Father will no doubt be delighted to learn that Melva has finally performed the ultimate unfortunate separation from Geoff.
“Yes, sir, they’re here.”
“And?”
“Geoff Williams has been shot, sir. I believe he’s dead.”
Did I see him smile at the news or was he recalling an amusing passage from Bleak House? “An accident, Archy?”
“Melva shot him, sir.”
The pater executed a perfect one-eyebrow lift, which was as ruffled as Prescott McNally’s feathers ever got, and asked hopefully, “Justifiable homicide?”
“I don’t know the details, sir, just what Melva said on the phone not five minutes ago. I believe ‘I shot him’ were her exact words.”
“I see. Well, Melva Ashton Manning will need a lawyer, Archy.”
One doesn’t become the proprietor of the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way by being shy about soliciting trade. “I believe she called me as a friend, sir, and I imagine she has a New York lawyer.”
“Who is most likely not admitted to practice in Florida. They will need a firm to liaise between their client and the court. Tell me, have the police been notified?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Melva seems to be in a state of shock, so I’d best get there and do what has to be done.”
“Very good. Express my sympathy to Melva and assure her that we are at her disposal. And keep me posted, Archy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jamie and Ursi occupy the apartment over our three-car garage but no lights emanated from their quarters. As I approached, our dog, Hobo, ambled out of his gabled doghouse, sniffed the cuffs of my trousers, and wagged his tail. Hobo is part terrier; his brown and white spots suggest one of his parents was a Jack Russell and the other a one-night stand. I patted Hobo’s head and he ambled back into his canine abode.
My red Mazda Miata convertible is the type of car one should leap into in the manner of Tom Mix mounting Pal. But when it’s garaged and the top is up, I recommend a more conventional approach, such as opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. Comfortably if not dashingly ensconced, I sped south on the A1A, recalling the events in the life of New York’s erstwhile “Debutante of the Year” that brought her to this sad impasse.
Melva Ashton was as top drawer as one can get without sitting atop the family’s pedigreed highboy. Miss Porter’s was followed by Radcliffe, which was followed by a trip to Hollywood for a screen test, when it was fashionable for debs like Melva and Gloria Vanderbilt to be screen-tested. Their names never appeared in lights, but Gloria’s, for a time, graced the derrière of many a jeans-clad lady.
Her first late husband—I’m not quite sure how one can be “first” and “late” at the same time—Teddy Manning roughed it at St. Paul’s and Harvard, where he majored in polo. He and Melva took dancing lessons together when she was ten and he twelve. They danced their way to the altar a dozen years later, took up residence in a triplex on Fifth Avenue, summered in their Further Lane mansion in East Hampton, and wintered in a palatial rental in Palm Beach. They produced a daughter, Veronica, and when she was thirteen Teddy fell from his pony during a match in England he attended annually as the guest of the royal family. Teddy Manning died with his boots on and in the company of gentlemen.
Geoffrey Williams arrived on the scene as, of all things, tennis instructor to Lady Cynthia Horowitz. He resembled Wallace Reid of the silents and, unlike past “gorgeous” tennis instructors on Lady C.’s payroll, he actually knew how to play the game. In addition, Geoff filled a pair of tennis shorts, as Lolly Spindrift put it, “with remarkable efficiency.”
Melva and I met on the Palm Beach tennis beat and made a good team both on and off the courts. We enjoyed our easygoing relationship too much to ruin it with even a hint of romance, and when Veronica came down from prep school on long weekends, we made it a jolly threesome, munching hamburgers at the Pelican Club. “I like this much better than the Bath and Tennis,” precocious Veronica declared. Out of the mouths of babes...
When Geoff started courting the widow Manning and she encouraged the attention, I kept an open mind and a closed mouth regarding the affair. PBR had it that Geoff was a tennis pro, but I couldn’t find him listed on any of the tennis pro circuits. He was also touted to be a golf pro, and although he was usually under par, I couldn’t find him listed on any of the golf pro circuits. He was also reputed to be Geoffrey Wolinsky, minor Russian nobility, whose ancestors made it out of St. Petersburg a minute before the Bolsheviks marched in.
Finally, it was put about by those who had tried and failed to win the heart of Melva Ashton Manning, that Geoff was one Jeffrey Wolinsky of Russian Jewish lineage whose family made it out of Kiev before the Cossacks marched in. Take your pick of any/all of the above. One thing we do know: Geoff was, and this is PBF, a man who found women irresistible, and the ladies, too often, returned the compliment.
The gate was open and the blinking red light told me the alarm was turned off. For me, or did someone neglect to put it on this evening? I drove up the circular drive to the front door and saw Hattie, Melva’s housekeeper, awaiting my arrival. Hattie was a short, plump woman with gray hair pulled tightly back from her face and knotted into a bun. She wore black dresses with white collars and cuffs. Hattie had been with Melva from before Veronica was born, and Veronica had to be twenty, at least.
“Mr. Archy. Thank God. It’s terrible what has happened. Terrible. We must help Missy, Mr. Archy. She said, ‘Call the police, Hattie,’ but I said, ‘No, call Mr. Archy. He will know what to do.’” She rambled on in that vein as she led me into the house and to the drawing room, where Melva was seated in a wing chair, smoking a cigarette. She wore a robe over her nightgown and her feet were bare.
“I gave these up ten years ago, Archy, remember? I said if I ever again took one puff I’d be back to two packs a day, and look at this...” She pointed to an ashtray overflowing with butts smoked down to the filter. A glass and a bottle of Dewar’s stood beside the ashtray. “Would you like a drink, Archy?”
“I don’t think so, Melva. The cigarettes won’t help, and neither will the Scotch.”
Her eyes were glassy, like those of a china doll, and just as comprehending. A small woman, Melva now resembled a child trying to fill a grown-up’s chair. Her fashionably short hair was beginning to gray, and I doubt if she would ever attempt to hold back the tide. “Would you like to view the remains, Archy?”
Hattie let out a gasp and covered her mouth with her fist. This was only going to get worse before it got better.
“Where?”
“The solarium,” Hattie answered.
I made my way down a long hall to a glass-enclosed room overlooking the pool and furnished with potted plants, exotic flowers, wicker furniture, and Geoffrey Williams lying on his back, stark naked, his chest covered with congealed blood. Pants, shirt, and a pair of briefs stood in a heap on the floor not far from his tousled head of hair. A pair of abandoned Gucci loafers completed the inventory of Geoff’s outer- and underwear on his last day in our vale of tears. A gun lay beside the body. How like Melva, to abandon the weapon like a toy that no longer pleased her. There was always someone to pick up after Melva Ashton Manning Williams.
The only thing I learned from the scene of the crime was that Geoffrey Williams was definitely not Jewish.
Back in the drawing room Melva was still smoking and Hattie was still crying. “Why, Melva?” I asked, taking an English Oval from my shirt pocket and lighting it. When in Rome, and all that.
“Why what, Archy? Why did I marry him, or why did I shoot him?” She sounded less hysterical, more lucid. Was the shock wearing off, or the Scotch taking effect?
I shrugged. “It’s your call.”
“I married him because I was lonely and he was handsome and charming and the best lay in town. Does that surprise you?”
It didn’t, but poor Hattie had her fist in her mouth once again.
“I shot him because I
caught him in there, with a woman. A young woman. They were screwing.”
“He was never faithful, Melva, and I don’t think he ever pretended he was.”
“But he never flaunted it, Archy. We had an understanding. He could do as he wished as long as he didn’t frighten the horses on Main Street. What I mean, Archy, is that it was something he did in the dark. I was his wife, and he never so much as looked at another woman in my presence. Oh, I heard the rumors, but I could never prove them, and that suited me just fine. It didn’t diminish his looks, his charm, or his performance in bed, and I liked the envious glances of other women when I appeared on the arm of Geoffrey Williams. Then tonight, in our home, he shattered our delicate balance.”
“Where was he tonight?”
“A dinner party aboard Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
That accounted for Geoff’s informal attire. Meecham’s invitations always said, “Don’t Dress,” hoping everyone would take him literally.
“I refused to go and went to my room to read,” Melva continued. “Geoff made some calls and then came up to tell me Lolly Spindrift was going to pick him up and drive him home after Meecham’s party. He left the Rolls so I wouldn’t feel marooned. Hattie wasn’t feeling well and went to her room to lie down shortly after lunch. I didn’t see her again until—until it happened.”
“That’s right, Mr. Archy. I was not well. I think it’s the change of climate. I always have to adjust to the new climate.”
“I heard a car pull in around eleven and waited for Geoff to come to bed,” Melva was saying. “A half hour later, I was still waiting. I never heard Lolly drive off, so I grew concerned. I took the gun from my night table—”
“Why do you keep a gun?” I interrupted.
“Why? I don’t know. For just such an occasion as this, I guess. I thought there was a burglar in the house. It was Teddy’s gun. We’ve had it for years. I wasn’t even sure it was loaded.”
“So you came down here...”
“Yes,” she said. “Here to the drawing room. All the lights were out and I lit lamps as I went from room to room. Then I heard voices coming from the solarium. I went there and saw them. Geoff and a woman. A very young woman, I believe. They were on the floor and she—she was on top of him, riding him, you might say. I think I screamed. She—the woman—stood up, grabbed her clothes and fled.
“Geoff turned toward me and started to get up. I was shouting, hysterical, blind with rage. He was laughing. Yes, laughing, as if we were actors in a French farce. The more I ranted, the more he laughed. I was incensed. I heard her car drive off and wondered if she was still naked and what a scandal there would be if she were stopped by the police. Then I think he noticed the gun I was pointing at him. He raised a hand toward me and said something, I don’t know what, all I could hear was my own voice deafening me to any other sound—including the gunshot. I didn’t know I had fired until I saw him fall back, saw the blood...” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Hattie went to her and stroked her head. When the weeping and trembling subsided she looked up and said, “Veronica.”
“Veronica,” I repeated. “Where is she?”
“That’s why I called you, Archy. Veronica. I want you to find her and keep her with you until things quiet down. Once we notify the police, this place will be a zoo. The local paparazzi and television crews will set up camp on Ocean Boulevard and as soon as the New York boys get wind of it they’ll come down by the planeload.”
“Where is she?” I asked again.
“At a house party. I have the address.” She withdrew a piece of notepaper from the pocket of her robe.
“When did she leave here?”
Melva shrugged. “Before Geoff left, I think. She came up to say she was going.”
“She has her own car?”
“Yes. You’ll do it, Archy. You’ll find Veronica?”
“I will, don’t worry about that. Call the police as soon as I leave. If they find me here they’ll detain me.” She nodded her understanding. “One more thing, Melva. The alarm system. It was off when I drove in. Did you turn it off?”
“No. We never activate it during the day, only at night. First one to drive out the gate for the evening sets the alarm. It’s a house rule and it’s usually Veronica who does it. She’s been out every evening since we arrived.”
“So if Veronica went out first this evening, she set the alarm. But who shut it off if you didn’t?”
“Perhaps Geoff. To give his lady friend a quick exit.”
“You have to know the digital code to drive in, Melva. To drive out all you need is two hands to open the gate.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Archy.”
“I’m not sure I know either.” I gave her a peck on the cheek. “A proper Bostonian named Crowninshield once said married men make lousy husbands. He was right.” It didn’t get a laugh, but it helped. “Chin up, lady. McNally and Son are at your service.”
And because the rich are different from you and me, Hattie escorted me to the front door as befits a housekeeper come hell, high water, or murder. “Can you tell me anything more, Hattie?” I probed.
“Like Missy said, Mr. Archy, I was in my room most of the day. The room over the kitchen, up the back stairs. The shouting woke me. It was after eleven. I listened but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When I heard the gun go BOOM, I thought we had been robbed. I was afraid, Mr. Archy. I thought the crooks had killed Missy. Then the getaway car making so much noise, just like in the movies. I came down and... and...”
“Okay, Hattie. Take it easy. The police will be here in five minutes. Stay with Mrs. Williams as long as you can. I’ll be in touch in the morning.”
I put the piece of paper Melva had given me into my jacket pocket and drove off in the Miata. I wanted to get as far from the murder scene as possible before the PBPD moved in. I turned south on the A1A because I knew the police would approach from the north. My Miata is not exactly indiscreet, especially if Al Rogoff happened to be working the graveyard shift this chilly evening.
Well, I thought, Palm Beach can now boast a society crime passionnel, or crime of passion, which clever defense lawyers often equate to “temporary insanity,” getting their clients off with being placed in psychiatric care at most. However, murdering one’s husband was not new to high society. Regardless of Melva’s fate, when the media quotes her saying, “She was riding him,” Melva Ashton Manning Williams will kick off a cause célèbre unparalleled in Palm Beach’s short and audacious history.
4
AT ONE IN THE morning I had very little company on Ocean Boulevard. Were my fellow travelers—besides exceeding the legal speed limit—hurrying to or from dangerous liaisons? Under a starry Florida sky, wrapped in our mobile suits of armor, we were a landlocked version of ships passing in the night. I assumed mine was the only ship fleeing a murder scene, but life in Palm Beach had taught me to assume nothing, expect anything, and look to the morning papers to reveal what exactly it was that went bump in the night.
When I thought I was a safe distance from Melva and her police escort, I pulled off the road and into a driveway, stopping just before the security gate. This one, unlike the Williamses’, I was sure would be armed. Except for the cadenced roll of the surf on the other side of the highway, a sudden break in the light traffic rendered the spot eerily silent. A full moon completed a scene more suitable to lovers and werewolves than poor Archy in search of Melva’s offspring. I removed the penlite from the Miata’s glove compartment and dug the piece of paper Melva had so conveniently given me from my jacket pocket.
Reading it, I was seized with what the French call déjà vu and what I call being goosed by the fickle finger of fate. The address so carefully recorded by Melva was instantly, and distressingly, recognizable. Hillcrest! A decaying mansion on Lake Worth.
The fact that there was not a hill within sight of the place made the abode’s name as ludicrous as its vaguely Spanish architecture. I saw Hillcrest as clearly i
n the penlite’s circular gleam as I did the day I followed Lady Cynthia Horowitz to the house that proved to be her rented love nest. A nest she was sharing with my father, Prescott McNally.
Rusted wrought-iron gates, grass sprouting from a brick driveway, and more then a few red tiles missing from the roof was the Hillcrest I knew—and abhorred. The fact that I had been following Lady C. in the line of duty—trying to find her missing stamps—did not lessen the shock and fury of my discovery.
I convinced the lady to dismiss her lover in exchange for not telling her insurance company that her precious stamps were phony. I also returned the stamps that had never been stolen but given, by her, to the guy who was trying to sell them. Lady Cynthia Horowitz, in spite of her title, was far from noble. The lesson I learned, with relish I must admit, was that even Prescott McNally had an Achilles’ heel, even if in mon père’s case, the weak spot proved to be a tad higher. Later, however, I did wonder if father’s affair with that oft-married septuagenarian with the Miss America figure was the result of Eros’s dart or the abundance of Lady C.’s gilt-edged securities. In father’s case I refused to give love the benefit of the doubt.
To this day, Father does not know that I was the cause of Lady C. giving him the brush-off, and Lady C., when she’s not trying to seduce me, treats me with a mixture of distrust and respect but not, alas, fear. It would take more than Archy McNally to put the fear of man or God in that woman.
I drove south until I came to a winding road below Manalapan Beach. This spit of land, between the Atlantic Ocean and Lake Worth, is so narrow that a kid with a good arm could toss a ball from the beach into the lake. I made a right, entering Hillcrest’s driveway, and came to an abrupt halt. Mine was the last in a line of cars parked on the brick driveway which I knew meandered down to a garage and a turnaround at the rear of the house. The noise coming from Hillcrest told me that there were probably more cars parked on the back lawn—a green expanse overlooking the lake and a decaying dock.
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