McNally's Risk (24 page)

“Yes, father,” I said, resisting an impulse to tug my forelock.

I left his office and returned home for my ocean swim, then labored on my journal. I showered, dressed, attended the family cocktail hour, and departed for my dinner date with Connie Garcia.

And, you know, during all that time I do not believe there was a single moment when I ceased glooming about Marcia Hawkin, her life and her death. The things we do to each other! Sometimes I think I’d rather be a cocker spaniel or even a hamster rather than a human being. But I did not choose my species and so I must learn to deal with it. And it would be nice if I could become a nobler example of Homo sapiens. But I know better than to hope.

When I arrived at the Pelican Club that evening Connie was already standing at the bar surrounded by a ring of eager young studs.

She was wearing a jumpsuit of burgundy velvet with an industrial zipper from neck to pipik. Her long black hair swung free and oversized golden hoops dangled from her lobes.

But I knew it was mostly her warm vivacity that attracted that pack of hopefuls. Connie is a vibrant young woman with physical energy to spare and a spirit that seems continually effervescing. Add to that a roguish smile and Rabelaisian wit and you have a complete woman who, on a scale of 1 to 10, rates at least a 15.

She saw me standing there like a forlorn bumpkin, excused herself, and came bopping over to grant me a half-hug and an air kiss.

“Hiya, hon,” she said cheerily. “I was early so I had a spritzer at the bar.”

“And why not?” I said. “You look glorious tonight, Connie.”

“You like?” she asked, twirling for my inspection. “The tush isn’t too noticeable?”

“Not
too
,” I said. “Never too.”

“Let’s go eat,” she said. “I’m starving.”

I wish I could tell you the evening was an unalloyed delight, but I must confess that dinner was something less than a joyful occasion.

It wasn’t the food because chef Leroy Pettibone scored with a marvelous special of fried rabbit in a cranberry-orange sauce. And it wasn’t Connie’s fault because she was her usual bubbling self.

No, the fault was totally mine. I knew it and was utterly incapable of summoning up the McNally esprit. I seemed unable to utter anything but banalities—mercifully brief banalities—and I realized I was behaving like a zombie on barbiturates.

Finally Connie’s chatter faded away, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “Archy,” she said, “what’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t shuck me, sonny boy,” she said angrily. “I know you too well. Is it because I’ve been dating other men, including your close friends?”

“Of course not. Positively not. We agreed that we can see whomever we please.”

“Then what is it?”

I never ever talk to anyone but my father and Sgt. Al Rogoff about details of my investigations. I mean I head the Department of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, and how discreet can they be if I blab? No, I am a close-mouthed lad and fully intend to remain so.

But at that moment I had to tell someone. I think it was because I needed to share the awful burden. I could understand why Mrs. Folsby had to tell me. It was just too much for one person to bear alone.

“Connie,” I said, “I know you love to gossip and so do I. I want to tell you something. I
need
to tell you, but I want your cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise that you won’t repeat it to anyone.”

“Archy,” she said, suddenly solemn, “do you trust me? I mean really trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I swear to you that whatever you tell me will go no farther.”

I nodded. “I believe you,” I said, and I meant it. “Well, you’ve heard about Marcia Hawkin’s death, haven’t you?”

“Of course. Now the police say she was murdered.”

“That’s correct. But today I heard something else and it’s been tearing me apart.”

I told her Silas Hawkin had been intimate with his daughter, probably for many years, beginning when she was quite young.

Connie stared at me, her lustrous eyes widening. Suddenly she began weeping. Silently, but the tears flowed.

“Oh God,” I said helplessly. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

She shook her head and held her napkin up to her face. Her shoulders continued to shudder and I knew she was sobbing soundlessly. I could do nothing but wait and curse myself for shattering her.

Finally she calmed, dabbed at her swollen eyes, blinked. Her mouth still quivered and I feared the lacrimation might begin again.

“The poor child,” she said in an anguished voice. “The poor, poor child.”

“Yes,” I said. “Can we move to the bar now and have a brandy? I think we both could use a buckup.”

We sat close together at the bar, held hands, and sipped our Remy Martins without speaking. I admit that telling Connie of the Hawkins’ incestuous relationship afforded me a small measure of relief. Do you believe that sorrow is lessened by sharing? It must be so because old wisdom declares that misery loves company.

What is amazing is that the pain seems to diminish slightly as it is transferred to another. I had no doubt that eventually, when Marcia’s murder was solved, her secret would become known to the public. Then the distress, shared by millions, would dwindle away to become just another of the daily outrages we read about and eventually forget because to remember them all would be too painful to suffer.

After a while we agreed it was time to leave. Connie didn’t suggest I accompany her home, nor did I. Before we separated, we stood alongside her car locked in a tight embrace. There was nothing passionate about it. It was the trembling hug of two mourners surviving in a world that sometimes seems too cruel to be endured.

I
AWOKE ON SATURDAY
and discovered my morosity had evaporated with the morning sun. What a relief that was! I don’t mean to suggest I had totally forgotten Marcia Hawkin—I am not the froth-head my father seems to believe— but now I was able to accept her tragedy without reviling the human race or cursing fate.

The new day helped, of course. The sky was lucent, a sweet sea breeze billowed our curtains, the birds and my mother were twittering and, all in all, it seemed a lucky gift to be animate. I celebrated by eating eight blueberry pancakes—count ’em:
eight!
—at breakfast.

Then father departed for his customary Saturday morning foursome at his club, mother and Ursi went grocery shopping in our old Ford station wagon, and Jamie Olson disappeared somewhere on the grounds, muttering about the depredations of a rogue opossum he was determined to slay. And so I had the McNally manse to myself.

I went into my father’s study and sat in his chair behind his desk. Anyone spotting me there might have thought I was contemplating a regicide so I could inherit the throne. Actually, all I wanted to do was use His Majesty’s telephone directory. I phoned Lolly Spindrift’s newspaper, knowing he worked Saturdays to meet his deadline for the Sunday edition.

“Lol?” I said. “Archy McNally here.”

“Can’t talk,” he said shortly. “Busy.”

“Too bad,” I said. “And I have something so choice.”

“Never too busy to chat,” he said merrily. “What have you got for me, darling?”

“What are you working on?” I temporized. “Marcia Hawkin’s death?”

“Of course. It’s the murder de jour. All of Palm Beach is nattering about it. And now I’ll give you a freebie, only because it will be in my column tomorrow morning. Did you know the unfortunate victim had twice attempted suicide?”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said slowly, “but I can’t say I’m surprised. Where did you hear that?”

“Oh please,” he said. “You know I protect my sources. Now what do you have for me?”

“I went first last time,” I reminded him. “It’s your turn.”

He sighed. “What a scoundrel you are. Very well, what do you want?”

“About Theodosia Johnson, your Madam X... She’s been in Palm Beach about a year. But only recently has she become the one-and-only of Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth. Do you know if she dated other men before meeting Chauncey?”

His laugh was a bellow. “Oh, laddie, laddie,” he said, “do you think she sat home knitting antimacassars? Of course she saw other men. A horde. A multitude.
Very
popular, our Theodosia. I have the names of all her swains in my file and, frankly, sweets, I’m amazed that you’re not included.”

“I am, too.”

“Perhaps it was because her taste seemed to run to older men of wealth. That would remove you from her list of eligibles, would it not?”

“Effectively,” I said.

“And now that I’ve paid my dues,” he went on, “what delicacy do you have for me? Tit for tat, you know—although my personal preference is somewhat different.”

“I don’t know how you can use this, Lol,” I said, “but I’m sure you’ll find a way. It concerns Hector Johnson, father of the beauteous Theo. He was racked up for securities fraud in Michigan. Spent some time in the local clink, paid a fine, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life.”

“Love it!” Lolly shrieked. “Just love it! Yes, I expect I shall find an occasion to use that gem one of these days. Ta-ta, luv, and keep in touch.”

I sat at father’s desk a few moments longer, reflecting on what Spindrift had told me of Theo’s social activities prior to her meeting Chauncey. It was easy to believe. A young woman of her multifarious charms would attract scads of beaux: single, married, divorced, or lonely in widowerhood. I was certain she had many opportunities to form a lasting relationship. But she had chosen Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth. Her selection of that noodle, I thought, was significant.

I had intended to call a few pals and see if anyone was interested in a few sets of tennis or, in lieu of that, driving out to Wellington to watch polo practice while gargling something exotic like a Singapore Sling or a Moscow Mule. But instead I phoned Theodosia Johnson. If my choice was between tennis, polo, or her, it was strictly no contest.

I was hoping Hector wouldn’t answer, and he didn’t. But when Theo said, “Hello?” her voice had the tone of sackcloth and ashes.

“Archy,” I said. “Good lord, you sound low. Anything wrong?”

“A slight disagreement with daddy,” she said, “and I’m still seething. But I’ll recover. I always do. Archy, I’m so happy you called. I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about me.”

“Fat chance,” I said. “Theo, how
are
you, other than suffering from the megrims.”

“What are megrims?”

“Low spirits.”

“I’m suffering,” she admitted. “Cheer me up.”

“How about this: I drop by around noonish and we drive down the coast. It’s a super day and it would be a shame to waste it. We’ll have lunch outside at the Ocean Grand and talk of many things.”

“Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—” she said.

“Of cabbages—and kings—” I said.

“And why the sea is boiling hot—” she said.

“And whether pigs have wings,” I finished, and she laughed delightedly.

“The only poetry I know,” she said. “Thank you, Archy; I feel better already. Yes, I accept your kind invitation.”

“Splendid. See you at twelve.”

I went back upstairs to take off jeans and T-shirt, shower, and don something more suitable for luncheon at the Ocean Grand with a smashing young miss. I settled on a jacket of plummy silk with trousers of taupe gabardine, and a shirt of faded blue chambray. Casual elegance was the goal, of course, and I believe I achieved it.

Then I set out for my luncheon date with Madam X. A duplicitous plot was beginning to take form in that wok I call my brain, and if all went well I intended to start the stir-fry that scintillant afternoon.

I had imagined Theo would wear something bright and summery, but that woman had a talent for surprise. She wore a pantsuit of black linen. No blouse. Her hair was drawn back and tied with a bow of rosy velvet. Very fetching, and I told her so.

“No bra,” she said.

“I happened to notice,” I said.

She laughed. “Chauncey never would. And if he did, he’d be shocked.”

“Surely he’s not that much of a prig.”

“You have no idea.”

Her obvious scorn of her fiancé discomfited me. She could think those things, but wasn’t it rather crass to speak of them to others? As I soon learned, she was in a sharp, almost shrewish mood that day.

For instance, as we drove southward along the corniche I remarked, “I had the pleasure of meeting your father’s business associate, Reuben Hagler, the other day.”

“Rube?” she said offhandedly. “He’s a boozer.”

It wasn’t her judgment that startled me so much as her use of the sobriquet “boozer.” She might have said, “He drinks a little too much,” but she chose the coarse epithet. It was not the first time I had noticed her fondness for vulgarisms. I hoped, for her sake, that her speech was more ladylike in the presence of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. That very proper matron, I suspected, would be tempted to put trousers on the legs of a grand piano.

And not only did Theo seem in a perverse humor that afternoon but she made no effort to conceal her lack of restraint.

“You were right,” she said. “It’s a super day. Why don’t we just keep driving.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Miami. The Keys. Check into some fleabag hotel for the weekend.”

“Theo, I don’t think that would be wise. Do you?”

“I guess not,” she said. “Just dreaming.”

But I knew that if I kept driving and found a hotel that accepted guests without luggage she would have happily acquiesced. Her unruliness was daunting.

We arrived at the Ocean Grand and she was suitably impressed by the elegant marbled interior.

“This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?” she commented.

“You’ve lost me,” I said. “All about what?”

“You know, Archy. Money. Comfort. People to serve you. No problems. The lush life.”

There was such fierce desire in her voice that I didn’t even attempt a reply. She had a vision and it would have been brutal to explain that what she sought was a chimera. She wouldn’t have believed me anyway.