McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  Like Andy Carnegie, I was not amused.

  “So he lived out his life in quiet comfort and seclusion, and when Grandfather died a second time, he was the first Fairhurst to be cremated. Interment, don’t-you-know, would have been a bit awkward,” Fairhurst concluded.

  John Fairhurst III knew how to turn a phrase, I’ll say that for him. I didn’t ask how they managed to get a death certificate for the old boy because I knew money could buy anything, including death certificates and love. Or should that be especially death certificates and love?

  “Mr. Fairhurst,” I began, “by coming to us I assume you have no intention of paying to keep this a secret.”

  “Correct, Archy. For several reasons. The first is that I am certain this person would not stop at the requested amount. It would be the beginning of a lifetime annuity.”

  “I’m glad you are aware of that, sir.”

  “Also, in compensation for Grandfather’s moment of weakness, the Fairhurst Foundation was founded as a charity devoted exclusively to the care and education of needy children. For three-quarters of a century our foundation has given millions to orphanages, endowed children’s hospitals, provided scholarships, funded medical programs, and much, much more. We have paid, many times over, for the seat on a lifeboat Grandfather may have taken from a poor boy or girl. I wish neither to make a mockery of this largesse nor see it become an embarrassment that might make it necessary to terminate the foundation. I want you to find the culprit and stop him before he brings down the Fairhurst Foundation.”

  I thought mon père was going to stand up and applaud. To his credit, he didn’t.

  Quickly assaying the situation, I concluded that the letter was a useless clue as to the blackmailer. Typewritten on what appeared to be copy-machine paper, it could lead to the villain only in a television police procedural. Besides, Fairhurst had made it very clear that the letter could be shown to no one, including an expert who might tell us the make and model of the typewriter used and not much more. This was a case for a bloodhound, and it seemed the best place to start sniffing was in Fairhurst’s own backyard.

  “Mr. Fairhurst, who besides yourself knows about this?”

  “The letter, or my grandfather’s indiscretion?”

  “Both, please.”

  “Only my wife and I know about both the letter and Grandfather’s escapade.”

  “Your children?” I asked.

  “No, Archy. I thought it best to let the story die with me. Saw no reason to pass it on to my heirs, and my wife agreed.”

  “I think you should keep the letter, Mr. Fairhurst. It’s of no use to me, and I don’t want to be responsible for its safekeeping.”

  “Very sensible,” Father said, relieved.

  “And,” I continued, “I don’t think we can do very much until you receive the letter instructing you where and when to deliver the money. They will have to give us a contact point, and that can lead directly to them—which they know—so how we play it from there will win us, or lose us, the day. I can guarantee nothing, Mr. Fairhurst, but our sincere effort to foil the scheme.” This was my standard close.

  “I understand, Archy, and I appreciate your help.” Fairhurst returned the letter to the inside pocket of his blazer.

  “Mr. Fairhurst, do you have any idea how a family secret known only to you and Mrs. Fairhurst came to be known to a common blackmailer?”

  “I honestly do not, Archy.”

  “And one more thing, sir. How many are on your household staff?”

  “There are a butler and a housekeeper, and a secretary who assists both me and Mrs. Fairhurst. Cleaning people and gardeners come daily and are overseen by Peterson, our butler, and the housekeeper, who happens to be Mrs. Peterson.”

  Not a large crew for a house often compared to Mar-A-Lago, the former home of Post Toasties heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post. Mar-A-Lago is now owned by a New York realtor. I imagine the “dailies” who come in to round out the Fairhurst staff constitute a small army.

  “Do you trust them, Mr. Fairhurst?”

  “Implicitly, Archy. The Petersons have been with us for over twenty years, and Arnold, our secretary, for a dozen years at least.”

  “I see...”

  “Oh, I almost forgot my chauffeur, Seth Walker. He’s part-time, as my wife and I don’t gad about as much as we used to. I took him on about a month ago, but he came highly recommended by Geoff Williams—you know, Melva’s husband.”

  My flabber- was gasted, but this didn’t throw me off the scent. Sooner or later I would have to check out Fairhurst’s staff and I decided that sooner would be better than later. “I would like to visit your home and have a look around. Naturally, I’ll come on some pretense so as not to arouse suspicion among your staff.”

  “Call me and I’ll arrange it,” Fairhurst agreed.

  John Fairhurst III had hired a chauffeur recommended by Geoff Williams, who was dead, thanks to Geoff’s wife, whose daughter had moved in below me, which led to Binky being bitten by Hobo, thereby precipitating a rabies alert.

  I should have ordered two Quaaludes.

  8

  FATHER HAD MADE LUNCH reservations at Ta-Boo’, known for its delicious green linguine, which I declined in favor of hurrying back to the delicious Veronica. I left Father, explaining Melva’s situation to Fairhurst, who kept shaking his head while muttering the inevitable “Poor Melva.” Perhaps a gratuitous lament in retaliation for Melva’s ancestors crossing the Atlantic on the Mayflower and settling in Plymouth, where their good Yankee sense told them not to push their luck and traverse it again on the Titanic.

  Palm Beach society is a relatively small tribe. Most evenings, members in good standing are obliged to mix and mingle over cocktails, dinner, and charity events. Afternoons, they cross one another’s paths on golf courses and tennis courts or toot at one another from deluxe watercraft. Mornings, they sleep in. I have long felt that life here is nothing more than a conjurer’s trick performed with a dozen talking heads and a thousand mirrors.

  Ergo, it was no surprise that while schmoozing with his betters over a martini or across a table, Geoff had recommended a driver to Fairhurst; it was the driver who was the enigma. Had Geoff tried to palm off an upstairs maid who knew her way around a gentleman’s bedroom, I would have given the matter a sly wink and a yawn. Seth Walker was the reason I wanted to pay a call on Fairhurst. I hadn’t tipped my hand at the meeting because I like to play my cards close to the vest—preferably my green and blue tattersall.

  I was still astounded over the number-one Fairhurst’s indiscretion, as number three had labeled it, but as I sped along in my red Miata, I changed gears, literally and figuratively, and shifted into a Melva Williams mode. At Discreet Inquiries, when it rains it pours, although you couldn’t prove this by the weather. When I drove out of our underground garage, small patches of blue were poking holes in the gray ceiling. A good omen for what I had in mind for this afternoon’s adventure.

  I was going to attempt to K two B’s with one S. Not an easy kill, especially if the birds are capricious and the stone small. Unlike David, I didn’t own a catapult, but I did have a few strings I could pull to my advantage. Archy the puppeteer.

  I found Veronica in the kitchen, where Ursi was readying lunch. Daylight did nothing to diminish my charge’s ethereal evening beauty, and Dora’s jeans and sweatshirt, both a tad too small, helped to accentuate the positive. My only surprise was that her elegant evening purse had obviously contained a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses, which Veronica now wore to pore over the afternoon paper. Melva’s face, staring out from the front page, was the only disquieting note in a room redolent with an aroma that promised grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches.

  “Any word of my mother?” Veronica asked as I came into the kitchen.

  “One of our lawyers is with her and her legal people are on their way here. My father has been in contact with them since early this morning.” Being aware that I wasn’t going to be complimented
on my attire, I turned to Ursi and pleaded for a beer.

  Veronica pushed the newspaper aside and questioned me further as I took the chair opposite her. “When can I see her, Archy?”

  “We tried for a bail hearing this afternoon, but I don’t think we’re going to get it. Tomorrow, I imagine. When bail is set, she will be free to come home.”

  “Why can’t I go to her now?”

  “Because they won’t let you see her and I don’t think you want to fight your way through the reporters waiting outside the police station and the courthouse. Not to mention the picture you would make in those jeans and that sweatshirt. We want to play down lust, Veronica, and play up family values.”

  She smiled reluctantly, annoyed with herself for not being able to resist the compliment. Had I found the path to her heart? Did I want to find the path to her heart? A dilemma, but one I might enjoy sparring with.

  “Would you like a drink, Miss Veronica?” Ursi asked as she served my beer. “Lunch will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “If you bring another glass, I’ll share Archy’s beer.”

  “Perhaps you ought to bring another beer, Ursi,” I advised. “Archy is thirsty.”

  Veronica’s hand rested on the newspaper, one finger stroking the image of her mother’s cheek. “It’s horrible, Archy.” She dug into the pocket of Dora’s jeans and came up with a crumpled handkerchief that looked as if it had been put to use all morning. I reached out to cover her hand with mine, but Ursi returned with another beer and another glass, so instead of holding Veronica’s hand I poured her beer.

  I hate watching a woman cry, especially when it’s not in my power to stem the flow. “Drink,” I ordered. “It’ll do you good.”

  She sipped the brew and used her handkerchief to blot the foam from her upper lip. “It’s awful,” she repeated.

  “The beer?”

  This got me a grimace rather than a smile. “No, silly. This.” She tapped the newspaper with her forefinger.

  “Last night I asked you if you wanted me to tell you that everything was going to be just fine, remember?” She nodded. “You still want the truth?” She nodded again, her fingers clutching the handkerchief. “This,” I gestured with my glass to denote the newspaper, “is just the local press. The story will draw national attention, and when the tabloids get into it, the facts will give way to fiction, pandering to the voyeur in all of us.”

  “It’s been on television, too,” she said. “Not only the local and Miami stations, but even CNN aired it with footage of the mob at our front gate and aerial shots of the house.”

  “I’m sure they bought the footage from one of our networks, just as they did when a local California station provided them with the sight and sound of O. J. Simpson playing the Pied Piper to the Los Angeles police department. But never fear, they’ll have their own crew down here by tomorrow, as will the other cable and commercial networks. Like I said, kid, it’s just day one. Our job is to think about what we can do to help your mother.”

  “Later,” Ursi said, putting down a tray of sandwiches between us. “First, think about lunch. Grilled cheese and bacon, and I’ve got pickles and homemade slaw. Your mother, Mr. Archy, won’t be joining us, as she’s resting.”

  Ursi’s tone, not an unfamiliar one, told me I was being reprimanded for forgetting Mother and I deserved the censure. However, I had a lot on my plate, what with the Fairhurst indiscretion, the Williams murder, Veronica’s tearful blue eyes, Binky’s rabies, and now a thick-cut grilled cheese and bacon sandwich on crusty sourdough replete with a pile of kettle potato chips. But still, I was ashamed of my errant behavior. “Is she not feeling well?” I said, my concern sincere.

  “She’s fine,” Veronica broke in. “I’m afraid I tired her. She gave me a tour of her garden and then—and then...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very attentive guest. I insisted on seeing the afternoon paper. Jamie went for it. Later I wanted to watch the news on television, and I...”

  “And this upset Mother. Is that what you want to say?”

  “I’m so sorry, Archy. She’s a dear, she really is. You’re right, I think the news upset her.” She shook her head, her blond hair careening in a manner peculiar to expert snipping and shaping. “I know it upset her,” she amended.

  “My fault, really. You had enough to worry about without being concerned with Mother, too. She’ll be fine after her nap. Now eat your lunch.”

  “What a way to repay your kindness.”

  Now I did place my hand over hers. The fair skin was smooth and cool to my touch. I felt a tingling in a part of my anatomy that had nothing to do with gastronomic expectations.

  Ursi joined us at table, nibbling at her efforts while we devoured them with gusto. She and Jamie often joined us for breakfast and lunch but never for dinner, which, thanks to the Master, was a very formal affair. Jamie, Ursi explained, was off in mother’s station wagon with Hobo, which explained why neither had greeted me upon my return. I told Veronica about Binky’s encounter with our canine and got the laugh I had been trying to elicit from her since my arrival.

  “I know it’s not funny,” she defended herself, “but what a sight it must have been. Poor Binky.”

  I was ready to throw Binky to the lions for another Veronica Manning smile.

  The repast put some color into her cheeks and courage into her heart. “You’ve been very kind, Archy. You’ve all been very kind,” she repeated with a nod to Ursi. “But now I want to go home. Poor Hattie is alone and must be beside herself.”

  “No need to worry about Hattie. She has her tonic, thanks to Mrs. Marsden, and she’s only been alone for a little more than half a day.”

  “It seems like ages,” Veronica answered.

  “I told your mother I would watch over you, and I intend to do just that. Put up with us for another night, Veronica, and when your mother comes home tomorrow, you can join her.”

  “I don’t want Hattie to spend another day and night alone in the house without some reassurance, and I can’t get her on the phone. I think she’s got them all unplugged.” She looked about anxiously. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  I surrendered one of my English Ovals and, after lighting hers, helped myself to one. Ursi reluctantly brought us an ashtray before clearing the table.

  Puffing, but not inhaling, Veronica continued to rally me to her cause. “I must have clean clothes, Archy, especially if we’re to pick up mother tomorrow and take her home. You said it will be a photo op for the press, and I should be dressed more somberly than this.” She spoke with a flutter of her hands. “And last night’s dress is even less appropriate.”

  “I know,” I told her. “I’ve thought about all that. You can’t be seen shopping on Worth Avenue, either. That would be worse than appearing in Dora’s jeans.”

  “If Mrs. Marsden got through, why can’t we?” she concluded.

  “Oh, the police would let us in. You live there, remember? But we’d have to plow through the press at five miles an hour with them all over the car like camera-toting leeches.”

  “I don’t care,” she cried, stubbing out her cigarette. I made a mental note to buy a generic brand to feed her extravagant smoking habit. “If you want me to spend the night here, I will. But today I’m going home to get the clothes I’ll need for tonight and tomorrow and to let Hattie know we haven’t abandoned her. We’ll drive in and out, and to hell with the press, Archy. If you won’t come, I’ll do it alone.”

  “When we drive out, Veronica, they’ll follow us right here, learn where you’re staying, and set up shop outside my front door. We won’t have police protection as does the murder scene, and Hobo has extracted his pound of flesh for the season.”

  “Follow us?” She shuddered as she spoke.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Are you ill?”

  She shook her head. “You said they would follow us and I thought of her—the Princess of Wales—being chased by the paparazzi.”
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  The poor kid. She was terrified. “Put it out of your head, Veronica. No one is going to follow us.” Now I was more determined than ever to go through with the plan I had worked out earlier. Operation K two B’s with one S. “Archy is going to get you in and out of your home without anyone knowing you’ve been and gone.”

  “How?”

  I held up my hand. “First, you have to agree to granting Lolly Spindrift an interview.”

  “What?” she shouted.

  “An interview with Lolly. Do you know him?”

  “Know him? Last season,” she confided, “we both had our eye on the same young man. I won.”

  “I wonder why?” I pondered, looking at her perfect face, even lovelier when animated as it was now. Then I explained, slowly and carefully, all the advantages of giving Lolly the interview.

  “You want me to nail Geoff to the wall,” she stated rather than asked.

  The young certainly don’t mince words. “Not so anyone sees the hammer in your hand—restraint is the key word. Also, I think Lolly’s questions will tend to encourage you to subtly compose the picture of a long-suffering wife and her roving husband. Lol likes Melva.”

  “And he didn’t like Geoff?”

  “Oh, he liked Geoff all right, but Geoff didn’t reciprocate.”

  “Then it was the first carnal offer my stepfather turned down.”

  As I said, this crowd tells it like it is. “There’s another reason we have to be kind to Lolly, Veronica.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your mother told me he picked up Geoff last night and drove him to Phil Meecham’s party. It was there that Geoff must have met his lady friend. Lolly is a keen observer of the human mating game and is probably the only person who was at Meecham’s bash who can identify her—the others being too preoccupied with their own lascivious pursuits. In fact, he might even know who she is and where we can find her.”

  She stared at me for a few moments, her eyes unseeing, before asking, “Is that really necessary?”