McNally's Folly

by Lawrence Sanders

  “And what’s that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I told him that I wasn’t writing any more checks to Serge Ouspenskaya, that’s what I told him. If DeeDee wants to continue seeing him the tab comes out of her own pockets, which ain’t very deep, believe me.”

  “And what did he say, sir?”

  “He told me to have a nice day and hung up.”

  A burst of raucous laughter drew our attention, and everyone else’s. It was DeeDee, regaling a group of young people with stories of old Hollywood, Ouspenskaya by her side. “He’s here?” I bellowed.

  “Cynthia insisted,” Holmes told me. “She says he brings luck with him.”

  “Well, he can take his luck someplace else. As director I’m going to insist on a closed rehearsal hall. Company members only.”

  “Good for you, Archy.”

  Another burst of laughter from DeeDee’s admirers, which seemed to consist of half the guests.

  “I hope she’s not telling them who the most ‘endowed’ actor in Hollywood was fifty years ago. It always gets that response. Christ, the guy was five foot two in his elevator shoes. I better go see no one is fetching her drinks.”

  Five foot two in his elevators? Hmmm. A hundred-watter fit up in my head. Of course. But I’ll never tell.

  I got a refill before moving off into the crowd; waving, blowing kisses and trying to look like a director. I would have to pay my respects to my star but first I would indulge myself by ogling my starlet. Tonight Fitz was in a knee-skimming navy sheath with a matching navy topcoat, a single strand of pearls around her graceful neck. Her dark hair cascaded to her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled like the stars winking down at us. But before I got to Fitz, Lolly Spindrift got to me.

  “If you can keep your leading lady off the demon rum you might get a performance out of her.” Lolly wore a white suit with dress shirt and tie, and his trademark Panama hat, a look best described as Saturday Night Fever meets Scarface.

  “And if you can keep your friend Meecham away from Buzz, I might get a performance out of both of them,” I rejoined.

  “Then you had better keep Fitz away from Buzz before Lady C throttles your ingénue, and Vance Tremaine away from Fitz before his wife throttles him.”

  “Am I directing a play or a sex circus?”

  “Not to mention,” Lolly went on, “that Arnie is in hot pursuit of William Ventura.”

  “Really? What does William Ventura have to say about that?”

  “He’s too busy chasing after Fitz to notice.”

  “I might kill myself, Lol.”

  “If you do, give me an exclusive. I get extra bread for doing society obits. What’s new with Ouspenskaya?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That he’s Mr. Amazing. You lose it, he finds it. You want to speak to the dead, he connects you, but the rates don’t go down after six. Did you hear about Liz Haberstraw?”

  “No. Do I want to?”

  For an answer Lolly told me, “At a sitting, her late mother told Liz to have a look in the bottom left hand drawer of the desk in her husband’s study.”

  “Okay. What did she find?”

  “A first-rate porn collection. I’ll be announcing the divorce in tomorrow’s column. Remember, you heard it here first. Now I must fly. Arnie is chatting with William at poolside and Vance has managed to slip away from Penny and is heading for Fitz. Ta, ta, Archy.”

  Penny Tremaine? Was she also here to bring us luck? If so, it wasn’t Vance the gods were smiling upon. I spotted Priscilla Pettibone with a young black man who was as handsome as she was beautiful. I went to greet them, hoping for a respite from those with an ax to grind.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” Priscilla said with a toss of her head.

  “What do you think of it?”

  “I could take it for a few hundred years. But no more than that. This is Henry Lee Wilson. He’s playing one of the policemen. This is Archy McNally, our director.”

  I shook Henry Lee’s hand. “You’re with the company, Henry?”

  “Call me Hank, please. Yes, sir. My second year.”

  Lady C had managed to salvage some of the old members of the group in minor roles and as gofers. Conquer, divide and keep what you can use. One day she would get her comeuppance but I doubted I would live long enough to see it.

  “Glad to have you aboard, Hank. I still haven’t met all the members of the cast.”

  “You will tonight,” Priscilla said. “Connie told me Lady Cynthia is going to make a formal announcement later. Like a press release. Isn’t it exciting?”

  The director gets the news from the makeup artist. Give me a break. If I didn’t start pushing my weight around, the Creative Director was going to walk all over me. Let her have her evening. When the real work starts, Archy is going to hand everyone a surprise, especially our Creative Director and the unrequited lovers of all three genders.

  “What’s with the six flags flying around the pool, Archy?” Priscilla asked me.

  “They represent the ethnic backgrounds of each of Lady Cynthia’s husbands.”

  “She had six?” Priscilla was greatly impressed. “I’ll settle for one and the sooner the better.”

  Henry Lee Wilson looked a bit uncomfortable with that one and I saved the moment by asking, “Where’s Connie?”

  “In her office labeling the scripts for distribution later tonight,” Priscilla informed me.

  The good news was that Binky had delivered the scripts. The bad news was that Lady C, as usual, was making Connie work when, as a member of the group, she should be enjoying the party. If she didn’t appear soon, I’d go and rescue her. “Nice meeting you, Hank. See you later, Pris. I’m off to pay my respects to our star.”

  As the crowd surrounding her began to disperse, Desdemona Darling came clearly into our line of vision. “I checked her out at the library,” Priscilla said. “She really was a star and some looker. Wha’ happen, baby?”

  “She’s still a looker,” Hank said, “only now there’s more to look at.”

  “Her dress is not original,” Priscilla noted as if saddened by the former actress’s choice of apparel.

  “Where have you seen it before?” I asked her.

  “Sheltering two cub scouts on a field trip.”

  Hank liked that one and so did I, but I didn’t let Priscilla know it. As I moved toward DeeDee I saw Hanna Ventura chatting with the woman I had seen her with on Clematis Street. The woman had been at DeeDee’s party, too, so she must be one of the old members of the theater group. But what was Hanna doing here? Ouspenskaya seemed to draw them like flies. I also noticed that Hanna was as far removed from her stepson as the length of Lady C’s patio allowed, while William had jettisoned Arnie and joined Vance, Penny and Fitz. I wondered what they were discussing—method acting or the price of alligator handbags on Worth Street?

  “Archy, love.” Before I had a chance to respond I was on the receiving end of a wet kiss on the cheek from DeeDee; my nose told me it was one hundred proof. “You know Mr. Ouspenskaya? But of course you do. He’s the reason you’re here.”

  Richard Holmes was nowhere in the vicinity and Ouspenskaya didn’t seem the least bit perturbed at having been financially cut off by the pork bellies mogul. For that matter, neither did DeeDee.

  “I’m here because you and Lady Cynthia asked me to direct our showcase,” I said, with a nod at Ouspenskaya.

  “We meet again, Mr. McNally.” Ouspenskaya acknowledged me with that patronizing grin I would have liked to wipe off his face, but under the circumstances had to settle for ignoring him. Facing Ouspenskaya and DeeDee, it occurred to me to wonder if I still had a client now that Holmes had given my mark the heave-ho. In retrospect, a most prophetic thought.

  A passing waiter stopped to offer us caviar snuggled into new potatoes and dolloped with crème fraîche with minced onions. We all accepted as DeeDee proclaimed, “Some spread, eh? Cynthia really knows how to do it, but then she’s got the loot
to do it with. My husbands always managed to spend it faster than I made it.”

  Here, everyone’s attention was drawn to a portable table being erected under the watchful eyes of Lady C and Buzz. Connie, Binky and Joe Anderson began setting it with wineglasses as waiters carried over decanters brimming with a dark liquid that could only be wine. “Now what?” I questioned.

  “Just you wait and see. Cynthia has the whole thing planned.” A roll of the drums drew everyone’s attention and DeeDee took hold of my arm. “Come on, Archy, that’s our cue.”

  As the revelers gathered around Lady Cynthia and her wine bar, DeeDee led me to stand beside our hostess as Binky, Connie and Joe joined the onlookers. Another roll of the drums silenced the crowd and Lady C began her spiel. “We all know why we’re here, at least I hope we do.” This got a sputtering of guffaws because with Lady C no one could be sure if she meant it as a joke or a reprimand. “For the benefit of the press I am, this evening, formally announcing that the Palm Beach Community Theater, of which I am Creative Director, will put on a production of Arsenic and Old Lace at the Lake Worth Playhouse on a date to be announced.” This got polite applause.

  “Our own Archy McNally has agreed to direct.” More applause. “A written press release will detail his credentials.” I couldn’t wait to see them. “A lady whose credentials can be summed up in two words—Desdemona Darling—will appear in the star role of Abby Brewster.” This got an ovation, including whistles, catcalls and cries of “Bravo.” DeeDee, beaming, opened her arms, embracing the crowd’s adoration.

  “I would like to quickly acknowledge the cast credits, which will also appear on our written release.

  “Abby Brewster, Desdemona Darling;

  “Mortimer Brewster, Buzz Carr;

  “Teddy Brewster, Vance Tremaine;

  “Jonathan Brewster, Phil Meecham;

  “Dr. Einstein, Arnold Turnbolt;

  “Elaine Harper, Elizabeth Fitzwilliams;

  “The Reverend Harper, Edward Rogers;

  “Mr. Gibbs, Joseph Anderson;

  “Mr. Witherspoon, Ronald Seymour;

  “Lieutenant Rooney, William Ventura;

  “Officer Klein, Penny Tremaine;

  “Officer Brophy, Henry Lee Wilson;

  “Officer O’Hara, Hanna Ventura.

  “Our stage manager will be Binky Watrous, my own lovely Consuela Garcia will act as prompter and the beautiful Priscilla Pettibone will be in charge of makeup.”

  Our Creative Director had turned two policemen into policewomen, satisfying the theatrical urges of Hanna Ventura and the bloodhound instincts of Penny Tremaine. Clever. Penny would keep Fitz away from Buzz and Hanna would keep her stepson’s hands out of the till. Our Creative Director was more creative than I had given her credit for. The ladies who lunch were closing ranks. I wondered if our seer had managed to stir the pot.

  “Did I miss anyone?” Lady C called out, playing to the crowd.

  “Martha Brewster,” they shouted like a Greek chorus.

  “Oh, dear, I almost forgot,” Lady Cynthia emoted. “After careful consideration—and on the advice of someone whose instincts are legendary—I have decided to take on the role of Martha Brewster.”

  There was a split second of thunderous silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. In the din that followed the orchestra struck up Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” as Lady C and DeeDee hugged each other. Damned if they didn’t look more like Laurel and Hardy than Abby and Martha.

  “Desdemona and I have always wanted to work together but, until now, never had the opportunity,” Lady C announced.

  “And it’s about damn time,” DeeDee joined in.

  Oy vey! I felt a headache the size of a football coming on. But, like they say in show biz, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

  “And now,” Lady Cynthia proclaimed, “we’ll all drink a toast to our success with elderberry wine—served to you by the Brewster sisters.”

  This got a laugh, as well as a few howls and shrieks as the two ladies began pouring the wine. They placed four glasses at a time on their trays and began distributing them to the crowd. Flashbulbs were popping all over the place at the sight of Lady Cynthia Horowitz and Desdemona Darling jockeying wine to lesser mortals. Our community theater would get space in newspapers from Miami to Hollywood, proving Lady Cynthia a public relations maven of awesome expertise.

  When we had all been served, Lady C raised her glass, the drummer rolled, the trumpeter blared, DeeDee shouted, “To us” and the elderberry wine made its way down many a hatch. Richard Holmes stepped out of the crowd to embrace his wife and fell to the ground at her feet, his glass rolling from his hand, the dark liquid staining the flagstones. DeeDee stared down at him before letting out a scream that could wake Ouspenskaya’s departed cohorts. Oy vey!—again.

  FOURTEEN

  IN THE DAYS THAT followed I often thought about those perfectly trussed beef tenderloins we never got to eat. I supposed the catering staff took away one hell of a doggie bag that night and had themselves a beach party. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away. The caterer got the viands and Desdemona Darling lost her husband.

  DeeDee’s scream and the sight of Holmes falling caused half the crowd to back away in panic and the rest to advance for a closer look at the spectacle. The end result was a lot of people bumping into each other. I was on my knees a few seconds after it happened, holding Richard Holmes’s wrist in search of a pulse in the time-honored tradition of film doctors. I am neither brave nor skilled in the medical sciences. I just happened to be the closest person to the stricken man and it seemed the thing to do.

  “Give him air, give him air,” someone was shouting, but unless I had my fingers on the wrong spot all the air in the universe wouldn’t help Richard Holmes draw another breath.

  “His heart,” DeeDee was crying. “It’s his heart. They told him at L.A. General that his cholesterol count was higher than his bank balance.”

  Ouspenskaya was comforting the new widow, telling someone to bring her a glass of cold water. Lady Cynthia was looking down at the dead man as if she’d like to kill him for stealing her show but a higher power had beaten her to the draw. Joe Anderson got a cushion from one of the patio chairs and, kneeling next to me, raised Holmes’s head, slipping the cushion beneath it.

  “Thanks, Joe, but I don’t think he’ll notice the difference.”

  “He’s gone?” Joe questioned.

  “I’m no doc, but I can’t feel a pulse and he’s not breathing. What’s your prognosis?”

  “I don’t like this, Archy,” Joe murmured.

  “Neither does Richard Holmes, Joe.”

  DeeDee was simultaneously sobbing and providing an account of her husband’s medical history. “He had the angina and they gave him pills for the attacks. They told him to live on fish and vegetables but he said that was for cats and rabbits.”

  “Please take her inside,” I heard Lady Cynthia saying and a few moments later DeeDee’s sobs retreated. In the dim light of the lanterns the crowd broke into small groups and began describing to each other the scene they had all just witnessed. There would be as many versions of what happened as there were people present.

  The photographer with Lolly’s rag was snapping away at the grieving actress and the recently departed Richard Holmes. Two other press photographers were doing the same thing. Lolly Spindrift would indeed get extra bread for this one and the community theater would get more press than Lady C had bargained for.

  “What do we do now?” Joe asked just as we heard the siren of an approaching police car speeding up the A1A. Someone, practical Connie I guessed, had the good sense to dial 911. Another siren told us an ambulance was a few minutes behind the patrol car.

  “We step back and let the people who know what they’re doing take over,” I said, standing. Before I had a chance to consult with Lady Cynthia, Al Rogoff and his partner had arrived on the scene.

  “I need a ligh
t,” Al ordered. The younger officer ran back to the squad car just as the paramedics came bounding onto the patio toting a stretcher, oxygen mask and what looked like a stomach pump. All they would need was one out of the three.

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” Lady Cynthia addressed Al.

  “Ma’am.” Al remembered to tip his cap. “Who’s the victim?”

  The word victim sounded ominous but one could be the victim of a heart attack as well as a crime. I should say here that Sergeant Al Rogoff and I have what I like to call a closeted relationship, a term he abhors for obvious reasons. We have worked together on several cases, chat often and I believe I am one of the few people privy to his devotion to the ballet, opera, and classical music, and his middle name, Irving. However, when he’s on the job and I happen to be present, we keep our distance and play it as it lays.

  As Al gathered information from Lady Cynthia and jotted it down on his pad, the paramedics put Richard Holmes on the stretcher, covered him with a blanket and began to carry him to the waiting ambulance. Only Holmes’s size-twelve black loafers were visible. The partygoers watched in stunned silence as the man they had been drinking and chatting with not twenty minutes earlier made his final exit—a reminder that we were all destined to one day follow in his size-twelve footsteps.

  “I got what I need so we won’t bother Mrs. Holmes now,” Rogoff was saying to Lady Cynthia, “but for the record you should prepare a list of everyone present tonight, including the help, and have it at the ready.”

  “Why?” Lady Cynthia demanded.

  “Until the medical examiner files his report we have to consider any sudden death, like this one, a suspicious occurrence, ma’am.”

  “Suspicious?” Lady Cynthia repeated, taking exception to Rogoff’s explanation. “He had a bad heart. His wife will tell you that.”

  “Is his wife a qualified medical doctor, ma’am?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Officer. She’s Desdemona Darling, the world-renowned actress.”

  “Then we’ll have to wait for the medical examiner to tell us how her husband died, ma’am.”

  Good for you, Al, I thought. Then Al pocketed his pad and tipped his hat to Lady Cynthia, saying, “They’ll take Mr. Holmes directly to the county morgue, ma’am. I suggest his wife come to the police station tomorrow, first thing, and we’ll walk her through it from there. She’ll have to identify the body.”