“He said he would give her a nice present.”
“Clever. Just short of calling herself a pro. What’s your feeling about all this, Al?”
“My feeling is that your society broad had good reason to kill the punk.”
“You don’t think Linda’s account is too letter-perfect?”
He shrugged. “Whose side are you on, Archy?”
Melva’s, I thought, but I also had a passion for learning the truth, and I seriously doubted if that’s what we were getting from Linda Adams. However, Al’s question did make me feel something of a heel. Everything looked great for Melva and Veronica, so why was I rocking the boat?
Al was chewing on his cigar butt and mumbling as he idly thumbed the pages of his pad. “What did you say?” I asked him.
“She said the alarm at the gate wasn’t set when they returned that night.”
I leaped on that one. “Who asked her about the gate alarm?”
“Far as I know, no one asked her. She just said it when she was talking about coming back to his house.”
“Were you present at the interview?”
“Sure. How do you think I know all this?”
“Why were you in on the interview?” I pressed.
“Because the interview was recorded on video and I work the camera, that’s why.”
“I never thought to ask,” I blurted.
“You’re no Charlie Chan, Archy.”
I guess I deserved that one. “Al,” I said, “no one but me ever questioned the fact that the gate alarm wasn’t set that night, right?”
“Right. We never made it an issue because there was no break ’n’ entry attempt. The victim and the perp both lived there. What’s your point?”
“My point, Sergeant, is that Linda Adams answered a question she wasn’t asked because—maybe—it was on her list of memorized answers. I know only three people who knew the alarm question might be asked because I had harped on it since the night Geoff got his comeuppance. Melva, her daughter, and my father.”
“You smell a rat, Archy?”
No, I wanted to tell him, I smell Veronica Manning’s expensive perfume. Had that girl hired someone to commit perjury to save her mother’s life? It was insane, but with the young and the restless one never knew. But how would a girl like Veronica find a dame like Linda Adams of Boynton Beach? They were as far apart as the Ice Age and the Space Age.
But someone like good old Buzz would know where to find a Linda Adams and Buzz just couldn’t be more ingratiating to the rich of Palm Beach and points north. Was my para- being too noid or was the green-eyed monster egging me on?
“Veronica Manning was the first one out that night,” I told him. “And she should have set the alarm. Her mother told me it was a house rule. Now this Linda says the alarm was never set.”
“And what does Veronica say?”
“She told me she can’t remember if she set it or not.”
“So I guess she didn’t,” Al concluded. “Maybe she had a hot date that night and setting alarms wasn’t a top priority on Blondie’s agenda. Some dish, that broad, eh Archy?”
My mind was spinning like a whirling dervish in a Marrakesh sideshow, which is not conducive to drawing logical conclusions. “She did have a date that night,” I confessed. “With a guy at a place called Hillcrest.”
It was Al’s turn to do a double take. “The house down near Manalapan Beach?”
“You know it, Al?”
He shook his head in wonder. “You sure do come up with the doozies, you do. We got the place under surveillance.”
The Publix boy was once again collecting carts. Did he ever find one with a toddler left behind after the groceries had been loaded into the family car? I wouldn’t bet against it.
“Drugs?” I guessed.
“Among other things. Is Blondie into anything heavy, Archy?”
“Nothing heavier than a good-looking stud that caught her interest, but it seems he couldn’t hold it. A flash in the pan, Sergeant.”
“Or so you hope.” He grinned at his own wit. “Come on, Archy,” he said, giving me a nudge with his beefy elbow. “She forgot to set that alarm because she was hot to trot and hightailed it out of her driveway.”
I heard Jamie’s voice describing Hattie’s version of events that night as if he were sitting in the backseat and had just decided to put in his two cents’ worth. “What with the shouting and the fireworks and the car driving off, burning rubber like it was racing in the Indy 500...” A lot of people seemed to have made quick exits out of the Williams manse that night.
I seemed to be faced with two choices—again. Leave well enough alone and God bless Melva, or stick my nose in where it wasn’t wanted and who knows what I’d sniff out? This was harder than choosing which female to hitch to.
I drove to the McNally Building to compare notes with Father who, I assumed, must have received a full report on Linda’s interview. When I pulled into the underground garage, Herb stopped me at his glass house. “I got a message for you, Archy,” he said, “from your father.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his shirt pocket and read aloud, “‘Go directly to the Fairhurst house. It arrived.’” Then he looked at me and added, “I don’t know what ‘It’ is, Archy.”
I did.
25
“WE WERE EXPECTING YOU, señor,” Hector said excitedly as he opened the gate to my red Miata. “El Patrón say to go directly to the house.”
“Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars,” I replied.
“I do not have two hundred dollars, señor.”
“Neither do I, Hector.”
Peterson, looking his old cheerful self, led me to El Patrón, who was nervously pacing about his office. “Archy, I’m glad you’re here. That will be all, Peterson.”
“Very good, sir.” Peterson made a reluctant withdrawal.
I wasn’t invited to sit, but then I once read that Queen Victoria had kept Disraeli standing for twenty years. “I understand ‘It’ has arrived, sir.”
He nodded, grunted, and handed “It” over.
Same drill as the first letter. Miami postmark. Cheap copy paper. Typewritten and terse. The money, in bills none larger than fifties, was to be placed in a shoe box and delivered two days hence to an address in Boynton Beach. “The BB Trailer Court—Number Nine.”
The dervishes were back with a vengeance, only this time they were chanting, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” While I’m not the fainting kind, they say there’s a first time for everything. Had my time come? “Do you mind if I sit, Mr. Fairhurst?”
As if abashed at forgetting his manners, El Patrón made a sweeping gesture with his hand to indicate that I could alight wherever I chose. I chose the nearest perch and read on.
The messenger was to knock. The door would be opened wide enough for the box to be placed on the floor. The messenger was to depart. There was a reminder that should the police deliver the shoe box, Mr. Fairhurst would save twenty-five G’s, but the family secret would no doubt become the central theme of the next Titanic film. For John Fairhurst III, it was a no-win situation.
For Archy McNally, it was Il Momento de la Verdad, as dear Connie would say. The Moment of Truth. If Seth Walker was the blackmailer and Linda Adams lived in trailer number nine at the BB Trailer Court, then Linda was Seth’s partner in crime. Ergo, Veronica didn’t go to Buzz to find a convenient Mystery Woman; she went to Seth. At this point, it was all pure speculation. I didn’t know for certain that Veronica had gone shopping for a Mystery Woman, and the Boynton Beach trailer connection could be nothing more than an extraordinary coincidence. It was so extraordinary, I had no choice but to follow through on my assumptions.
I was officially on the Fairhurst case and unofficially trying to help Melva. Now it seemed the former was at cross-purposes to the latter. If I exposed Seth Walker as the blackmailer and Linda Adams as his accomplice, would I also come up with the fact that the Mystery Woman, Linda Adams, was as phony as a three-dollar bil
l? I would become, in effect, a witness for the prosecution in the case of the State of Florida vs. Melva Ashton Manning Williams. Rather than faint, I decided to think about that tomorrow.
Naturally, I wasn’t going to tell John Fairhurst that I strongly believed his blackmailer had his sticky fingers in more than one pie. Nor was I going to tell him the bum might have those sticky fingers on the steering wheel of the family Rolls. It might be a tad too premature for both those assumptions, don’t-you-know. But I was curious as to exactly what Fairhurst had in mind regarding the final warning in the second letter. It seemed it was also Il Momento de la Verdad for John Fairhurst III, and if I feared the worst I wasn’t going to be disappointed.
“Mr. Fairhurst, when you came to us you said you didn’t want to capitulate to the blackmailer, correctly assuming that he would not stop his demands for money after the first payout, blackmailers being a more greedy lot than other malefactors. You also said you did not want the police brought into this, for obvious reasons. Now we know where we can contact the blackmailer or his accomplice. If we don’t deliver the money, he will sing. If we bring in the police, he will sing. If we give in to his demands, you’ll never get him off your back. If I manage to apprehend him, I have no power to arrest him or to guarantee that he will quietly back off with his tail between his legs. In short, sir, where do we go from here?”
It didn’t take Fairhurst long to reject all my options and answer my question. “I hired you, Archy, to locate the blackmailer and name him. That’s all.”
“That’s all, sir?”
“Yes. You have a contact point and forty-eight hours to finger the bastard.”
“And then, sir?”
“And then you submit your bill and I write you a check.”
Archy, the angel of death!
26
IN THE FINAL REEL of the old Andy Hardy films, a contrite Andy would be summoned to the family den, where his father, the Judge, would censure the brash young man for whatever wrong he had committed in pursuit of keeping the film’s plot aboil and the audience entertained. The scene was inevitably a learning experience for both Andy and his faithful followers.
The Judge and his offspring did not enjoy a glass of port, as did Father and I. I could not, however, help but compare McNally & Son to Judge Hardy & Son as we sat in our den on this rainy November night, due, I imagine, to the solemnity of our conversation.
At dinner, Mother had talked of nothing but Dora’s impending visit for the Christmas season, and now she was in the kitchen with Ursi, no doubt discussing, for the hundredth time, the logistics of putting up a family of five and keeping three children entertained while awaiting Santa’s descent down the chimney. In the den, Father and I discussed more weighty matters.
Although I find domestic chatter tedious, I would rather, at this moment, have been in the kitchen than the den.
After I had outlined the situation to Father, I concluded by saying, “Please remember, sir, that as of now I have proof of nothing. I don’t know if Veronica Manning purposely set out to hire a woman to impersonate the Mystery Woman, and I don’t know if Seth Walker is the blackmailer. All I have to connect the two is this Linda Adams and an address in Boynton Beach.”
“But the connection is more than Boynton Beach, Archy. It’s specifically a trailer court in Boynton Beach. That shortens the odds considerably.”
“I agree,” I told him.
“In law, as you know, the accused is considered innocent until proven guilty. In this case, I think we have to assume Veronica and Seth are guilty until, and if, you can prove them innocent.” Father sipped his port before continuing. “Do you think Veronica realized how harmful hiring a witness for her mother could be to Melva’s defense once the prosecution learned of the deception?”
I thought about the lovely girl I had held in my arms as Dinah took us to faraway places. How easy it would be to run off with Veronica Manning with nary a backward glance nor a moment’s regret. “No, sir. I’m certain her only thought was to do all she could to help her mother and, given her upbringing, hiring help was the easiest way out. And I don’t doubt I had something to do with her decision.”
“You, Archy?”
“Oh, I never suggested conjuring up a phony witness. But I did tell her, more than once, how important the Mystery Woman was to Melva’s defense. Veronica soon suggested offering a million-dollar reward for information leading to the Mystery Woman.”
The rain was coming down in torrents now, pelting our windows and, for the moment, diverting our attention from the business at hand. It was a true Florida winter downpour.
“If Veronica had used this Seth to engage a witness, I would guess it would be for a considerable amount of money,” Father now said.
“No doubt about that. Not a million, I’m sure, but a large sum nonetheless.”
“Then why would he want to jeopardize a sweet deal with this blackmail scam? I would imagine he’d have enough to worry about with prepping this Linda Adams for her role.”
“I thought about that,” I answered. “Veronica told me the last time she saw Seth was when I picked her up at Hillcrest, the night of the murder. If she did contact Seth again, about finding a Mystery Woman, it would have been a few days after that night. Fairhurst got the blackmailer’s first letter the day before Geoff’s murder. What I mean, sir, is that Seth didn’t know he would have a more lucrative job when he sent the blackmail note.”
“I can appreciate that,” Father quickly put in, “but why didn’t he abort the blackmail scheme when he came into better pickings, or at least change the venue where the money was to be delivered so as not to connect it to the Mystery Woman’s address?”
I had thought about that, too. In fact, I had thought about nothing but these two cases since leaving the Fairhurst house this afternoon. “Because he’s a wise guy and wise guys are often very stupid when it comes to lining their wallets. However, if we want to give this wise guy the benefit of the doubt, I would say he either forgot to tell Linda Adams not to give the police the Boynton Beach address, or someone other than himself, Linda, for instance, was in charge of posting the second letter and he forgot to either cancel it or change the delivery address.
“And let’s not forget that Seth has no idea that I, or anyone else, is investigating the blackmail plot. He, and all of Fairhurst’s staff, think I questioned them on Melva’s behalf, thanks to Seth’s tie-in to Geoff Williams.” Even as I spoke I remembered my reaction to Fairhurst’s comment that Seth Walker had been recommended to him by Geoff Williams. Odd as it now seemed, these two cases had a common link even before Veronica sought the help of Seth Walker—if she sought the help of Seth Walker.
“Maybe Seth got a bit too cocky and thought Fairhurst would just hand over the money. If no one was wise to the blackmail scam, no one would connect the two crimes with the Boynton Beach address,” I added.
“So many questions, Archy, so many questions.” The rain had abated and we sat in silence, cogitating for a few moments, before Father spoke again. “And I don’t like what John Fairhurst might be up to, either.”
Now that had to be the understatement of the century and we had very little time left to top it.
“I don’t think there’s any question of what he intends to do, sir,” I insisted.
“You think he’ll put a contract out for the blackmailer?” Father was in a tizzy over the thought of one of Fairhurst’s ilk acting like a gangster in a B movie.
“I beg your pardon, but I think men like John Fairhurst do what they must do to maintain their privileged positions in our classless society. He was the keeper of the family secret and when he gets that final date etched on his portrait’s brass plate he doesn’t want to be remembered as the guy who lifted Grandpa’s skirts to expose boxers instead of bloomers.”
Father winced. “You do have a colorful vocabulary, Archy, if a bit vulgar at times.”
“Sorry, sir. I think Seth Walker is a punk who deserves what he gets, but I
don’t think he, or anyone, deserves to dive into Lake Worth wearing cement espadrilles. I also think Fairhurst wants to ask the blackmailer a few questions, such as where he learned what he knows.”
“If Seth Walker is our man, you think he received the information from the secretary, Arnold Turnbolt?” Father reiterated what we had discussed earlier, clearly avoiding the subject of where Arnold Turnbolt had come by his information.
“I do. I think he told Seth to impress the chauffeur with his knowledge of family lore. Arnold, as I’ve already mentioned, was quite taken with the boy.”
“And if John Fairhurst learns this, you fear for the secretary, Arnold Turnbolt?”
“No, sir. I fear for Mrs. Fairhurst.”
Another silence. There were moments in my conversations with Father when the silences were more poignant than our words.
“Do you think you should confront Veronica and Seth directly?” Father asked.
“No, sir, I do not. I don’t want to tip our hand before I have all the facts.”
“I agree,” Father said. “Also, if Linda Adams is a plant, do you think the real Mystery Woman will show up to refute this Linda’s claim?”
“No way. If the real Mystery Woman hasn’t turned herself in by now, she never will. Geoff Williams rubbed shoulders with the cream of Palm Beach and New York society, and I believe the woman he was with that night is a well-known figure in either or both groups—or even a friend of Veronica’s. When she learns a Mystery Woman has shown up, she’ll no doubt be relieved that she can keep her nose clean with a clear conscience. Both she and Melva are saved.”
“Then wouldn’t Melva have recognized the woman?”
“Not necessarily, given the circumstances. The woman fled minutes after Melva came into the room and Melva was in a blind rage, as they say.”
Father, staunch defender of the rich and noble, asked, “Why would a woman from that social set go back to the house with Geoff, knowing Melva was there?”
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