McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Why did two heiresses and a movie star marry Porfirio Rubirosa?”

  To his credit, Father did not blush. Instead, he finished his port and enjoyed his cigar. “And you don’t think the woman was Seth’s mother?”

  “Melva said the woman was young, and Seth is twenty-five at least. His mother can’t be young. Also, a woman like her would have come forward the moment the reward was announced. That type doesn’t have to save face.”

  “I see,” Father sighed. “What do you intend to do now, Archy?”

  “First, I’m going to scout that Boynton Beach trailer park and see if I can learn who hangs their hat in numero nine. If the blackmailer was foolish enough to give us his address it’s because he doesn’t believe anyone is on his tail. I think I have a good chance of learning what we want to know there.”

  “And then, Archy?”

  “And then, sir—I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  “That’s too bad, Archy, because neither do I.”

  A red Miata convertible pulling into a trailer court would be as subtle as arriving in a Sherman tank. Therefore, I borrowed mother’s Ford station wagon for my trip to Boynton Beach. Last night’s rain had cleared the air, but not the skies. It was a brisk, breezy gray morning that showed no promise of change in the foreseeable future. Boynton Beach is due south of us, situated between Palm Beach and Delray Beach. The old reliable Ford made it to the center of Boynton in less than thirty minutes.

  Linda Adams had gone to the police two days ago. Yesterday’s papers reported only that the police were questioning a woman they believed was the Mystery Woman. This morning’s papers said the Mystery Woman had been identified and gave her name as Linda Adams of Boynton Beach. The police had wisely not given out her street address. With any luck, I would be the only snooper at the BB Trailer Court.

  The court was a miniature city laid out in a grid and inhabited, no doubt, by snowbirds in the winter and a smattering of year-rounders. Too early for the snowbird migration, the court was very quiet this early afternoon, with few cars evident in the one parking space allotted each trailer. I entered beneath an arch supported by brick pillars. The words BB TRAILER COURT were emblazoned across the arch. I cruised up the main street, which was lined on both sides with trailers mounted on slabs of concrete.

  In a concerted effort at individuality, every trailer was painted a different color—mostly pastels—leading me to believe that if I clicked my heels together three times I would awake in Kansas in the loving arms of Aunty Em. All of them came with a wrought-iron railing guarding two steps and a patio just large enough to contain one tacky mesh beach chair, and a front door painted in a shade not remotely resembling the trailer’s facade. Quite a few of the trailers boasted window boxes containing dead flowers. The BB Trailer Court, to my mind, gave new meaning to the epithet “Florida Modern.”

  Number nine was right on the main drag, toward the rear, and devoid of a car in its parking space. I took advantage of this by filling the void with the Ford wagon. Mounting the two steps, I knocked on the door with a brass knocker in the shape of—what else?—the number nine. Cute.

  I did not get a response from within, but I did catch a glimpse of a café curtain being parted in the window of number nine’s neighbor. I continued to pound the knocker, knowing that if I did so long enough the curious neighbor would leave the window and come out of her door on some pretext or other. I did, and she did. She emerged, wearing what I believe is called a housecoat, knee-length, upon which were printed nursery rhyme characters. At a glance, I spotted Jack ’n’ Jill; Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, watering her garden; Jack Horner and his Christmas pie; and a lad jumping over a candlestick. On her feet were pink mules. On her head were blue curlers. In her hands was a green bath-size rug she began shaking over her wrought-iron railing.

  I knocked and she shook. Sooner or later one of us had to give, and it was the shaker, not the knocker.

  “You a reporter?” she called in a northeast accent too often attributed solely to residents of Brooklyn—which is unjust. The other four boroughs and northern New Jersey also harbor those brandishing inflections that should be deemed assault weapons.

  I hadn’t yet decided how I would present myself in Boynton Beach, but a reporter was as good a calling card as any other, so I called back, “Yes. How’d you guess?”

  She smiled, displaying a fine set of false teeth. “I played a hunch. I always play hunches. My husband says it’s either gonna make us rich or homeless.”

  Judging from her current situation, homeless might be an improvement. She laid the limp green rug over the railing and made a move to retreat into her trailer. Knowing she couldn’t resist, I stood my ground, not saying a word, until she gave up all pretense and shouted, “You looking for Linda?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Like I told you. I play hunches. The papers didn’t give her address, so how did you know to come here?”

  “We have our methods,” I said.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. She ain’t in.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I don’t know if I should be answering questions about Linda. Looks like she’s in trouble, an’ I don’t want no dealings with the police.”

  “I’m not the police, miss...”

  “Angie. Everyone calls me Angie.”

  “I’m not the police, Angie.” I left number nine and ambled next door. Once there was nothing but the green rug between Angie and me I removed my wallet from the breast pocket of my jacket and slowly extracted a hundred-dollar bill. “I’m just looking for a few facts about Linda Adams, Angie, and as you know, a reporter never reveals his sources.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the greenback in my hand. “Yeah, that’s what I read in the newspapers,” she said.

  “And sometimes we look for people to write feature articles about subjects they know intimately. For this a reimbursement of several thousand dollars is not unheard of.” This was a line, of course, but it was music to Angie’s ears.

  Playing a hunch, Angie said, “Would you like to come in?” I wasn’t sure if this was addressed to me or the hundred-dollar bill, but seeing as my hand was attached to the bill, I followed Angie into her trailer.

  These boxcars are divided into mini-rooms and for obvious reasons bring to mind the old railroad flats of New York tenement fame. We entered through the kitchen, which featured a dining area big enough to hold a bridge table and two chairs. I declined the offer of coffee but did take a seat at Angie’s table. If her husband was in the trailer, he didn’t make an appearance.

  I folded the bill and placed it between salt and pepper shakers in the shape of white poodles sitting on their haunches. Having paid my dues, I began to extract my money’s worth. “When was the last time you saw Linda?”

  “A month ago. Maybe a month and a few weeks. I don’t keep no records, you know. Just mind my own business.” Angie helped herself to a cuppa from a Mr. Coffee machine mounted beneath one of her cabinets.

  “You mean she just left one day and never came back?”

  Angie lit a cigarette and then asked me if I minded. When I told her I didn’t, she blew out her next line along with a cloud of smoke. “They all left.”

  “Who are they?

  “Tina and her son Jeff and Linda.”

  “They all lived here? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Angie’s hair rollers bounced off one another when she nodded her head. “Yeah, mister. It was Tina’s trailer, and Linda was Jeff’s girl.”

  “You mean Geoff Williams? She was Geoff Williams’s girl?” I couldn’t believe Geoff would shack up in a trailer with two women, but then, there’s no accounting for taste.

  “You talking about the society guy Linda got caught in the sack with?” Angie cried. “The one whose wife bumped him off? Forget it, mister. She was Jeff Wolinsky’s girl. J-E-F-F, that is. Not Gee-off like the society guy.”

  I almost fell off my folding chair.
“Did you say ‘Wolinsky’?”

  Angie sucked on her unfiltered Pall Mall. “Yeah. That’s what I said. Number nine is Tina Wolinsky’s trailer. Tina and her son, Jeff.”

  “How long have they lived next door?”

  Angie shrugged. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I been here ten years and they was here when I came. Jeff was just a teenager back then. Good-looking brat, he was.”

  “When did Linda appear?” I had to grip the seat of my chair with both hands to keep from leaping around the room like a ballet dancer with ants in his tights.

  “Maybe a year ago. Like I said, I don’t keep records. She was Jeff’s girl, so I was surprised to read that she got caught in the sack with that society guy, Gee-off. But then Linda did have a rovin’ eye, like they say. Once I saw her and Lou Mintz from number six out by the picnic area and believe me, mister, they wasn’t munching Chinese takeout. It’s a wonder Linda didn’t take a bullet where it counts, too. This Gee-off’s wife shoots first and asks questions after.”

  “Do you know why they left here?”

  “All I know is that one day Tina tells me they’re going away. She don’t say where. Just that they’re going to greener pastures.”

  “What did you take that to mean?” With someone like Angie, it was better to ask than to take anything for granted.

  “Personally, mister, I don’t think it meant anything. You see...” Angie stuck her thumb in the air and then pointed it at her lips.

  Playing a hunch, I said, “Tina drinks.”

  “Like a fish,” came Angie’s reply. “Look, I ain’t no prude. Me and the ol’ man put away a few on Saturday nights and around the holidays, if you know what I mean. But Tina drank like every night was Saturday night, not to mention every afternoon. You had to catch Tina right after breakfast if you wanted to get a sober word out of her.”

  “So one day, about a month or so ago, all three of them are gone. Just like that.” I snapped my fingers, but owing to their dampness, the gesture was literally mute.

  Angie finished her coffee and got up to pour herself another cup. Her Pall Mall had been smoked down to where it was too short to hold. She dropped it in an ashtray shaped like a huge clamshell and allowed it to expire of its own volition.

  “Gone,” she repeated. The word must have brought to mind a closure because Angie quickly picked up the bill from between her poodle shakers and put it in the pocket of her housecoat. “I could tell you a lot about what went on next door over the past ten years. Tina was no Hannah Homemaker, let me tell you. You think your paper would be interested?”

  I still hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of learning who lived in number nine, and answered Angie’s question with a question. “Are you sure their name is Wolinsky?”

  “Sure as I’m Angie.” She gave me another look at her false teeth. “Linda the Mystery Woman. I never thought I would be living next door to no celebrity. I told you all I know, mister, but I guess there’s no chance of me getting that reward.”

  “No, Angie, I’m afraid there isn’t.” I rose, a bit unsteady on my pins, and took three steps to the door.

  Angie was clutching the hundred-dollar bill in her housecoat pocket. “So long, mister. And thanks.”

  “So long, Pandora.”

  “What did you say...”

  27

  WOLINSKY! THE NAME KEPT playing in my head like a vinyl record with the needle stuck in a groove. Wolinsky! When Geoffrey Williams showed up as Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s tennis instructor, no one had questioned his roots. Handsome men in tennis shorts were constantly arriving, and departing, in Palm Beach. But when it looked like Geoff was going to be around for the long haul, the rumors began making the rounds that in another life, he was Geoffrey or Jeffrey Wolinsky. Why?

  The answer must be that someone knew him by that name. While rumors are seldom based on fact, neither are they conjured up out of thin air. Geoffrey Williams was not a tennis pro or a golf pro or a Russian prince or pauper, but if I played hunches like Angie, I would say he was connected in some way with the name Wolinsky. How?

  It had never been proven that Geoff Williams was a Wolinsky, but then, neither had it ever been disproved. And Seth Walker’s identity remained a mystery, but not for long if I had anything to do with it. When I met with Seth Walker, I thought he reminded me of someone but couldn’t match the familiar face to a name. Now I could. It was Geoff Williams.

  On the drive north, rather than have my mind run amuck up and down cul-de-sacs, I mentally constructed the journal entry I would dutifully record later that day: About six weeks ago, Geoff Williams made a trip to Palm Beach, alone, and met Linda Adams in Bar Anticipation. He also ran into John Fairhurst, and, upon learning that Fairhurst was looking for a driver, Geoff recommended Seth Walker.

  Geoff then returned to Palm Beach for the season with his wife, Melva, and his stepdaughter, Veronica.

  At a social function, Seth the chauffeur introduced himself to Veronica. She went out with him the following evening.

  That day, John Fairhurst received the first blackmail letter.

  Veronica had a second date with Seth, at Hillcrest, the evening after their first date—which was the night of the murder. Veronica left the house to go to Hillcrest to meet Seth. When she left, both her mother and stepfather were at home. Thinking that her friend Fitz might want to join her later, Veronica left the Hillcrest address with her mother to give to Fitz, should Fitz call. Being the first one out for the evening, Veronica was responsible for turning on the gate alarm when she drove out. However, she can’t remember if she did.

  That same night, Geoff and Melva were invited to a party aboard Phil Meecham’s yacht. Melva did not choose to go. Geoff decided he would attend alone and told Melva he would leave her the car because Lolly Spindrift was picking him up and driving him to Phil’s. Actually, Geoff had a date with Linda Adams. She picked Geoff up outside the gate of his home, about nine o’clock that night. We still don’t know if the gate alarm was set or not set by Veronica.

  Geoff took Linda back to the house, where their tryst was interrupted by Melva. Linda fled and Melva killed Geoff. Or, Melva killed Geoff and then Linda fled, depending on whose version is correct, Melva’s or Hattie’s. That a car, in a great hurry, left the scene immediately before or after the shooting, is a fact.

  I told Veronica how important the newly dubbed Mystery Woman was to Melva’s case. A few days later, Linda Adams came forth claiming to be the Mystery Woman. She can answer correctly all the questions put to her regarding the scene of the crime, and her story of the murder jibes with Melva’s version.

  Linda Adams, unasked, told the police that when she and Geoff returned to the house, about eleven, the gate alarm was not set.

  When Melva summoned me to the house that night, shortly after midnight, the gate alarm was not set, concurring with Linda’s story.

  Veronica said that after their meeting at Hillcrest, she had never seen Seth Walker again.

  At the same time, Al Rogoff gave me the Mystery Woman’s name and her address—the BB Trailer Court, number nine, Boynton Beach.

  Fairhurst received the second blackmail letter and was told to deliver the ransom money to Linda Adams’s address. Specifically, trailer number nine at the BB Trailer Court in Boynton Beach.

  I scouted out the BB Trailer Court and learned that Linda’s address is the home of Tina Wolinsky and her son, Jeff, and that Linda is Jeff’s girlfriend.

  Six weeks ago, Tina, Jeff, and Linda left the trailer court for “greener pastures.”

  Six weeks ago, Geoff Williams arrived in Palm Beach, alone, and met Linda Adams at Bar Anticipation.

  The circle is completed—I’m back to square one. Odd from a geometry point of view, but I think you know what I mean.

  Tired and shopworn, I drove directly to my Pelican Club where Simon Pettibone mixed me a vodka gimlet, straight up. One sip and I was a new man, albeit a new man with the same problem. Wolinsky! Geoff and/or Jeff. “What’s in a name?�
� the Bard had written. A hell of a lot, that’s what.

  “You heard about the Mystery Woman, Archy?” Simon Pettibone asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Pettibone. Did anyone win the pool?”

  Priscilla came up to the bar to pick up a drink order and acknowledged my presence with a wave of her lovely hand. Today she wore a gardenia in her hair, and I was reminded of Dorothy Lamour in Typhoon. I hoped this wasn’t a harbinger of tomorrow’s weather forecast.

  “No one won, Archy, but if you read the names that were submitted it would turn your hair gray.”

  “More likely green with envy, Mr. Pettibone. What happens to the money in the pot?”

  “It’s going toward a down payment for a new Garland range for Leroy. He wants to expand the menu.”

  “If he sticks to the steak tartare, a stove seems unnecessary.”

  “We’re doing very well with the tartare,” Mr. Pettibone boasted. “Since it went on the menu we’ve seen a sharp increase in our lunch receipts. Most people like it medium rare.”

  “Another gimlet, please, Mr. Pettibone,” was the only reply that came to mind.

  The club was in full swing, with most tables occupied by those who like their steak tartare medium rare. As my second gimlet was placed before me, none other than Binky Watrous took the stool next to me. “Hi, Archy.”

  “Well, well, well. Are you here under your own steam, Binky? No walker, no ambulance, no velvet slipper? Are we to assume you will live?”

  “I’m feeling fine, Archy.”

  “A beer for Mr. Watrous,” I called to our bartender. “And you shouldn’t say you’re feeling fine, Binky. It could be used against you in your civil suit. I will say, however, that Hobo is to undergo oral surgery next week.”

  Binky sipped his beer, the foam of which added thickness to his limp mustache. I must give serious thought to talking him into shaving the foolish thing.

  “I’m not going to sue, Archy,” he said with a smile.

  Finally, a sudden turn of events for the better. “And the Duchess knows of this momentous decision?”

  “We struck a deal,” he answered.