood when I determined to call Connie Garcia. I needed a dose of normality. It was close to midnight, and I let her phone ring and ring. But she did not answer.

I went to bed. I was not gruntled.

I
MIGHT HAVE SLEPT
forever on Wednesday morning but I was gradually nudged awake by the persistent ringing of my bedside phone. I opened one eye wide enough to see the clock dimly. It was either 9:05
A.M.
or a quarter to one
P.M.
But since a low sun was striking through my bedroom window I judged a new day had just begun.

“H’lo?” I said in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Don’t you ever get to your office on time?” Sgt. Al Rogoff complained.

“That’s why you called?” I said sleepily. “To comment on my working habits?”

“Wake up,” he said sternly, “and try to listen. Have you seen Marcia Hawkin lately?”

I woke up. I saw no reason to prevaricate. “Yesterday afternoon,” I told him. “At the McNally Building. We had a talk.”

“About what?”

“Pure craziness. She was off the wall.”

“That I can believe,” Al said. “We’ve got a sheet on that young lady. Picked up for strolling naked on Ocean Boulevard at midnight. Picked up for throwing rocks at seagulls. Picked up for setting off illegal fireworks. Nothing serious. No charges. But the girl is a total fruitcake. What was she wearing when you talked to her?”

I tried to recall. “Uh, blue middy blouse with white piping, pleated silk skirt, scuffed running shoes.”

“Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “That tallies. She have wheels?”

“Black Jeep Cherokee. Al, what’s this all about?”

“Her mother called this morning. The kid didn’t come home last night. She’s gone and so is the Cherokee. We usually wait forty-eight hours on things like this. People stay overnight at a friend’s house or pull off the road to grab some sleep. But since the Silas Hawkin homicide is still open, I got interested and decided to give you a call. Did she say anything about leaving home?”

“No.”

“Meeting someone?”

“No.”

“Going somewhere in particular?”

“No.”

“Thank you for your kind assistance,” the sergeant said with his heavy irony. “Would you care to make a wild guess as to where this loony might be?”

“Haven’t the slightest,” I said. “Al, did you hear anything from Michigan on those two names I gave you?”

“
Nada.
I told you these things take time. When I do hear, you’ll be the first to know—after you tell me why you want the skinny. Archy, if you hear from Marcia Hawkin give me a shout.”

“Sure I will,” I said.

I hung up and crawled out of bed. It was just what I needed—a moral dilemma first thing in the morning. Should I open that cursed envelope or shouldn’t I? Recalling my promise to Marcia, I decided not to. Only if she died, not if she was merely missing. I told myself she was sure to show up. Told but not convinced.

There was no one in the kitchen when I clattered downstairs, so I fixed my own breakfast: a large GJ, instant black coffee, and two toasted English muffin sandwiches with fillings of brisling sardines in olive oil. Look, you eat what you want for breakfast; don’t give me a hard time.

I should have enjoyed that mini-meal but I didn’t. Because the tickling of guilt continued. Had I been as sympathetic with Squirrel as I could have been? Might I have expressed more forcibly my willingness to help her? In other words, had I failed another human being in trouble? But then I am neither Dr. Schweitzer nor Mother Teresa. Looking for a saint, are you? Ta-ta.

I futzed about the house till noontime. I prepared my laundry and dry cleaning for the weekly pickup. I scanned several personal letters I had received which I had intended to answer but now were so dated there was no point. I tore them up. I clipped my fingernails. I examined my tongue in the bathroom mirror. Yuck.

Actually, as I well knew, I was delaying what I had to do: drive to Fort Lauderdale and confront Pinky Schatz. I didn’t relish another visit to the Leopard Club; all those juicy dancers and desiccated spectators seemed unbearably dreary. I mean when it comes to nudity, public revelation is in reverse ratio to private stimulation. Or something like that.

But when duty’s bugle blares, yrs. truly is ready to lead the charge. Also, I consoled myself with the opportunities the trip offered to jigger my expense account. And so I set off whistling a merry tune and reflecting that if one strove to maintain a positive attitude, life could be a bowl of
pasta con fagioli.

There had been reports of potential hurricanes heading our way, departing the coast of Africa and boiling westward. You’d never know it from that day’s sky. Pellucid is the word. About the same shade of blue, I decided, as the wings on Theo Johnson’s butterfly tattoo. But I digress.

I parked outside the Leopard Club and approached the guarded portal. The sentinel on duty was not the same chappie I had previously encountered. This one had the head of a bald eagle and the body of an insurance salesman.

“Is Pinky Schatz dancing today?” I inquired politely.

“Nah,” he said. “She called in sick.”

“Sick?” I cried. “Good heavens, I must bring the poor girl some chicken soup or calf’s-foot jelly. Do you happen to know where she lives?”

The griffin looked at me. “Yeah,” he said, “I know. But you don’t.”

“True enough,” I said, taking out my wallet. “A Jackson?”

“A Grant,” he said firmly.

Sighing, I handed over a fifty. He consulted a tattered notebook he extracted from his hip pocket. He gave me Pinky’s address, and I was startled. I knew the building: an elegant high-rise condo on the Gait Ocean Mile.

“Fancy,” I commented.

“What else?” he said. “If you got it, flaunt it. And Pinky’s got it.”

“How true, how true,” I agreed.