“Of course. As long as it’s not too personal.”
“What’s too personal?”
“I’ll let you know when I hear it.”
“Do you always give your mother the address of where you can be reached when you go out in the evening?”
“Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Your mother gave me the idea when she handed me the address of Hillcrest House as if she were handing out business cards.”
She cocked her head and began tugging on one of her pigtails. The gesture, coupled with her outfit, made her look more like twelve than twenty-two. I wished I would stop thinking about age. Hers and mine.
“I remember!” The shout was accompanied by a clapping of her hands. “Fitz. Fitz.”
“What?” I thought she was demanding a carbonated soft drink.
“Fitz,” she exploded again. “Elizabeth Fitzwilliams. Fitz and I were going to a movie last night but she called in the afternoon and said she was stuck at a dinner party her parents were giving. She couldn’t get out of it because one of the invited couples was bringing their son—a plebe at Annapolis—and Fitz had to balance the table, if you know what I mean. Not that Fitz didn’t want to hang around. Show Fitz a plebe from Annapolis and I’ll show you a woman—”
“Veronica, just the facts. I am not interested in Fitz’s sex life.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw Fitz.”
“Prettier than you, is she?”
She gave me a demure smile.
“I take it the piece of paper your mother gave me was intended for Fitz.”
“Exactly. Fitz said that if the plebe was a nerd she would plead a headache after dessert and call me. I got invited to the party at Hillcrest, so I left the address with Mother in case Fitz did call and wanted to join me.”
And there it was. A most logical explanation to a perplexing question. I hoped Melva, too, had logical explanations for the questions she was going to be asked. “Who invited you to the party at Hillcrest?”
“Too personal,” came the reply, quick as a speeding bullet. She stood. “If I’m going to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning, I’d best go to bed.”
“You said that to my father two hours ago, and then you came straight here.” I stood.
“But now I have no one left to visit.”
“There’s Hobo.”
“That animal has an ankle fetish.”
I closed the three-foot gap between us. (A toe-à-terre says it all.) “Like Master, like dog.”
“Oh, Archy!” She threw her arms around my neck, and for the third time (who’s counting?) I was made uncomfortably aware of the swell of her breasts. This was becoming a habit—one that could prove as addictive as nicotine, and just as lethal.
We kissed. The gesture was neither passionate nor platonic. I would call it warm, tender, and a promise of things to come. When we parted, she rested her cheek against my chest.
“That was dreadfully naughty,” she whispered.
“Yes, it was.”
“I’m to blame. Don’t feel guilty.”
“What I’m feeling is not guilt,” I answered, twirling one of her pigtails between my fingers. “But if you don’t get out of here right now that’s just what I’ll be feeling—after the fact.”
She broke away, laughing, and vacated my quarters.
My bachelor digs, once as sacrosanct as a monk’s cell, had been invaded by Veronica Manning. A harbinger? Like Nathan Detroit’s big song from my favorite show, Guys and Dolls, was it time to “give up the cards and dice and go for shoes and rice”? Nathan was portrayed by ol’ Blue Eyes in the film version of that Broadway hit, and I knew that tomorrow I would be humming one of Frank’s favorites—“I Couldn’t Sleep a Wink Last Night.”
13
NOT WANTING TO ENCOUNTER Veronica, I slept in until I was certain she and Father had left for the McNally Building. After taking a cool shower—since Veronica’s arrival, cool showers have become de rigueur around here for more than sanitary reasons—I shaved with the help of a mirror that reflected a face twice as big as the one God had given me, then splashed on a bit of witch hazel to help soothe the razor burn.
I never use an aftershave because its five-and-dime odor overpowers the very expensive and irresistible cologne I dab, ever so modestly, on the back of my neck. I will not tell you its name because I do not want to share my scent with every schoolboy, caddie, jock, and Wall Street yuppie who can afford its hefty price. I will reveal all when, in my old age, I write a Histoire de ma vie to rival Casanova. (Of course, Casanova would never have let Veronica out of his clutches last night.)
I donned silk briefs depicting neither T-Rex nor rabbits on the run, but the sign of the goat in tribute to the Capricornian Veronica. These were followed by boot-cut jeans, a T-shirt with the logo IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLAY ON, which was designed especially for the Pelican Club Sextet and penned, I think, by The Bard, and my size-ten-and-a-half white bucks, because this was Palm Beach on a sunny day. Feeling preppyish, I topped it all with a porkpie hat.
I was ready to face a hearty breakfast followed by Connie Garcia, when the phone rang. Having not learned my lesson, I picked up the dastardly instrument.
“Archy here.”
“Hi, Archy. It’s Binky.”
“Binky, my boy, did you hear the good news? Hobo is as healthy as you.”
“I’m not so healthy, Archy.”
This did not bode well. “What ails you, Binky?”
“Well, I’m having trouble getting around.”
“This would have nothing to do with Hobo’s nip at your ankle, I hope?”
“Nip? He dug his teeth in, Archy.”
“He’s a small dog, Binky.”
“Even small dogs can exert two hundred pounds of pressure with their jaws.”
This was far too scientific for Binky Watrous. “Who told you that, Binky?”
“The Duchess.”
I might have known. The Duchess, for those existing in blissful ignorance, is neither a lady of rank nor Binky’s mother—but his aunt. You see, Binky was rendered an orphan of the storm at an early age and was taken in by Auntie, who thought that one day she would be repaid by a grateful nephew. Having long given up the hope of financial reimbursement, the Duchess has been reduced to settling for Binky’s getting a job and moving out of her home, board, and life. But to date, Binky has not been able to find gainful employment and remains a ward of Auntie Dearest.
“Did Hobo draw blood, Binky?”
“Well, it’s red...”
“I repeat. Did Hobo draw blood?”
“The ankle is swollen, Archy. The Duchess had me soak it in warm water and Epsom salts, then she bandaged it, but I can’t put pressure on it and it’s hard to walk.”
“Is it, Binky? Or did the Duchess tell you you couldn’t walk?”
“Well...” Binky hesitated. “We had to get an ambulance to take me to the emergency room at the hospital.”
This was too much. “I hope you’re kidding. Why did you go to the emergency room for a scratch on your ankle?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.
“The Duchess said everything should be documented.”
Just as I thought. The Duchess was looking to make back twenty-five years of expenditures on Binky Watrous in one raid on McNally & Son’s insurance brokers.
“You’re suing?”
“Nothing personal, Archy. The Duchess said your father must be insured for millions.”
“And how many millions are you looking for, Binky?”
“We don’t know yet. I have to get a lawyer. Do you think your father would represent me?”
“My father can’t represent you in a suit against himself. That would be carrying conflict of interest to obscene heights. And just what are you claiming you suffered, thanks to little Hobo?”
“Hobo caused me to be shocked, hurt, and indignant.”
Good lord, the Duchess must have been burning the midnight o
il, poring over legal texts. “Tell the Duchess you don’t have a case, Binky.”
This struck a chord. “I was working on a case,” Binky reminded me. “I’m entitled to workers’ compensation, too.”
The Duchess had left no stone unturned in her lifelong quest for solvency. “Did you ever hear of Sam Spade collecting workers’ compensation?”
“No, Archy.”
“Did you ever hear of Philip Marlowe collecting workers’ compensation?”
“No, Archy.”
“The Green Hornet?”
“No, Archy.”
“Only sissies collect workers’ compensation.”
“I’ve never even been to San Francisco, Archy.”
Spare me, God. “Binky, I am working on a case, and so I must leave you to soak your ankle and examine your conscience. I’ll get back to you regarding your suit.”
“We saw you on television. Great maneuver, Archy. A murder case! How’s Veronica doing?”
“Nice of you to ask, I’m sure. She’s doing better than others I could name and, you may as well know now as later—Hobo broke a tooth on your ankle. We have to puree all his food. We are shocked, hurt, and indignant, and we’re countersuing. See you in court, Binky.”
“We who are about to be sued salute you,” I greeted Ursi in our kitchen.
“What now?” she sighed.
“Binky Watrous is suing us.”
“Because of Hobo?”
“None other.”
“Binky is a good boy,” Ursi stated.
“If you mean his aunt put him up to it, you’re right, Ursi.”
“He’ll get over it, Archy. The boy adores you.”
“But the Duchess obviously doesn’t.”
Ursi poured me a large, freshly squeezed, and chilled glass of orange juice, which I accepted with a heartfelt thank-you. After draining the glass, I poured myself a coffee from the electric perc.
“What can I get you, Archy?” she asked.
“Thanks to Binky, I’m feeling a bit delicate. Just some scrambled eggs and bacon would be nice.”
“Toast or muffin?”
“Toast, please. Is Mother in the garden?”
“No. She and Jamie are scouting the nurseries in search of new and exotic begonias.” Ursi spoke as she broke eggs into a bowl after lining a frying pan with bacon strips, then sliced two hearty slices from a fresh loaf of marbled rye. In minutes, the aroma in the kitchen would get the juices going and my delicate stomach would make a remarkable recovery.
What, I wondered, did an exotic begonia look like? And between Jamie’s tight lips and Mother’s forgetfulness, I also wondered what the conversation was like in the wood-paneled Ford as it headed for unsuspecting nurseries. But knowing our Jamie, I was assured that Mother would chatter, Jamie would listen, and they would return with the station wagon filled with exotic begonias.
“How did it go this morning, Ursi, everyone get off on time?”
“Of course, Archy. Your father wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How did Veronica look?”
“Lovely, as I’m sure you know. But she hardly touched her breakfast. Just coffee and dry toast. Poor little waif.”
“If all goes well, her mother will be home this afternoon, and that will make her feel better, I’m sure.”
“But look what’s still before them. A murder trial. What a scandal.” Ursi shook her head as she scrambled my eggs.
“What’s the gossip, Ursi?”
“Oh, it’s a bit early in the day yet, but judging from the few calls I’ve gotten all the talk is of the boat ride and the Mystery Woman. Clara, who spotted Mr. Meecham’s boat and never left the window until Miss Veronica was in Hattie’s arms, says it was like Dunkirk. And, Archy, there’s a pool been started to guess the Mystery Woman. One hundred dollars to enter and winner takes all.”
“Are you entering, Ursi?”
“I’m not sure. A hundred dollars isn’t easy to come by.”
“But you think you know who the Mystery Woman is, don’t you?”
“Do you?” came the instant reply.
“If I did, Ursi my love, I’d tell you her name and you could claim the pool.”
“I think everyone, up- and downstairs, has their suspicions, Archy.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but suspicions based on fancy, not fact, can be dangerous for the both the suspector and the suspected.”
“Then I’ll keep my thoughts to myself and my hundred dollars in the bank.” Ursi finished putting together my breakfast plate and not a moment too soon. I was starved.
“Miss Veronica asked me what time you usually came down to breakfast.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Your father told her you usually do paperwork in your room before coming down. What’s paperwork, Archy?”
“Beats me. I think he was trying to impress the young lady.”
“Well, she’s certainly obsessed with you, Archy.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. She missed not seeing you at breakfast.”
“I’m just a port in a storm for Veronica,” I told her, hoping she would disagree.
“I’ve heard of people putting into a port in a storm and falling in love with the place.”
Subtlety was not one of Ursi’s virtues. “Right after breakfast I’m off to see Connie,” I announced.
Ursi put my plate of bacon, eggs, and rye toast before me and lamented, “Nothing is ever easy, Archy, is it?”
Hobo, tail wagging, came running to say hello while yapping happily, displaying a fine set of teeth. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we might have to pull a few for his court appearance. When I saw Veronica’s car, I remembered that I had been assigned to drive it to her home before the day was over. I had intended to use Binky for this chore, either having him drive the Mercedes or following me in my Miata, giving us return transportation. Until I talked him out of suing—if I could—it would be best to keep Binky and the Duchess out of my hair.
Binky, I knew, thought I was working on Melva’s case, which I most certainly was not. Aside from sheltering Veronica, Melva had not sought my help, and there was really nothing I could do for her except, perhaps, keep my eyes and ears open regarding the Mystery Woman. The Fairhurst affair was my only case, and the less Binky, or anyone, knew about that, the better.
There is no alarm at the entrance to the Horowitz house on Ocean Boulevard because there is no gate. So social is Lady Cynthia that, aside from a revolving gate, a no-gate policy best serves the almost steady stream of traffic between the Boulevard and Lady C.’s oak front door. But don’t let that fool you. This architecturally correct copy of an antebellum Southern plantation, transported to Florida’s Gold Coast, was encompassed by a high wall of coral blocks surrounding the estate, as well as the large patio and swimming pool area at the rear of the main house.
Each time I approached the place, I could hear Max Steiner’s unforgettable theme music and fully expected to see, in gigantic letters, the words “Gone with the Wind” floating across the mansion’s facade.
What I saw on this perfect Palm Beach day were the six flags Lady C. has hoisted each morning around her pool. Each represents the native land of her ex-husbands. It is a tribute to those responsible for Lady C.’s huge fortune. “Our only regret,” they seem to whisper, while snapping smartly in the ocean breeze, “is that we didn’t demand a prenuptial marriage contract.”
Mrs. Marsden answered the front door chimes. “I saw you on television,” were her opening words. Well, I could think of worse places to be seen—but not many.
“I hope you enjoyed the show, Mrs. Marsden.”
“I’ve seen worse. Lady Cynthia is out, but Connie is in the office,” she informed me. “You know the way.”
Mrs. Marsden is a regal black woman with the posture and deportment of a marine sergeant. Widowed early in life, she had, I know for a fact, put two children through college while maintaining her sanity in
the employ of Lady Cynthia Horowitz. Neither an easy feat.
I say this to correct any misinterpretation of my previous remarks regarding her character. Gossip in Palm Beach, up- and downstairs as Ursi would have it, is a way of life. It relieves the boredom of existing in a close-knit society and gives us an excuse to touch base with our peers on a day-to-day basis. Mrs. Marsden and her fellow domestics, with few exceptions, never indulge in malicious gossip. One wishes the same could be said for those who employ them.
“In fact, Mrs. Marsden, I would like a word with you before I go in to see Connie,” I said as I entered the entrance foyer, which could accommodate the entire Boston Pops, instruments and all.
She paused momentarily and turned to me. “The Mystery Woman?” she intoned, eyes unblinking.
With those two words, Lolly had started a snowball rolling down a hill that was taking on the proportions of an avalanche. And never mind that it never snowed in Palm Beach. “No,” I said. “I think that’s something best left to the police. I’m interested in the new chauffeur at the Fairhurst house. Do you know him?”
She drew back her head and eyed me head to foot before answering. “Is he in trouble?”
As Melva’s friends were closing ranks, so would the domestics should one of their own be the accused. “Not that I know of, Mrs. Marsden,” I quickly assured her. “It’s a personal matter and I ask in confidence and hope you will afford me the same courtesy.”
She gave that a moment’s thought, and then remembering that as Connie’s fiancé I was more “them” than “they,” she shrugged and said, “He’s new on the job, but I’ve seen him around.”
“How does he strike you?”
“Uppity, is my opinion, but don’t quote me, Archy.”
“I won’t, but in what way is he uppity?”
“Well,” she began, “when we have a large reception, which is almost every day lately, I always invite the drivers into my kitchen for light refreshment and to pass the time. The last big do we had, about three or four days ago—it was for a children’s hospital, although I never saw a child in Palm Beach that needed charity—this Seth shows up with Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst. Good looker, I’ll say that for him. Well, he isn’t in my kitchen two minutes when he’s passing up my coffee and asking for a proper drink. Imagine that!” This was delivered as if even the thought of serving proper drinks in her kitchen was appalling.
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