“Lolly didn’t pick up Geoff that night, Melva.”
She looked at me for a long time before she answered. The reflexes were too slow for a sharp woman like Melva Williams. She was clearly on medication, and, once again, who could blame her? When she finally did answer it was simply to say, “I know. Veronica told us.”
“What did your lawyers say?”
She put out her cigarette. Now I knew where Veronica had picked up the “two puffs and you’re dead” habit. Was this the curse of the upper classes or the legacy of Bette Davis? I suspected the latter.
“They think,” she said, “what you think. Without Lolly’s corroboration I can’t prove what took place here two nights ago. People will either believe me or not.”
“Could Veronica have heard—”
“No, Archy. I’m sorry to say Veronica could not have heard anything. I was in my bedroom when Geoff came and told me he was expecting Lolly Spindrift to call for him. Veronica was in her room, preparing to go out for the evening, which she did before Geoff left. Hattie, as you already know, hadn’t left her room all day. We were quite alone when Geoff told me his plans. Or should I say, when Geoff lied to me.”
“Veronica had her car and Geoff left the Rolls. Someone picked him up, Melva.”
“The girl. Who else?”
“Pretty nervy, wasn’t it?”
She laughed or grunted, hard to tell which, and quipped, “Geoff was a pretty nervy guy.”
As Lolly and I had speculated, the girl must have been someone known to Lolly. Now I was more convinced of this than ever. It had to be someone who could have said they were calling for Geoff in place of Lolly if Melva was downstairs when the girl arrived. Unfortunately, Melva had been in her room—Hattie in her room—and Veronica had left the house. Blind luck? But who had lucked out? Certainly not Geoffrey Williams.
“We’ve got to find that girl, Melva. If we don’t, it’s us against the world.”
“Thank you for including yourself in my quest. You’re a true friend, Archy. As for the Mystery Woman—I could kill Lolly Spindrift for that infectious label—she will never come forward, and we both know that. I’m going to have to take my chances and go it alone. Lolly was my only hope, and all he’s done is literally add to the mystery rather than clear the air. We’re thinking of offering a reward for her identity. Not directly from us, of course. Maybe one of the newspapers or television stations. We would guarantee payment.”
“Risky. Someone might trace it to you and your lawyers.”
“No risk, no gain, isn’t that what they say? And we’ve heard the police have gotten at least a half dozen calls from potential Mystery Woman prospects. Two of them from Hollywood. Will they hold a lineup for me to inspect?”
I pounced on that one. “Can you remember what she looked like? Anything, Melva. Anything at all. Hair color, for starters.”
She shrugged and reached for another cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a health nut with my two or three English Ovals a day. “Brown,” she said. “And long. It covered her face as she did her thing.”
“When she stood and grabbed her clothes...”
Melva discounted this with a wave of her hand. “I was looking at Geoff and nowhere else. I can tell you she had a nice figure and, I think, was young.”
“Young as opposed to who, Grandma Moses?”
“Under thirty. How’s that?”
“Better, but no cigar.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I said, “I know you’re drawing blanks about that night, Melva, but you said when you heard a car arrive, you knew, or thought you knew, it was Geoff. Why? Why couldn’t it have been Veronica returning home?”
She looked at me as if I were a schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework. “You don’t have children, Archy, do you?”
“None that I know of.”
“Well, if, and when, you do have children that you know of, and they grow to become social creatures, you will learn never to expect them home before midnight. It was eleven or thereabouts when I heard that car. I never thought for a moment that it could be Veronica.”
And another mystery bit the dust. I was getting all the right answers, so I must have been asking all the wrong questions. Back to the drawing board, Archy.
“I’ll remember that,” I acquiesced without a fight. “And one final word on the Mystery Woman. I have a piece of news on the subject.”
“That awful Horowitz’s masked ball. The woman should be tarred and feathered.”
How stupid of me. Melva probably knew about Lady C.’s plans before I did. Mrs. Marsden must have been on the phone to Hattie even as the plans were being discussed. Now Hattie was giving Jamie an earful, and so on down the line. “I’m going to try to talk her out of it, Melva,” I promised.
Veronica, toting a tray that looked suspiciously like the one Hattie had presented Lolly and me with yesterday, entered in a pair of cut-off denims and a polo shirt. “I didn’t make the coffee or the cookies,” she said. “I am merely the purveyor of Hattie’s generosity.”
I got up to relieve her of the tray and was rewarded with a peck on the check, “IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLAY ON,” she read my T-shirt. “How romantic.”
“It isn’t romantic at all,” Melva said, rousing herself from her chair. “It’s the uniform of that dreadful band he plays with at that dreadful club he frequents.” She was at the sideboard where I had placed the tray, pouring three coffees.
“You really know how to hurt a guy, Melva.” I bit my tongue, hard, but it was too late. Melva stopped pouring. Veronica stopped chatting. I stopped breathing.
It was Melva who saved the moment. She laughed. Not hysterically, but with genuine humor. “Archy, I love you. I truly do. You are an unpretentious person in a world of pompous asses. I guess I do know how to hurt a guy.” She handed me a cup of coffee. “Is this okay, or would you like something stronger?”
“Cyanide would be nice.” She gave my hand a gentle squeeze before helping herself to coffee.
The tension passed, and Veronica once again tried to lighten the conversation. “I told mother all about our ride on Phil Meecham’s yacht.” She had, I noted, legs like Marlene Dietrich in addition to hair reminiscent of her namesake, Veronica Lake. Was there nothing wrong with the creature?
“News of the adventure even reached the jailhouse,” Melva said. “A bit showy, Archy, but clever, I’ll admit.”
“I didn’t count on the television coverage. That was Lolly’s idea.”
Veronica presented me with the cookie tray. “No, thanks. I’ve got a dinner date and have to save room.”
“I thought you might want to stay and have dinner with us,” Veronica said, looking disappointed.
“I think we’ve imposed enough on Archy for a while, Veronica,” her mother said. “He deserves a night off from the likes of us.”
“I would stay, really, but it’s a long-standing engagement I just can’t break.” Why was I lying?
“Tomorrow night, then?” Veronica asked.
“Veronica, really,” Melva reprimanded.
“Tomorrow sounds great,” I heard myself say.
Melva looked at us thoughtfully and suggested, “Why don’t you two go out for dinner tomorrow? On me. My way of thanking you for all you’ve done, Archy.”
“Then come with us,” I insisted.
“I don’t want to be seen in public just yet, thank you.”
“Mother, please,” Veronica pleaded.
“No. Out of the question,” Melva stated with a tone that said the conversation was closed.
“Then we’ll dine here,” I offered.
“You would do me a favor if you took Veronica out, Archy. There’s no reason for her to be caged up with me and you’re the perfect date for her post-scandal debut.”
So, mother thought I was a safe date. Was that good or bad? Either way I had a date with Veronica Manning tomorrow night. And I had a date with Connie Garcia tonight, but I’d think about that tomorrow. I accepted
by saying, “I accept.”
“Good. Now I’m going to rest.” Melva stood up and replaced her coffee cup on the tray. “I’ll say thank you one more time, Archy, and look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.”
I rose. “It’s good to have you back, Melva, and you have a lot of friends in this town, remember that.”
“I’ll be up in a minute, Mother,” Veronica called after her.
“Take your time, dear,” Melva answered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
When she was out of the room, Veronica turned to me with tears in her eyes. “She sounds brave, but she’s really very frightened.”
“Is she on medication?”
“Yes. I called Dr. Pearlberg as soon as we arrived home and she called the Lewis Pharmacy. I’m sure the reporters out front noticed the delivery car and will report that we’re all on drugs. Dr. Pearlberg said the pills would make mother a little drowsy, but that’s fine. She needs to rest.”
I knew Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, a psychiatrist, who practiced in Lantana. Al Rogoff had introduced us; he knew her because she had, on several occasions, provided the police with psychological profiles on serial thieves, rapists, and the like. She was also a favorite of Palm Beach society.
“Smart move,” I told her. “And I brought your car back.”
“Thank you. Not that I’ll be going out much. I feel like I’m living under siege.”
“You’ve got to be brave, my dear. Your mother needs someone to lean on. I know she has her lawyers, but they’re no substitute for her own flesh and blood.”
She nodded and squared her shoulders in a heroic gesture that somehow managed to emphasize her vulnerability. “And can I lean on you, Archy?”
“Do you have to ask?”
And then she was in my arms once again—her cheek resting on my chest and my lips resting on the soft down of her golden head. I exploited the moment for as long as I dared before whispering, “You’d better go upstairs and see if your mother needs anything.”
“Are you afraid of being alone with me, Archy?”
“I thought that was evident.”
She pulled away, laughing, and touched my lips to hers before heading for the door.
“Tomorrow night,” I called.
“Maybe,” she teased.
“You see, Archy,” Jamie was saying as we drove home, “the way Hattie tells it, she thought they were being robbed at gunpoint. What with the shouting and the fireworks and the car driving off, burning rubber like it was racing in the Indy 500, she was afraid she would find the whole family laid out when she went downstairs. I’m surprised she didn’t have a heart attack on the spot. She’s got a weak heart, Hattie.”
Still under the spell of Veronica’s chaste kiss, I wasn’t really listening. Call me “bewitched.”
I just had time for my swim, a shower, and a change of clothes—white ducks and patchwork madras jacket—before my rendezvous with Connie Garcia.
17
DINNER WITH CONNIE WAS better than My Dinner with Andre but not as hilarious as Dinner at Eight, due to the absence of Marie Dressier. I prepared an arroz avec pollo which, as you may have guessed, is a basic Cuban dish avec Archy’s French touch—an ’86 Alsatian Traminer, which is more at home accompanying duck à l’orange, but Connie didn’t know that. As previously mentioned, we are a don’t ask, don’t tell couple.
It was a delightful evening, as are all my evenings with Consuela Garcia. Like a contented married couple, we knew which buttons to press and which to avoid. We gossiped about everything—from Melva’s predicament, to Lolly’s television appeal, to Lady C.’s masked ball and Binky’s lawsuit—while never once speaking the name of Veronica Manning. Burdened with guilt for sins past, present, and, no doubt, future, I was content to brown, bake, stir, and pour.
The evening offered no surprises, but then, I didn’t expect any. There was nothing to bemoan and nothing to shout about. I felt like a cat having his stomach scratched, meowing contentedly while dreaming about the chase. For our after-dinner treat I rented Garbo’s Ninotchka, but when Connie said she would rather relax on a bed of nails, I put my lady songbirds on the phonograph, lowered the lights, and asked Connie to dance. As I listened to the familiar refrains, I wondered who the poet was thinking about when he penned, “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”
I didn’t spend the night in Connie’s condominium because that would be unseemly. Arriving in my suite, I poured myself a marc, lit an English Oval, and brought my journal up to date. With Connie, I was more content than any man had a right to be. Was Connie also happy to be alone with whatever peculiar bedtime ministrations struck her fancy? And was this the tie that binds? Our willingness to indulge ourselves when it suited while shunning the responsibilities of a committed relationship?
We were like grandparents, and aunts and uncles, who shower gifts and attention upon other people’s offspring without ever dealing with a diaper, a temper tantrum, or a request for a bottle at three A.M. This line of thinking led to the fact that we would soon be ushering in the yuletide season and welcoming my sister and her family into our midst for the holiday season.
Mother was already brimming over with joyous expectation at seeing the grandchildren. So was Father, but he tried very hard to hide the fact. Even Jamie and Ursi were gearing up for the arrival of Dora and her clan from Arizona. Jamie would take the children swimming and sightseeing and Ursi would serve them sugared plums and fairy cakes. On Christmas Eve, Father would read aloud Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, and on Christmas morning, Uncle Archy would play Santa. It was all so normal one looked forward to Phil Meecham’s New Year’s Eve bacchanal aboard the Sans Souci.
As I mentioned earlier, Dora has three children. Twin girls who were named Rebecca and Rowena—Dora being an avid reader of English romance novels—and a boy, who was spared being called Ivanhoe by a three-part television presentation of Pride and Prejudice, which ended just as Dora was carried off to the maternity ward to bring Darcy into the world. Everyone said Darcy looked very much like his uncle Archy, and after that observation was noted the next question was inevitably, “Well, Archy, when are you going to have your own Darcy?” To which I always replied, while bouncing the two-year-old on my lap, “One Darcy is more than enough.”
But the tone would be set and for two weeks I would be prodded, cajoled, and pressured to “give up the cards and dice and go for shoes and rice.” But it wasn’t cards and dice I would have to forego, it was my third-floor aerie, my two-mile daily swim, Ursi’s cooking, Mother’s doting, my club, my clothes, my pandering and philandering—my independence. Like Professor ’Enry ’Iggins, “I would rather a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition than to ever let a woman in my life.”
But I knew Father expected a scion from his scion to carry on the McNally name, he who would perhaps complete Yale Law and move into the executive suite on Royal Palm Way. I was a few years from the big four-oh mark which I presume is the onset of middle age. While I wasn’t pressed with a time limit to reproduce, that might not be the case with my mate, should I choose one. I was sure Connie was still viable in that area, but for how much longer?
Veronica, on the other hand, could produce enough McNallys to equip a courtroom with prosecutor, defense counsel, judge, and jury. And how happy Father would be to welcome a “Manning out of an Ashton” into our family.
Veronica was a child. Connie was an adult. Veronica was embarrassed by my haute couture. Connie thought my clothes made a statement—although she never stated the statement. Veronica was the new millennium and I didn’t own a computer, a CD, or a TouchTone telephone—neither did Connie. Veronica was a spoiled, rich girl who liked attention and would keep me on a short leash—albeit attached to a diamond-studded collar. Connie was as independent as myself and overlooked much for the sake of peace. Connie was good, kind, and stable. Veronica was petulant, rich, and unpredictable. And what had Melva said? No risk, no gain. In either case, I had very little to risk and so m
uch to gain.
But should I pop the question, would either have me? I was certain Connie would say yes, and Veronica was acting like the girl who can’t say no. It was Archy whose tongue was tied.
I turned off the lights and got into bed wrestling with yet another quandary of my suddenly bounteous love life. Whom to invite to Christmas dinner. Melva and Veronica would probably be abandoned by their lawyers, who would head north for home and hearth, and I was certain neither mother nor daughter would be in the mood to trim a tree or go out for a celebratory dinner. Friends might find the pair a shade too somber for dinner guests, or avoid them on the grounds of not wishing to intrude. I was thinking of asking them here, and including Hattie, who could team up with Jamie and Ursi for the day.
Before Melva’s woes, I’d intended to invite Connie, who would otherwise be alone unless she wanted to attend Lady C.’s much publicized Christmas buffet—which was about as jolly as a soup kitchen.
I could have both Connie and Veronica—for dinner, that is.
18
THE FAIRHURST SPREAD WAS more like Fort Knox than Mar-A-Lago. I called ahead and Mr. Fairhurst told me to ring the house when I arrived at the front gate. I would be directed from there.
The call box was located in a niche in the concrete gatepost. All I had to do was press a button to get a response from the house. A few minutes later, a man riding a motorbike approached the gate, alighted, tipped his hat respectfully, and introduced himself as Hector. “I help out during the day,” he told me.
“And who plays gatekeeper at night?” I asked.
“At night, señor, they don’t get company. It saves on the overtime.”
He had the Latino sense of humor and a perfect set of shiny, white movie-star teeth. He opened the gate and I drove the Miata onto the Fairhurst property, idling until Hector locked us in. Tipping his cap again alongside the car door, he said, “What would you like to know, señor?”
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