“What do you think of Jackson Barnett?” I teased.
“I hear he swings both ways,” Lolly answered. Knowing Lolly’s propensities I knew he didn’t mean fore- and backhand.
“Wishful thinking, Lolly,” I said. “How is your bartender pal, Ramón?”
“He’s gone to work on Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
“That’s nice. What’s he doing for Meecham?”
Finished counting the petits fours, he sighed, “Trust me, Archy, you don’t want to know.”
Well, Ramón was no longer a mixologist, that’s for sure. Whether he had traded up was questionable.
“I saw you on the court with the latest addition to Palm Beach’s most eligible bachelor list,” Lolly was saying. “Anything to report?”
“You mean the Talbot kid? I think he sassed me.”
“Poor Archy. I’m sure he meant no offense. Do you think he’ll hire you to find his father?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t know he had lost him.”
“Surely you know he bears the same name as his late grandmother, Mrs. Ronald Talbot. His maternal grandmother, that is.”
“You mean...”
Lolly gave up his quest for a sweet and indulged himself in his next favorite pastime—rumormongering. “Twenty years ago, Mrs. Talbot’s daughter, Jessica, had Lance but refused to tell her mama where he came from. The two fought for a decade over the matter until Jessie packed herself and young Lance off to Switzerland and stayed there until poor Jessie was hit by a humongous snowball, leaving Lance an orphan. Grandma, who was on her deathbed, immediately sent for the boy and presto, we have a new rich kid on the block and you get sassed on the tennis court.”
“Do you mean Jessica Talbot was killed in an avalanche?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I believe it was on the slopes at Winterthur.”
Looking across the crowded lawn I could see Lance and Holga in conversation with our tennis pro. “Is he a friend of the von Brecht woman?” I asked Lolly.
“Friend? I wouldn’t hire you to find a starlet in Jolly-wood. Lance and Holga are an item, dear boy”
Amazed, I foolishly blurted, “But she’s old enough to be his mother.”
“She’s even older than that, or so it’s rumored. She followed the boy here from Switzerland, where she was a friend of his mother’s, or so they say, and please don’t ask me who they are. I don’t make up the hearsay, I just repeat it. They also say she’s the finished product of a Swiss doctor who runs an Alpine rejuvenation clinic where he injects his rich patrons with a serum derived from—well, I won’t spoil your appetite.
“Of course, all our lovely Palm Beach ladies, including your pal, Lady Cynthia Horowitz, are dying to know the name of the clinic and who they have to bribe to get in. Holga is the season’s most sought-after enigma.”
Ask Lolly a question and get someone’s biography in return. “I think the boy could do better,” I offered.
“Mine not to reason why,” he said. “Mine but to do and spy. Speaking of which, I see you also met Dennis Darling, the predator in our midst. I hope you kept your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t have a chance to open it. Should I know who he is?”
“My dear boy, what you don’t know could fill volumes. How do you survive a day in this sun-drenched abyss of egocentric consumption? Promise me you’ll never wander out alone at night without Lolly by your side.” He paused, briefly, to breathe. “Dennis Darling is the so-called investigative reporter for Bare Facts magazine and is here researching his next expose which is said to be called ‘The Palm Beach Story.’”
If true, the title wasn’t original. The late, great Preston Sturges wrote and directed The Palm Beach Story, which had Rudy Vallee, of all people, playing a Palm Beach playboy with all the panache of a department store mannequin.
“How did he get invited to Nifty’s?” I wondered aloud.
“No doubt a donation by his employers that Nifty couldn’t refuse in good conscience. Money not only talks, Archy, it shouts, intimidates and coerces, never failing to get its way.” Evoking the royal we, Lolly expounded, “We have decided to give Mr. Darling the PBCS. And remember, you heard it here first.”
For the uninitiated, the PBCS translates to the Palm Beach Cold Shoulder, which is the kiss of death to anyone in this town with social aspirations. “Why such drastic measures, Lol?”
“Remember what Edna Ferber did to Texans? They took her into their confidence and she repaid them with Giant”
Not a bad opus, I thought, and Palm Beach should be so lucky, but I kept it to myself. If I were earmarked for the PBCS, I would be out of business and possibly a home. “Is everyone with a skeleton in their closet fleeing Palm Beach?”
“If so, dear boy, you and I will be the only people left in town, and I’m not so sure about you. Which reminds me, I hear Connie Garcia is practically engaged to that gorgeous Alejandro Gomez y Zapata. I assume you and Connie are history.”
“Assume nothing,” I told him.
“Can I quote you?”
“Be my guest.”
Undaunted, he asked, “Are you still dating the policeman?”
That was too much. “Officer O’Hara is a policewoman. There’s a difference.”
With a sly wink, he posed, “Does Archy protest too much?” Then he swooped down on a seven-layer extravaganza topped with mocha buttercream.
“Why did you pick that?” I wanted to know.
“Mae West,” he said.
“Mae West?”
“That’s right. Mae said, ‘Between two evils I always choose the one I never tried before.’”
Pondering that I left Lolly Spindrift to his just desserts and went forth to mix and mingle. As I returned my empty glass to the bar I ran into Nifty. “Lolly tells me the Darling guy is a mole for Bare Facts magazine. Do you think he’ll tell the world about our tennis match?”
“Only if he caught us cheating,” Nifty surmised. “By the by, Archy, could you spare the time to lunch with me tomorrow?”
As Nifty belongs to the set more in keeping with my parents’ generation than mine, I took it the invitation was more a summons than a social event. “I would be delighted, sir.”
“I’m at Mar-a-Lago these days. Would noon suit you?”
“Perfectly. I...”
The cry was as shrill and foreboding as a bobby’s whistle on a foggy London street. Everything and everyone came to a halt, like a motion picture suddenly frozen on a single frame. One of the waitresses was at the north end of the property beside the MacNiffs’ pool, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Nifty and I led the stampede and were first to reach the hysterical girl who pointed to the body of a young man clad in black trousers, white shirt and black bow tie, lying still at the bottom of the pool’s shallow end. He was barefoot and the butt of a cigarette floated above the body.
Young Jeff had smoked his last cigarette before dying with his boots off.
FOUR
“POOR MALCOLM,” FATHER SAID, snipping the end off an expensive cigar. “This unfortunate incident will cast a pall over his popular fund-raiser for years to come.”
We were in the den of the McNally abode on Ocean Boulevard (west side but, alas, no tunnel), where a cardinal rule is never to discuss business of an unsavory nature at the dinner table. We do not wish to upset Mother; she suffers from hypertension and is experiencing what is politely now termed “senior moments” with a bit more frequency. Mother usually retires early, which allows my father and me to indulge in the manly pursuit of after-dinner port and tobacco.
If this sounds vaguely nineteenth-century, let me assure you that it is. If my father, Prescott McNally, had his druthers, he would have been born into the London of Charles Dickens’s era, rather than Palm Beach in the twentieth century. Having arrived too late, he compensates by reading only Dickens, nightly, to keep in touch with a past that had so cruelly eluded him. And though I said I had given up smoking, I must confess: I lied. However
, I am down to one English Oval (the only brand I smoke) after dinner and, perhaps, one before bed. Not bad for a former two-pack-a-day addict.
The early evening television news had reported what Father had just termed “the unfortunate incident,” stating only that the cause of Jeffrey Rodgers’s apparent drowning was as yet undetermined, pending the medical examiner’s postmortem. The poor boy was just twenty years old. The story of Rodgers’s demise quickly took a backseat to a detailed description of Nifty’s spread on Ocean Boulevard and the socialites gathered therein.
Experience and close observation told me what I knew the PM would find: Jeffrey Rodgers was done in by a person or persons unknown. I said as much to my father as soon as I had poured the wine and we had each lit up our nicotine of choice.
“Are you certain, Archy?”
“Unless he had some sort of seizure or stroke, which I doubt, I don’t see how a healthy, young six-footer could drown in three feet of water. Even if he fell into the pool by accident, which I also doubt, he could have picked himself up and climbed out. I think the police will discover he was rendered unconscious, dumped into the pool and left to drown.”
Father stroked his bushy guardsman mustache and shook his head. “In the broad light of day before more than a hundred people? It just doesn’t seem possible.”
But it was possible simply because it had been done. “You know the MacNiff property, sir. Five acres, running north and south. Mr. MacNiff’s beloved tennis courts are almost directly behind the house at the extreme south end of the property. The pool is at the extreme north end of the property because I believe Mr. MacNiff found it a distraction for serious players, especially when his grandchildren and their friends cavorted in the water.
“The courts and the pool are five acres apart. Everyone was congregated around the courts and buffet tables. With all the activity in that area no one was looking in the opposite direction. Rodgers’s shoes and socks were found near the pool. The police soon learned that the help was using the pool area as a retreat on their breaks as a place to grab a smoke or stick their feet in the cool water.
“I think it’s obvious that Rodgers was sitting at the edge of the pool enjoying a smoke and soaking his feet. Someone most likely came up behind him, clobbered him and tossed him in the water. If the help was using the pool area as a hangout, anyone glancing in that direction would have become accustomed to seeing a few of the wait staff hanging out there. From that distance all one would see was the murderer’s back, never knowing that Jeff was sitting in front of him.”
Yes, Jeff Rodgers could have been clobbered and dumped into the pool in the broad light of day, and I was convinced that he had been.
The ambulance and police were on the scene in less than ten minutes after someone had the good sense to punch out 911 on their cell phone. My friend and occasional cohort, Sergeant Al Rogoff, was part of the police contingent but, as is our custom, we did not exchange more than a nod in the ensuing pandemonium. When Rodgers was taken away on a stretcher, covered from head to foot, the boys and girls who were his friends sobbed openly and clung to each other for comfort. The girl who had discovered the body was being tended to by the paramedics. The scene, as one may imagine, was eerily incongruous with the splendid weather and the palatial surroundings.
The rest of the guests wandered about aimlessly, whispering in small groups, awkwardly shifting their tennis racquets from hand to hand. The caterers busied themselves with clearing the tables. Nothing like a sudden death to spoil a party.
I stayed close to Mr. and Mrs. MacNiff and their guest of honor, Jackson Barnett, the latter looking a little pale under his tan. The pro was a publicity hound but this wasn’t the kind of notoriety that would help him secure more product endorsements. Lolly Spindrift was on his cell phone, calling in the story, and Dennis Darling was here, there and everywhere all at once, chatting into a portable tape recorder. Curious. Did he consider Jeff Rodgers’s death a bonus, given his mission?
Nifty assured the police lieutenant in charge that he had the names and addresses of all the guests present and the caterer stated that he had the same information for all his staff. This made it possible for all of us to leave as soon as the police had finished taking photos of the scene before and after the removal of Rodgers’s body. All present were advised that they could be called upon to give statements when and if the necessity arose.
Jackson Barnett complained that he had to be in Los Angeles tomorrow for makeup and costume tests. He was told not to leave town without first clearing his departure with headquarters. Lolly offered Jackie the comforts of Phil Meecham’s yacht should he have to spend another night in PB, and I think the pro accepted. Woe be to Jackie Barnett. After a night aboard Meecham’s floating Sodom and Gomorrah, Jackie would wish the police had locked him up.
I stayed to the bitter end, feeling it my duty to stand by our client and, of course, to report the situation back to my father.
“What do you make of this, Archy?” Nifty asked when we were in his drawing room, where he was taking comfort in a generous shot of Ballantine on the rocks. Mrs. MacNiff had retired to her room after ordering a cold compress and a cup of tea.
“The worst, sir. I think you should be prepared for a complete investigation based on suspicion of foul play.”
Malcolm MacNiff is tall and lean with a complexion that freckles in the sun, the only reminder of the redhead he was before going gray. His blue eyes opened wide at my candid pronouncement. “But surely you don’t think one of us is responsible for this accident?”
Us being the Palm Beach fraternal order whose money was a safe three generations away from the sweat and tears that made it. This group clung to one another like ivy to the brick walls of their alma maters. To protect their turf and those who rule it, this crowd has been known to see no evil, hear no evil and, foremost, speak no evil. I’m not saying they would condone murder, though they might not condemn it either.
The late Jeffrey Rodgers was not a member of us, therefore he was one of them. To ease Nifty’s conscience on this dark day (it’s what I get paid to do), I told him the lad’s demise was probably the result of a feud between the young and reckless that got out of hand.
“But how could it happen before our very eyes?” he moaned.
I explained my theory to which he listened thoughtfully, nodding between sips of scotch. “It’s possible,” he said, not sounding completely convinced. “But those youngsters all seemed so upset over the boy’s death.”
“And the guilty party, I’m sure, cried the loudest.”
“Yes. Yes,” Nifty said. “I see what you mean.” With a shrug he continued, “Lolly asked me for a statement. I was too upset to give him one and said I would call him before he filed his story. Any suggestions, Archy?”
I have several stock quotes for clients in thorny situations and pulled up the one best suited for today’s misfortune.
“Mrs. MacNiff and I are deeply saddened by this terrible tragedy and extend our sympathies to Jeff’s family and friends. We will of course assist the family in any way we can in the difficult days ahead. Until the authorities can give us a more detailed explanation of what happened to the young man I’m afraid that is all I have to say at this time. I wish also to apologize to my guests and benefactors for the abrupt termination of my Tennis Everyone! fete and beg their understanding.”
Nifty nodded his approval, his blue eyes glassy with grief, fear or booze. “That’s splendid, Archy. Will you write it out for me? I’m afraid my memory is not what it used to be.”
He produced a pad and pen from the top drawer of a museum quality desk-on-frame. I wrote out the paragraph, which I was sure Lolly would recognize as having come from me and, before leaving, asked Nifty if he wanted to keep our lunch date tomorrow.
“Oh, I do, Archy. I most certainly do. That’s another matter that needs clearing up.”
Now, as I related this to father, he puffed on his cigar and repeated, “Another matter. How odd
. So the lunch will have nothing to do with the boy’s death.”
“I didn’t think it would,” I answered. “He made the date with me before we knew Rodgers was dead, if only by a few minutes.”
“Do you truly believe one of the wait staff is responsible for this, Archy?”
With regrets I stubbed out my cigarette and answered, “I said that to take the edge off Mr. MacNiff’s trying day. At this juncture I believe the field is wide open. If my theory is correct, anyone there today could have done it.”
“Even one of us? Father said, echoing Malcolm MacNiff.
We of the McNally clan do not belong to the upper echelons of Palm Beach society, as our start came from my grandfather, Freddy McNally, a burlesque comic with the Minsky circuit who invested in Florida real estate at the low and got out at the high. Hence our house on Ocean Boulevard, though it would show flaws upon close inspection like a suspect diamond under a jeweler’s loupe. Witness our leaky roof: the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops happens to be located over my third-floor digs.
Father went to Yale, where he majored in law and denial, graduating with a bright future and a dim past. I do nothing to burst his bubble as a leaky roof is preferable to no roof. ’Nuff said?
“Palm Beach has had its share of society murders, sir,” I reminded the squire. As we spoke the town was agog over the exploits of a man with more money than sense who came to Palm Beach wanting desperately to join the us crowd but was encumbered by an inconvenient wife. Not to worry. It’s believed he hired a hit man to expedite a divorce and is now in parts unknown. True, it’s an extreme case of one who wanted to push his way into Palm Beach society, which is as rewarding as pushing a Sherman tank uphill.
“Do you think you’ll get involved in this, Archy? You were on the scene.”
“Not unless I’m asked, sir, and I don’t see who would hire me to investigate the matter. Certainly not Mr. MacNiff, who just wants the whole thing to go away. Besides, until the police make a statement we won’t know if we have a case of murder or misadventure.”
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