McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  Upon meeting her for the first time, I could not understand how she had managed to snare five husbands of great wealth and one Brit with a title. But when a national tabloid printed an article on this Palm Beach “character,” it was accompanied by photos of Lady C. in her prime, and while even then she had a face that could stop a clock, below was a body so voluptuous that photographers and artists vied for her services as a model. Her first nude photographs had caused a sensation and started her on her many trips down the aisle to great wealth and, ultimately, a title.

  It was rumored that even Picasso had painted her, turning her goddesslike form into a stack of shingles that was greatly admired by art lovers throughout the world.

  Now, at age three score and ten—at least—she had somehow managed to retain the body that had made her fortune. Wearing white shorts, white blouse, white turban, and white wedgies, she brought to mind Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, and I’m certain the analogy was intended. She had also retained more moxie than any woman—or man—had a right to possess. Most noticeable among her numerous pet peeves were cigars, dogs, men who wore pinky rings, and air conditioning. She was short-tempered and, if elbowed, foulmouthed.

  On the table beside her were the remains of a late breakfast and the morning paper, which featured yours truly and Veronica Manning emerging from Ta-Boo’. I must say, we made a fetching couple.

  “Pull up a chair, lad,” Lady C. said with a wave of her hand. “Can I offer you a coffee?”

  “That would be nice,” I answered, accepting both offers.

  Lady C. poured. “Help yourself to cream and sugar. I’m not going to do it all for you.” As I did, she tapped the front page of her newspaper with a forefinger whose nail was polished with a colorless gloss. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  “She’s twenty-two.” I was growing weary of reminding people of this fact.

  “How old are you?” she asked, without a trace of timidity.

  “Old enough to know that this masked ball idea is absurd. A play for publicity that’s destined to backfire.”

  “Your girlfriend told me I might hear from you on that subject. By the way, Connie is very unhappy about this.” Once again the newspaper was prodded with Lady C.’s polished digit.

  I had figured as much. On my way in, I had tried to see Connie, but she was on the phone and shooed me off like a pesky fly. Not a good sign.

  “And I’m old enough to tell you that you’re wrong,” Lady C. said. “I’m suddenly getting invitations from people who’ve shunned me in the past, and do you know why? Because they want to come to my ball, that’s why.”

  That was not entirely true. If Lady C. had been shunned, it was because she did not enjoy dining in other people’s homes or public restaurants. She gave great parties and those who attended knew that she would refuse any attempt at reciprocation. Her love affair with society was so one-sided because that’s the way she wanted it to be. However, the upper, upper strata of Palm Beach society did not approve of Lady Cynthia Horowitz—as in the Fairhurst crowd—but I could not imagine them wanting to attend the upcoming masked ball. She was merely being cantankerous, which was par for most conversations with Madame.

  This was not going to be easy, but then, I never thought it would be.

  “Lolly put you up to this, didn’t he,” I asserted.

  “Give me some credit, lad. Oh, Lolly added a few touches, but the idea was all mine.”

  “Buzz’s silk breeches, for instance?”

  Lady C. smiled, making a thin line of her mouth, which seemed to bring her droopy nose and the upward tilt of her chin into alarmingly close proximity. “How news travels in our community. Yes, that one was Lolly’s. And I can’t wait to see Buzz wearing them. Royal blue they’ll be. Would you like to be a page, Archy?” Lady C. eyed my jeans provocatively. The woman was a menace.

  “No, Lady Cynthia, I would not. What I would like is for you to cancel the ball.”

  “Not possible. We are moving full steam ahead, and if the scuttlebutt is any indication, we’ll get national coverage with this one.”

  “Lolly’s television appearance has certainly gone to his head,” I countered. “Anything less than national attention will no longer do.”

  “Oh, it’s not only Lolly.” Indicating the newspaper with a nod she continued, “We’re all aboard the gravy train. Veronica Manning is some catch for the sole proprietor of Discreet Inquiries.”

  I let this go. What she wanted was a knockdown, drag-out fight to vindicate her party, and she wasn’t going to get it from me. “I was looking after Veronica as a favor to her mother. Melva needs all the help she can get.” The point, I’m sure, fell on deaf ears.

  “And you look different, lad,” she went right on as if I hadn’t spoken. “More—what’s the word? Conventional?” I was wearing jeans, polo shirt, seersucker jacket, and loafers. “You look like a prospective son-in-law.”

  Aware that my relationship with Connie made this last statement a direct kick in the cojones, she took great delight in administering the blow. Tit for tat, I responded, “And in case you don’t know it, Buzz belongs to Phil Meecham. He’s Phil’s first mate.”

  “Was Phil’s first mate. After Buzz’s television appearance, thanks to you, he’s given up the yachting set for a career in films. Buzz will reside here and a drama coach will come in daily to round him out.”

  Lady Cynthia had had live-in tennis instructors, live-in backgammon instructors, live-in bridge instructors, a Swami, a leftover flower child, and a man who claimed to be the illegitimate son of Prince Philip and Cobina Wright Jr. Excuse the pun, but it was inevitable that an aspiring actor was waiting in the wings.

  “Buzz has all the charisma of a dead fish,” I told his ardent patron.

  “He has other attributes.”

  “Such as the ability to fill out a pair of silk breeches?”

  “You said it. Not me.” This seemed to please her.

  Having inflicted her wounds, the Lady now began sprinkling them with salt. “Connie tells me we’re getting inquiries about the ball from New York, Los Angeles, and Sardinia,” she boasted with great relish.

  “Sardinia? Who in Sardinia?”

  “The Aga Kahn, of course. And his lovely sister, Jasmine.”

  This was preposterous. “Lady Cynthia, Melva is fighting for her life. This ball would make her situation a travesty.”

  “I owe Melva Ashton Manning Williams nothing. She never had the time of day for me, but she certainly had time to spare when she spotted Geoff Williams on my tennis court.”

  Lady C. was known for never forgetting a slight, real or imagined, and striking back when the iron was hot. Now, the reason for this ridiculous party was crystal clear. Lady C. couldn’t have Geoff back, but she could have her masked ball, see Melva humiliated, and ogle Buzz in silk breeches. A sort of grand slam vendetta.

  “I did you a favor once,” I reminded her.

  “And if blood is indeed thicker than water, I paid you back handsomely. Don’t twist my arm, lad. We don’t want to bring my lawyer into this, do we?”

  I got the message, loud and clear. Case closed! “I wouldn’t think of it, Lady Cynthia. When is the happy event?”

  “Ten days from today. It’s the best I can do. The invitations are being printed on parchment scrolls. They’ll be hand delivered to exactly two hundred people. You’re on the guest list.”

  “I’m not honored, I’m sure.” Knowing I couldn’t fare any worse, I decided to stick a pin into the Lady’s balloon. “What happens if the real Mystery Woman shows up before the ball?”

  “Then I eat crow,” she said. “Or do I eat a buffet dinner for two hundred all alone? Either way, lad, it would be the pits. But there are those who say the Mystery Woman is pure poppycock. Melva’s rather racy excuse for ending what had become a tiresome marriage.”

  “Don’t believe it, Lady Cynthia. The police are very close to identifying the Mystery Woman. In fact they may do so
before the ink dries on your parchment scrolls. I would put the brakes on your running footmen, not to mention Buzz’s silk pantaloons.”

  The lie was worth the effort. Finally, I had her looking worried. She sat forward and stared at me, long and hard. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life, Lady Cynthia. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Lady C. gave God a good half minute to strike me dead, and when He didn’t, she leaned back in her chaise longue and said, “I don’t believe you.” But she wasn’t sure. I knew she wasn’t sure. I rose, thanked her for the coffee and left her a little less cocky than when I had found her. It wasn’t a grand slam, but I had managed to trump her ace.

  I had been rebuked by Lady C., but as dear old Al Jolson used to say, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” What I had not seen, yet, was Consuela Garcia. When I did, I wished I had followed my nose to the front door and onward to the Pelican where I could drown my failure with Lady C. in suds and a medium-rare steak tartare.

  Connie, naturally, was on the phone. A disembodied voice filled the office. “I highly recommend the cherry tart flambé. The waiters bring it in at midnight, trays aloft, to the accompaniment of ‘The Grand March’ from Aïda. For a few extra bucks you can have an elephant.”

  “I don’t think we want an elephant with dessert, Sam, and I’m not too sure about Aïda.”

  “What about ‘Lara’s Theme’ from Zhivago?” was Sam’s immediate comeback. “It’s very big at weddings with the burning cherries.”

  “At midnight?” Connie cried. “No way. They’ll all be drunk and start crying.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, “I’ll put you down for the cherry tart flambé and pencil you in for either Aïda or ‘Lara.’ And Connie, thanks for talking her out of the baked Alaska. Baked Alaska for two hundred is pure hell.”

  “My pleasure, Sam. We’ll talk later.”

  “You have a fascinating job, Connie,” I told her as soon as she had cut Sam off.

  “Not as fascinating as yours. I’ve never been televised on a yacht from a helicopter, nor did I ever make the front pages of every newspaper in Florida simply by walking out of a restaurant.” Her tone implied that she was more disgusted than fascinated with my chosen profession.

  Seeking sympathy, I cried, “I’ve just had a dismal interview with Lady C. She flatly refuses to give up the masked ball. She even threatened to complain to my father if I insisted on putting the screws to her. And if the Master had to choose between me and Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s annual remittance, guess which he would choose?”

  “Poor Archy. All that and caught in the act, too.” Once again, I had Lolly Spindrift’s rag waved in my face.

  “Caught? What’s that supposed to mean? I wasn’t trying to hide.”

  “I thought you were finished with baby-sitting Lolita.”

  Just one hour after high noon and the day was going from bad to worse. “Melva asked me to take Veronica out to dinner. She’s been a prisoner in her own house since Melva got out of jail, and it’s obvious why Melva didn’t want to come with us.”

  “Melva seems to be literally throwing her daughter at your feet. And another point I’d like to make, Archy, is that Veronica Manning is not the innocent you seem to think she is. It was put about last season that she was something of a loose cannon, in fact.”

  “I’ve heard that about all of the young and restless in Palm Beach, and so have you, Connie. You’re being unfair.”

  With a look of stark determination I had never seen on the face of Consuela Garcia before, she read me the riot act. “Lolita or me, Archy. That’s my ultimatum and your choice.”

  “But, Connie...” I tried pleading.

  “One more date with her and our relationship will be for whom the bell tolls.” As if applauding her stance, all the lights began flashing on her telephone console. “Now get out of here, I have to work.”

  “Before I go, may I say just one thing?”

  She shrugged hopelessly. “Make it fast, Archy.”

  “Instead of ‘Lara’s Theme’ from Zhivago, why not ‘Laura’s Theme’ from Laura?”

  “Get the hell out of here, Archy McNally!”

  Dinner that evening was low key, but with an air of expectancy that owed its existence to my much publicized date with Veronica Manning. Mother noted, more than once, how happy we looked emerging from Ta-Boo’. I told her it was due, no doubt, to the fine quality of our meal, but she would have none of this. “I think you are both happy to be in each other’s company,” Mother insisted. “I noticed that when she dined with us the other evening, Archy.”

  Over Ursi’s ribs of beef, oven-roasted potatoes, and white asparagus with a light hollandaise, Father also extolled the merits of Melva’s offspring without bluntly stating the vast wealth of the family. Mon père had selected a very fine Bordeaux from the Médoc region for our wine—an indication that he felt more than just a good dinner wine was apropos to the occasion.

  Was marriage, like death, inevitable? And if I had to ponder a choice, was I really in love with either candidate? And last, but surely not least, let us consider that neither “candidate” had thrown her hat in the ring.

  “Mother,” I said, “I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old Dad.”

  “Oh, Archy,” Mother giggled, “she’s too old for you.”

  Mother went off to the kitchen to “help Ursi,” as she enjoyed calling her nightly sitcom fix. Father and I adjourned to the den for our brandy. “So,” Father began, removing the cigar box from his desk drawer as I poured our brandy into crystal snifters, “tell me what’s happening with the Fairhurst situation.”

  “In fact, sir, it’s just the subject I wished to discuss with you.” I refused a cigar in favor of an English Oval, and after giving Father his drink, I took my seat. “But first, is there anything new in Melva’s case?”

  Father indulged himself in the ritual of snipping off the end of his cigar before putting it to the flame of a lit match. “Not much. Every effort will be made to find the so-called Mystery Woman before Melva’s lawyers begin plotting the defense. As you know, how the defense will proceed will depend on whether or not they can come up with the woman to back Melva’s testimony.”

  “And if they can’t find the ‘Mystery Woman,’ sir?”

  Father puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Allow me to put it this way, Archy. It would be a much easier case for the defense if they could produce the woman and she cooperated, but not finding her wouldn’t necessarily spell doom for Melva.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Between your contacts and your club affiliation, you get around, Archy. Have you any idea who the woman is?”

  “No, sir. Not a clue.”

  Father sighed audibly. “Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? Now, what about Fairhurst?”

  I described my visit to the Fairhurst house, giving him as detailed a description as possible of the staff and the principals and my impressions of them.

  The brass plates beneath the portraits elicited a one-eyebrow lift from the Sire. “What fools these mortals be,” he said. I assumed he quoted Shakespeare because Dickens never said as much in so few words. “And you think Mrs. Fairhurst knows more than she’s saying?”

  “I do, sir. In fact, I think it was quite obvious. And if her husband were a more astute man, he would think the same.”

  Father did not like maligning a client, so disregarded this with a sip and a puff. “And what do you suggest, Archy?”

  “I want to interview Mrs. Fairhurst, alone, without her husband’s knowledge.”

  He was silent for so long I thought he had fallen asleep. When he finally answered, it was brief and to the point. “I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

  “But, sir...”

  “John Fairhurst is our client, Archy. Our first—no, our only—obligation is to him. We must keep the client apprised of every action we take in his case. I cannot sanction a clandestine meeting between
you and our client’s wife.”

  “I am trying to learn the facts and save Mrs. Fairhurst what could prove a great deal of embarrassment.”

  “Learn the facts, Archy, but do so without going behind John Fairhurst’s back.”

  I hoped Melva fared better with her judge and jury.

  22

  ALTHOUGH I WOULD HAVE gladly left the chapter out, I dutifully recorded the day’s events in my journal. My three major encounters having ended in defeat, I resolutely rejected humble pie in favor of a pony of brandy, my lone English Oval of the day, and offensive optimism.

  Regarding Lady C., I could not stop her from having her wretched ball, but I could still hope that the Mystery Lady would turn up in time to douse Sam’s cherry tart flambé.

  Regarding Connie, Lady C.’s masked ball was a masked blessing. From long experience I knew that the party would keep Connie so busy, she would have little or no time to badger poor Archy. I would soon have to make a decision regarding my erstwhile fiancée, but not immediately. Therefore, I could while away the next week or so with Veronica before that decision had to be made.

  Regarding the Fairhurst affair, I would deal with the Seigneur in true epic fashion by ignoring his order in favor of protecting, if I could, Mrs. Fairhurst. Until I had my talk with Mrs. Fairhurst and until we received the blackmailer’s second letter, there was nothing I could do to salvage Grandpa Fairhurst’s reputation. That left Melva and the hunt for the Mystery Woman.

  I knew why Melva thought the car returning on that fateful night was Geoff and not Veronica, and I knew why she had Veronica’s exact location in writing, ready and waiting to hand over to me.

  What I still didn’t know was why the alarm at Melva’s front gate had been turned off, and what Hattie had said that still nettled me. The enigma of the alarm would remain just that for now, but I thought I knew where I might jump-start my mind in recalling Hattie’s testimony—short of going directly to the source. I had to remember that my only obligation to Melva was to look after Veronica in her mother’s absence, and I had fulfilled that obligation. I had no right to cross-examine poor Hattie, or anyone else involved in Geoff’s murder.