Tina Wolinsky being a nonentity, only little Jeff could have made up the Mystery Woman story. It was easy to see that if little Jeff demanded marriage to Veronica as his price, she had no choice but to agree. And it all might have worked if the boy’s blackmail gambit hadn’t sent them all tripping over one another’s lies, and if I had kept my puss out of where it wasn’t wanted.
So, Veronica’s play for Archy was nothing more than a diverting tactic. My ego was bruised, but not mortally.
Next, I should go to see John Fairhurst. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to tell him, but a plan was beginning to evolve that might satisfy both my client and my conscience. However, for a variety of reasons, Connie among them, my conscience was in tatters.
Melva had lied to me from day one, and so had her daughter. I owed them nothing. Therefore, I decided to bypass the McNally Building and the Fairhurst manse in favor of going to see Melva and caution her about what was afoot. Old friendships die hard, and that’s as it should be.
Alpha and Omega, as the poets say. The beginning and the end. These were my thoughts as I drove through the gates of Melva’s rented mansion. The same gates I had found unarmed that midnight because no one had left the house until after the murder, when Veronica sped off to Hillcrest, not stopping for a red light, let alone pausing long enough to set the alarm.
One look at Hattie’s face as she opened the door told me that news of the day’s events had preceded my arrival. The atmosphere here was in sharp contrast to my last visit, when we had celebrated the appearance of the Mystery Woman. Today we seemed to be mourning her disappearance. “Missy is in the drawing room and Miss Veronica is upstairs,” Hattie informed me. “What’s happening, Mr. Archy? They tell me nothing.”
“They told me nothing, too,” I said, but the poor woman had no idea what I meant. “Is a cup of coffee possible, Hattie?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Archy.” And she hurried off to the kitchen, happy for something to do.
Melva was standing in the center of the room as if awaiting my arrival. “The sun is over the yardarm, Archy. What can I get you?”
“How about the truth, straight up.”
Her skin was ashen and her eyes swollen from crying. Even her chic silk print dress looked shopworn, and I doubt if she’d had her hair done since the day she was set free on bail. “You know the truth,” she said. “The boy, Jeff, is it, called and said the jig is up. Is that correct, Archy, the jig is up?”
“That it is, Melva. And you know the police found another set of prints on the gun, but they can’t identify them.”
She didn’t sit, nor did she invite me to sit. I noticed that her hands were trembling as she strained to keep them at her side. “Yes, so I’m told. Veronica tried to wrestle the gun out of my hand at one point, and that accounts for the smudged prints the police found.”
“Did you tell your lawyers that?” I asked.
“Yes. I did.”
“And who made up the story of the Mystery Woman? You or Veronica?”
“Why, I did.”
“I find that hard to believe, Melva. It’s so unlike you.”
“I also brought you into it to help back my story. I did that because you’re the only person in Palm Beach I consider a true friend, and if you find that a paradox I was wrong about you. Can you believe that?”
I could, and I didn’t find it a paradox. When in need, one calls on friends, and that’s just what Melva had done. “The paradox, Melva, is that I’m the guy who blew your cover.”
She moved about the room, touching the tops of pieces of furniture as if checking for dust. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that,” she said. “You’re better at your job than anyone suspects.”
Was that a compliment or a slap in the face? I settled on the former and moved on. “What went on around here that night? And let’s have the truth this time.”
“Veronica went out with that boy, and you know what he told her. The next day she confronted Geoff and he denied it, but she didn’t believe him. She said she would call our lawyers and have them check his past. Then she stormed out of the house.”
“Where were you all this time?”
“In a state of shock, I think, and acting like a zombie. I swear to you, Archy, I can’t recall with clarity what went on after Veronica told Geoff what the boy had said. It’s like a bad dream that you can’t recall in detail but you know was a horror.”
I nodded. “I understand.” Then I prodded her to continue. “When did Veronica get back?”
“Not till late. After ten, I think. I was frantic. I didn’t know where she’d gone or what she would do. I refused to talk to Geoff. I didn’t even want to look at him. I locked myself in my room with a bottle of Scotch and actually thought about taking my life. I either fell asleep or passed out. When I awoke it was dark, and the first thing I heard was them arguing. Veronica and Geoff. I think it was then I decided to kill him. I took the gun from the night-table drawer and went downstairs.
“They were screaming at each other. Or rather, Veronica was screaming at Geoff. I was sure Hattie would hear. They were in the solarium. I went in and pointed the gun at Geoff. That’s when Veronica tried to stop me but failed. I shot him. Then we mapped out the clever plan that almost worked.”
“You both undressed him, set the scene, then Veronica took off to where she knew she would find Jeff. Then you called me.” I finished the story.
“And that’s it,” Melva said, simulating relief. “Now that you have the truth, are you sure you won’t have a drink?”
Veronica joined us, entering the drawing room barefoot, her hair disheveled, dressed in jeans and a man’s shirt with the tails hanging out. She looked as if she had either just awoken from a drugged sleep or was drunk.
“Go back to your room,” Melva ordered. “I told you to stay there until Bill gets here.” Turning to me, Melva explained, “Bill Evans is our lawyer. He said he would come to take our statements before we gave them to the police.”
“The charade is over, Mother,” Veronica announced.
“Go back to your room,” Melva repeated. Her voice was as shaky as her hands, which she now clasped in a prayerlike gesture.
Looking at Veronica, I wondered if the beautiful girl who had taken me to faraway places the other night had remained abroad and been replaced by a Ms. Hyde. Had her eyes always been such an icy blue? The nose so sharp? The jaw set in stone? The voice so harsh and cynical? “He was my lover,” she stated. “My lover. It began when I finished school and moved back home—”
“No,” Melva cried. “Please, Veronica. Don’t say any more. I’m begging you.”
“He was going to leave my mother and marry me. Imagine that, Archy. He was going to be a bigamist twice over. So I killed him.”
Melva was sobbing and pleading at the same time, “Now do you understand, Archy? Now do you see why I lied and why I must continue to lie? Why we must all continue to lie? Please, please, leave us and pretend you never heard any of this. I killed him—I killed him. The day I married Geoffrey Williams I pulled the trigger, and I’ll pay for it. Not my baby. Please. Now do you understand?”
What a merry hell must have been going on around this place since the day little Jeff spilled the beans. But did the boy know the whole story? I didn’t think so.
Veronica sank into a chair. “I did it, Archy. My mother wouldn’t have the nerve and you know it.” She closed her eyes and looked as if she were about to nod off.
I went to her and raised her head. Her eyes were closed. I shook her but she didn’t respond. “She’s dead drunk, Melva.”
“That can’t be. She hasn’t had anything to drink all day.” Melva was whimpering and looked more bewildered than ever.
I thought I was going to have two comatose women on my hands when Hattie came in with my coffee. “It’s time for your pill, Missy,” she was saying, “but I can’t find them. They’re not on the night table in your room and—”
Melva let out a cry just a
s Hattie put down the coffee tray. When the housekeeper spotted Veronica slumped in the chair, she joined in the histrionics.
“She’s breathing.” I shouted above the wailing. “And I doubt if there were enough pills in that small bottle to kill her. Now, keep your heads, both of you. Melva, dial 911, right now. As Veronica said, the charade is over.”
I used the gate phone to announce my arrival at the Fairhurst house. Hector must have been off because Peterson, not looking pleased, came down to let me in. I offered him a ride back to the house, which he accepted with little grace. Mrs. P. played butler at the front door and told me her employer was in the first-floor office, awaiting my appearance. It was Peterson, however, who led the way and announced me.
I was surprised to see both Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst in attendance. As soon as he dismissed his butler, Mr. Fairhurst said, “You remember my wife, Archy.”
“Of course,” I answered, with a nod toward Mrs. Fairhurst. She smiled a “how-do-you-do,” but didn’t offer me her hand. Both she and her husband were seated when I came into the office and Mr. Fairhurst stood to greet me.
“What do you have to report, Archy?” Mr. Fairhurst looked as anxious as an expectant father hovering outside the delivery room.
“I know who the blackmailer is, sir.”
I could see Mrs. Fairhurst’s eyes widen, but other than that, she gave no indication that she was in any way concerned with my news. Mr. Fairhurst looked as if he couldn’t wait to get his mitts on the trespasser.
“And he’s dead.” I allowed this bomb to drop as casually as I dared.
“Dead?” Mr. Fairhurst couldn’t believe that someone had usurped him of the deed.
“It was Geoff Williams, sir. The man you knew as Melva’s husband.”
The two of them looked at me in amazement as I related the story that would become public knowledge by tomorrow morning. “He must have seen the dates on the portraits when he was here with Melva and did a little research to learn the truth. I assume the fact that your grandfather wore woman’s clothing to escape the ship was a wild guess on Geoff’s part, and it worked.”
Mrs. Fairhurst had tears in her eyes as she shook her head and repeated again and again, “Poor Melva. Oh, that poor woman.”
“He was a bastard and a four-flusher,” Mr. Fairhurst said. “I knew it from the day he arrived in Palm Beach.”
“He had no money of his own, as you know,” I continued, “and thought he had struck gold with his knowledge.”
“But the second letter came after he was killed,” Mr. Fairhurst suddenly recalled.
“That’s right, sir. The man we knew as Geoff Williams mailed the first letter himself and gave the second to his son, whom you know as Seth Walker, to mail.”
Mrs. Fairhurst let out a little cry as her husband pounded his fist on the surface of his pedigreed antique desk.
“He planted his son in this household to keep an eye on things and, I imagine, for future reference. As you said, sir, he wasn’t about to stop after one try. He was looking for a steady income. And,” I quickly added, “the boy knows nothing. I traced him and his mother through the address in Boynton Beach. I’ll give you a full report of what happened after that. Suffice it to say for now that the boy confessed to mailing the second letter given to him by his father and swore he did not know what was in the letter or what his father was up to. I believe he’s completely innocent, sir.”
“How can we be sure?” Mr. Fairhurst demanded.
Here, my relief pitcher stepped in, and not a moment too soon. “I believe Mr. McNally, John, and so should you. A man like this Geoff Williams, or whatever his name is, wouldn’t share what he knew with anyone. He was a greedy and despicable person. Let it all end here. It’s Melva and her girl we have to think about now.”
Reluctantly, John Fairhurst nodded his head in agreement with his wife. “So be it. You did well, Archy. My check will be in the mail as soon as I receive your bill.”
“Thank you, sir.” I turned to Mrs. Fairhurst. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, ma’am.”
“The pleasure, Mr. McNally, was all mine.”
De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Say nothing but good of the dead. And, in my own way, that’s just what I had done. Posthumously, I allowed Geoffrey Williams, or Jeffrey Wolinsky Sr., to do the right thing by his family. The heroic gesture was long overdue.
31
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when I arrived back home. Too late for my swim, I settled for a shower, a small marc, and an English Oval. Then I called Consuela Garcia.
“Archy? What’s going on? Rumors are flying up and down Ocean Boulevard faster than the traffic.”
Already? But of course. Hattie must have been on the horn with Mrs. Marsden before the ambulance, the police, and the lawyer, Bill Evans, arrived. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“When will that be?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night. How about dinner at your place?”
“How about dinner out,” she countered, “and not the Pelican Club.”
“Cafe L’Europa?”
“I accept,” she answered, faster than rumors, traffic, or a speeding bullet.
I could feel my wallet beginning to bleed as I said, “I assume Lady C.’s masked ball is history.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Archy. The invitations are out and the masked ball is very much on. Only now it’s going to be a ‘who-done-it?’ extravaganza. A theatrical agency in Miami has been hired to put it together. They orchestrate the mystery cruises for one of the big lines operating out of Fort Lauderdale. There will be a murder or two, and an investigation with Buzz in the role of Sam Spade.”
“What about his silk breeches?”
“He wears them as a disguise when he mingles with the guests, who are all suspects.”
“You must excuse me, Connie. I have to ring off now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to jump out the window.”
“Archy...”
My father sequestered me in the den before dinner, and I related my day from start to finish. He nodded from time to time but otherwise didn’t interrupt the story. When I finished, he said, “The girl has a good chance of getting off easy. Bigamy and sexual abuse will be the defense’s trump cards and they’ll play them for all they’re worth.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, sir.”
“And John Fairhurst was satisfied with your explanation and conclusions?”
“He was.” And as I knew he would, Father didn’t pursue the subject.
“You’ve done very well, Archy.”
“Thank you, sir.” After a moment’s pause, I said, “I was wondering if you would be taking on any extra help for the holidays. You know how busy it gets this time of year with mail, packages, errands, and what have you.”
“Why do you ask, Archy?”
“Binky Watrous would be available if the need arose, sir.”
Father raised one eyebrow, and I can’t say as I blamed him. “I’ll give it some thought,” he promised. “Now, why don’t you prepare our cocktails. I expect your mother will be here any moment.”
“Yes, sir.” I went to the bar and began our ritual by filling the silver pitcher with ice. After preparing three perfect Sterling vodka martinis, I brought one to Father and said, “Now that you know John Fairhurst’s grandfather was a drag queen, I imagine you feel more amiable toward your father, Ready Freddy McNally of Minsky fame.”
Prescott McNally was not amused.
According to Lolly Spindrift, Lady Cynthia’s “who-done-it” was the premier social event of the new season. Phil Meecham was the “victim,” which enabled him to spend most of the night in Lady C.’s boudoir, playing dead with a generous supply of food and liquor to keep him company. Lady C. was the murderess brought to justice not by Buzz, the sleuth in silk breeches, but by a young man said to be a clairvoyant with remarkable talent with whom Lady C. was most impressed—and so the season has officially begun.
Lolly, the official guru on our society murder, let us all know that Veronica was declared mentally unfit to stand trial, and has been hospitalized until such time as she is able to answer for her crime. Given the circumstances, father doubts that she will ever be found guilty of first-degree murder, but will most likely get off with a plea of temporary insanity, her time in the sanatorium to be applied to any sentence she may be given.
What Lolly doesn’t know is that Melva, in spite of all her problems, has used her wealth and contacts to have the real Mrs. Williams placed in a private rehabilitation facility. She has also offered young Jeff support if he wishes to complete his education, with the goal a degree in computer science, long a dream of this surprising young man.
Melva has gone back to New York, her rented mansion eerily empty, and she told me she doubted if she would ever return to Palm Beach. That remains to be seen.
It is also rumored that the Fairhurst family portraits have been sent out to be “cleaned and refurbished.” Now there was an item I could have scooped Lolly on but chose professional integrity instead.
Binky is second in charge of the mail room at McNally & Son, a de facto title as our mail room consists solely of old Mr. Anderson, a post-office pensioner who is very near to retiring a second time. Mrs. Trelawney, I am told, adores Binky. Those doe eyes will do it all the time.
And finally, my dinner with Connie at L’Europa cost a week’s salary, but was worth every cent. Connie will also have Christmas dinner with us, where she will join in the traditional McNally yule toast, “God bless us, one and all.”
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