She must have heeded my advice because it was a good half minute before she answered. “I got up late,” she began, decidedly calmer. There was still an edge to her tone but who could blame her for that? “After last night I thought I deserved it. I got here about ten and Annie, who’s filling in for Mrs. Marsden, told me Madame had left before nine in her Jaguar. Then I found a note from her on my desk telling me she had gone to pick up Desdemona Darling to take her to the police station. She expected to be back in an hour or so.”
“Fine,” I said. “Then what?”
“I checked my voice mail like I always do and one of the messages was from Ouspenskaya. He said he wanted to speak to Lady Cynthia and would she please call him.” There was a pause before she groaned, “Half the lights went out and now they’re all lit up again.”
“Forget the lights, Connie, and go on with your story.”
“Don’t sass me, Archy. I’m tense enough as it is. He was murdered? Right in front of all of us? How is that possible?”
“I didn’t say he was murdered. I said he died of poisoning. The latter is not a necessary result of the former.”
“Like an unwanted pregnancy is not the result of one drink too many.”
I decided not to challenge that one. “Go on, Connie. Then he called again? When?”
“Not long after I arrived here. That would make it about fifteen or twenty past ten. He was very excited. He wanted to know if I had gotten his earlier message and if Lady Cynthia had returned. I told him she had not.
“Then he said it made no difference because he was too late. That’s what he said, Archy. That he was too late. He knew that Lady Cynthia was going to escort Desdemona to the police station. That was decided last night. He called here this morning to try to stop them.”
“Stop them? Why?”
“Listen, Archy. Just listen. It’s scary,” Connie maintained. “He said he had tried to get Desdemona earlier this morning after calling here but she had already left. Her houseboy told him that she had been picked up by Lady Cynthia and so he knew he was too late. I asked him what the trouble was and if I could help him.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He told me that he awoke this morning with a heavy heart—you know how he talks, Archy—because he remembered a terrible dream he had had during the night. He didn’t say what the dream was, just that he wanted to stop Desdemona from going to the police station because something terrible awaited her there.”
Those icy fingers were at work on me again. This Ouspenskaya was playing my spine like a xylophone. “This could be important, Connie. Do you know what time Ouspenskaya left the message on your voice mail?”
“Sure. I get the date and time verbally at the end of a message. It came exactly one minute after nine.”
“And the second call came after ten?”
“That’s right. I get in a little after ten and his call came shortly after that. What does it mean?”
It means, I calculated, that at nine o’clock this morning, when Desdemona and Lady Cynthia were just arriving at the police station, Ouspenskaya knew what only the police knew at that time. When Lolly called me, he said the ladies had arrived at the station house at nine and had been locked up with the police for an hour. That would make it about ten when Lolly called me, just when the press was beginning to suspect something was rotten in Palm Beach. This is when Ouspenskaya made his second call to Lady Cynthia’s residence. He knew more about what was happening there than the press on the scene.
Sticking to my spy theory, it meant Ouspenskaya had a plant in our police department. Impossible. That left two choices. Ouspenskaya had the gift or he had poisoned Richard Holmes. But if he had slipped Holmes the mickey he certainly wouldn’t be leaving voice messages telling anyone who cared to listen that Desdemona and Lady Cynthia were not going to have a nice day. That left the one hypothesis I still refused to accept. Who told Ouspenskaya, before nine o’clock this morning, that Richard Holmes had been poisoned? The doc who performed the postmortem?
“Are you still there, Archy?”
“I’m here, Connie. Don’t take any calls until Lady Cynthia gets back and then consult with her on what you should say. I believe she left the police station a short time ago. Then tell her I’m on my way to see her.”
“You haven’t been summoned, Archy.”
“If you don’t lower the drawbridge I’ll swim the moat, but I have a hunch Lady C will be very happy to see me.”
“I know I’ll be happy to see you. What about lunch?”
“With all that’s going on do you think you’ll be able to get away for lunch?”
“Yeah. I forgot about that. Let’s see how it’s going when you get here.”
Counting on it going my way, I called Al Rogoff at his “wagon,” where I guessed he should be by now. I was right. The “wagon,” as Al dubbed it, is a mobile home off Belvedere Road, where it sits on a solid foundation along with similar residences. A trailer park, if you will. A mobile home resembles what used to be called a railroad flat in old New York tenements. Those that still exist are being sold as co-ops and touted as having old-world charm. The old-world charm comes with a hefty new-world price tag.
Al had a kitchen, bath, living room and bedroom, all in a row. He was his own interior decorator and while not fancy, it was a comfortable bachelor’s digs.
“You awake, Al?”
“I am now, pal. I thought I would be hearing from you. Your society ladies are up-to their chins with this one. I knew I would lose sleep the minute I got the call to that mansion, and when I saw you there I figured the guy didn’t expire of natural causes.”
“Why, Al?”
“Because you’re the custodian of God’s waiting room, pal, that’s why.”
“Thanks a bunch, Al.”
“Like I always tell you, we’re here to serve.”
“Can I serve you lunch this afternoon?”
“I’m trying to get a few hours’ shuteye, Archy. I got off duty at six this morning and they called me back in at nine. Have a heart.”
“I have more than a heart, Al, I have information for you.”
“I think you’re more interested in the information I can give you. How much do you know, Archy?”
“The lawyer, Hastings, called my father from the palace and told him Richard Holmes had been poisoned. That’s as much as I know.”
“I don’t know much more, pal.”
“Remember, Al, I’m a material witness and I know what’s been going on behind the scenes. Catch a few Z’s and meet me at the Pelican at three for a late lunch.”
When I didn’t get an immediate response I knew I had piqued his interest. “You already told me Holmes had given Ouspenskaya his walking papers and there was bad blood between them.”
“When did you learn that Richard Holmes was poisoned?” I asked him.
“When I got to the palace, about nine-thirty. Why?”
“Serge Ouspenskaya knew it before nine this morning.”
It didn’t take Al long to consider his options. “See you at the Pelican, Archy.”
“Thanks, Al.”
Lady Cynthia had elected to wear a black pantsuit to view the remains and did not change to receive me. She was seated in a throne-like wing chair holding fast to what looked to be a tall whiskey and soda. “I generally don’t condone drinking hard liquor before the sun is over the yardarm but today is an exception to all the rules. Would you like one, lad?”
“No, thank you, Lady Cynthia.”
She was a tough woman but I must say the events of last night and this morning had her looking her age. I even noticed that she was having a hard time controlling the hand that held her glass, which trembled ever so slightly. If Lady C, who is not a booze hound, was indulging at high noon, I could only imagine how poor Desdemona Darling was dealing with all this.
“What do you know, lad?”
I was thinking of getting a sign proclaiming I KNOW ZILCH and pasting it to m
y forehead. I said to Lady Cynthia, “Only what Saul Hastings reported to my father on the phone. What did the police tell you and DeeDee?”
“Not much more. They asked a lot of questions and I must supply them with last night’s guest list, including the caterer’s crew. After consulting with Saul Hastings, DeeDee and I decided to issue a statement to the press. It’s to come from me. Connie is preparing it now. DeeDee will remain incommunicado for the present.”
“And what will the release say, may I ask?”
“You may, lad. It will say that Mrs. Holmes is in a state of shock and that both she and Lady Cynthia Horowitz believe the unfortunate occurrence is the result of a bizarre accident.”
Now that should go over like flatulence in a crowded elevator. “An accident? How could arsenic accidentally get into a wineglass at a social gathering?”
“Simple,” Lady C retorted as if expecting the question and being fully prepared to answer it. “The glasses were supplied by the caterer. One of them was not properly sanitized. I’m thinking of suing.”
This was too much. Even Catherine de Médicis had never made such a claim. These two crones must have intimidated Saul Hastings into not opposing either the press release or its wording and right now the poor man was trying to explain this madness to my father. But I didn’t lose sight of the fact that Lady C was no fool and would wager my last pair of cashmere socks that there would evolve some rationale to this lunacy.
“Are you saying, Lady Cynthia, that arsenic was served at the last party your caterer facilitated and one glass was not properly washed? How jolly.”
“You’re splitting hairs, lad. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.” Lady C backed that up with a hearty swallow of her beverage.
“You and DeeDee poured and served the wine,” I reminded her. “Did one of you accidentally give Richard Holmes the glass that accidentally contained a wee bit of arsenic left over from your caterer’s last happy event?”
Lady Cynthia didn’t like that at all and let me know it. “Listen, young man, and listen good. We poured that wine in front of everyone present, including you. We told that to the police and invited them to question everyone present, including you, to see if anyone saw anything even vaguely suspect in how DeeDee and I performed. Good lord, lad, we rehearsed what we were going to do before the party. We didn’t ad-lib.”
And anyone knowing the drill could have incorporated it into their own malevolent plans. Who and how was the question. There being safety in numbers, the best way to get away with murder was to surreptitiously commit one in front of a dozen witnesses who would automatically become suspects along with the nefarious culprit. I could only think of one person among us last night who had the cunning and daring to pull it off. But did he have the opportunity?
“As director of this year’s community theater presentation,” Lady C rattled on, “I suggest you go along with our view of what happened last night. Solidarity is vital to our success.”
“Our success? You mean you intend to go ahead with putting on Arsenic and Old Lace? I don’t believe it.”
“The play will go on whether you believe it or not,” Lady C said. “This unfortunate accident has given us a very high profile and we should strike while the iron is hot.”
She knew of what she spoke. Lady Cynthia had struck six irons while they were hot and had walked away with a king’s ransom in gold and a title.
“I think it would be in very poor taste, Lady Cynthia. Especially when you take into account the way Richard Holmes died. The morbidly curious and the more lurid tabloids will flock to see us. The gentry will stay home.”
“Nonsense, lad. Mr. Ouspenskaya told me the play will act as a catharsis to this terrible business. Avoiding it would only encourage our wounds to fester. He predicts success and a new career for DeeDee.”
So the oracle had been consulted and the die was cast. No big surprise except that Desdemona Darling wasn’t backing out. “And DeeDee has already agreed to go on with the show?” I questioned, hoping to convey the distaste I had for the decision in general and Ouspenskaya in particular.
“She is,” Lady Cynthia stated as she carefully placed her glass on the service table. “We’re from the old school, DeeDee and I, made like winter wheat that bends with the wind and bounces right back when it’s past. Not like today’s breed of shrinking violets.
“On the day my last husband died,” Lady Cynthia divulged, “I refused to cancel a charity tea for the benefit of humpback whales. The show goes on, lad, and you go with it. Like it or not.” The threat of pulling her account out of McNally & Son was inherent in the statement.
Her last husband was high in a tree snooping on two click beetles going at it when the limb of the sturdy oak holding him accidentally broke away from the trunk. He had married her for her money and she had married him for his title. As usual, she got the better part of the deal.
“Maybe your guru can tell us how that particular glass got into Richard Holmes’s hand.”
“I know you dislike Mr. Ouspenskaya because he unearthed your burlesque comic grandfather. Don’t be such a prude, lad. Everyone in town knows where the McNally money came from.” I would expunge that when reporting this conversation to Father.
“If everyone knows it, what’s so remarkable about Ouspenskaya knowing it?”
“What was remarkable was his predicting your involvement in our community theater exercise when no one on this earth knew DeeDee and I had elected to ask you to direct. No one on this earth, lad, is the operative phrase, as they say. Elsewhere the future is often clearly visible as Mr. Ouspenskaya proved once again today. Connie told you about his call to me this morning to warn of what lay ahead for DeeDee and myself. How can you doubt the man’s sincerity?”
“How can you unequivocally accept him based on a few parlor tricks? Did you know Richard Holmes was my client, Lady Cynthia?”
“He told DeeDee and me last night that Richard had hired you to investigate him. It was very foolish of Richard.”
“So foolish that it may have gotten him killed.”
“Careful what you say. There are laws against libel. And now that Richard is gone I expect you will close your case against Mr. Ouspenskaya.”
I wasn’t going to tell her what I was up to, so I answered, “I might order up a séance to see what Ouspenskaya can tell us about Holmes’s death.”
“Richard Holmes is newly arrived on the other side. It will be months, perhaps years, before he is acclimated to his new life and until then contact with his shadow is impossible.”
She spoke by rote, as if she had memorized every bit of bilge Ouspenskaya had spewed out on the subject. This tactic was easy to figure out. Both Lady C and the widow must have asked Ouspenskaya to contact the dearly departed to see if Holmes could explain his own sudden demise and Ouspenskaya wasn’t going to go near this one with the proverbial ten-foot pole, especially if he knew more about it than he cared to admit. If his paying customers liked the accident theory, so be it. And Archy was going to worry this case until Richard Holmes cast his shadow across Ouspenskaya’s turban.
“Then we’ll just have to wait and see what the police come up with,” I forecast.
“Until then,” Lady Cynthia said, “you can start thinking about working out a rehearsal schedule and calling a cast meeting to distribute it. They will need a pep talk, lad. That’s your job. The theater is bugging me for an opening date. Of course DeeDee must observe a respectable period of mourning after the service, but you can work around her until then.”
“A service?”
“Cremation. DeeDee will take his ashes back to California and inter them in her plot in Forest Lawn. All her husbands are there.”
“I hate to rattle your beads but the police will have to release the body first.”
“I’m aware of that,” she snapped back.
At that moment Buzz Carr, clad in white trunks and his skin glistening with moisture, entered the room. “Excuse me,” he said, “I w
as working out in the pool and forgot my robe. It’s starting to rain out there. How are you, Archy?”
“You’re excused,” his patron said, eyeing his half-naked form lasciviously. They say in matters sexual men lose the ability but women never lose the desire. Lady Cynthia Horowitz was proof of half the assumption.
Buzz went directly to Lady Cynthia and took her hand. “Are you feeling better?” he asked her solicitously, sounding sincere.
“I am, my dear. I was just telling our director we are going ahead with the show.”
Buzz was clasping Lady C’s hand between both of his. He had been with Fitz last night and more than likely would be seeing Phil Meecham later in the day because men like Buzz Carr can’t afford to burn any bridges. Versatility was his long suit and a shot at acting was his last hope to break away from courting women old enough to be his grandmother and men who traded pocket money for favors. With Ouspenskaya a firm supporter of the show and its star, it was in Buzz’s best interest to keep the psychic out of harm’s way.
“We’re all sorry about Mr. Holmes,” Buzz said, still in his solicitous mode, “but Mr. Ouspenskaya says we should go ahead and he predicts we’ll be a big hit.”
“From his lips to Apollo’s ears,” I said, standing.
“Apollo?”
“Apollo was the Greek god of the theater,” Lady Cynthia informed her protégé.
“I’m going to pick up my script from Connie and be on my way,” I told them. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve worked out a schedule.”
“See you, Archy,” Buzz bid me adieu. Our Creative Director was silent.
Connie was so busy fielding calls she barely had the time to tell me she couldn’t go to lunch. I picked up my script, told her I would call her later and left her to her chosen profession.
On the way out I met Annie, who showed me to the door. I wondered if she, an attractive woman of about thirty, had come to Palm Beach in search of a rich husband as Hanna Ventura suspected was the lure for most of our winter help.
“How do you like working here?” I asked her.
“Fine, sir, except for last night. I hear the poor man was done in.”
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