McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  During the family cocktail hour at twilight I casually mentioned I was attending the memorial service for Hiram Gottschalk that night. Father paused in his preparation of our martinis.

  “Your mother and I were invited,” he said stiffly. “But I thought it best we not accept.”

  “Sir, would you prefer I didn’t go?” I asked him.

  “No, no,” he said. “Represent McNally and Son. And perhaps you may learn something to further your inquiry.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, thinking, Not bloody likely—which proves how mistaken a sleuthhound can be.

  After dinner I went upstairs to change. I decided to wear a suit. Can you believe it? Yep, my jacket and trousers matched: a black and tan glen plaid in a windowpane design. Classic but jaunty. I lightened the formality further with a knitted sport shirt of Sea Island cotton in hunter green. Cordovan loafers with modest tassels. The final effect, I decided, was assertive without being aggressive.

  I must confess my getup was an attempt to trump Ricardo Chrisling’s Armani elegance. Didn’t someone once say you can cure a man of any folly except vanity?

  It was a so-so night hardly worth mentioning, but I shall. The sky was totally overcast, making for a heavy darkness, and what breeze existed came in fits and starts. I was aware of an unusual odor on the air. Not quite fishy. Not quite sewer gas. Brimstone? Nah. That was my imagination galloping amok.

  There was a plenitude of cars already parked on the slated driveway of the Gottschalk estate as I drove in. I spotted Binky Watrous’s dented antique M-B cabriolet and was happy my gormless aide would be present. I was sliding from my fire engine-red quadriga when Peter Gottschalk came out of nowhere, hand outstretched. He was grinning. Not a drugged grin or a sappy grin. Just a nice natural expression of pleasure.

  “Hiya, Archy,” he said. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

  I shook the proffered paw. “Peter, good to see you again. How are things going?”

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to thank you for steering me to that shrink.”

  “Dr. Pearlberg?”

  “Yeah. I went to see her. She’s something, she is.”

  “I concur. A marvelous woman.”

  “Anyway, she sent me to another doc—a doctor doc, not a mind bender—and he’s got me on medication.”

  “Any results?”

  “Not yet but I feel better knowing I’m getting help. I’m off the booze and the weed and that’s a drag. But I can stand it if my brain starts functioning.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “Coming inside?”

  “In a while,” he said. “Not right now. I just want to walk around and look at things. It’s like I’m seeing them for the first time. That’s goofy, isn’t it?”

  “Not so. Very understandable. Peter, what is this shindig all about? A sort of delayed wake?”

  “It’s supposed to be but it’s just a party. My sisters’ idea. They love a bash.”

  “Tell me something: Do you always know which is which?”

  “Oh sure. It’s easy. Julia wears Chanel Cristalle perfume and Judith uses Must de Cartier.”

  I laughed. “I had never considered that method of identification. But what if they switch scents?”

  He shrugged. “So what? Who cares? They’re a couple of airheads anyway. See you later.”

  Then he was gone. I stayed a moment thinking of the sobriquet he had used to describe his sisters: airheads. It had been my initial impression also, but now I was beginning to think there was another trait the twins shared. It was darker and far less superficial than their fondness for partying.

  The front door of the Gottschalk home was wide open. I entered and paused to glance about. Yvonne Chrisling came bustling up to give me a tight abrazo and press a warm cheek against mine.

  “Archy!” she exclaimed. “I am sooo happy you have arrived. What a delight to see you!”

  My ego is of the stalwart variety, as you well know, but her effusion startled me. I do like to fancy I am a reincarnation of Ronald Colman, but I could not believe I had captivated this woman to the degree she displayed in speech and manner.

  “Come along,” she said in her hearty contralto voice, “and let me get you a drink. You prefer vodka, do you not?”

  She grasped my arm and led me to a portable bar set up by the caterer handling the affair. She made certain I was supplied with a heavy Sterling on the rocks with a slice of lime. Then she toyed with my left ear.

  “Now I must act like a hostess,” she said, managing a girlish pout, “but you and I shall have a nice long talk later.”

  She moved away, leaving me a bit rattled. I had no doubt the lady was coming on to me, as she had before, and I could not guess her motive. That it was not overwhelming passion I was well aware. And I doubted if she even knew of my store of scabrous limericks. So why was she being so physical? It could of course be merely a case of chronic flirtatiousness—but I didn’t think so.

  I stood at the bar watching her stroll slowly through the throng of guests, pausing to chat, patting shoulders, stroking cheeks, clasping hands. She really was physical.

  I think “dolled up” would be an apt description of her costume: a strapless sheath of shimmering pink pallettes. Her black hair hung in a glossy sheaf. A diamond choker encircled her strong neck. The effect of those glittering rocks against her dark skin was striking.

  As she sauntered slowly but purposefully I suddenly realized she was not acting “like a hostess” as she had said, she was playing the role of chatelaine, entertaining in her home, greeting her guests. Then I knew, knew she was aware of her inheritance. This rumpled mansion, its furnishings and grounds, were now all hers. Hers! To do with as she willed. No wonder she was chockablock with brio.

  I wandered away from the bar searching for Binky. I finally located him seated in a cozy corner holding hands with Bridget Houlihan. Their heads were close and when I said, “Hello, kids,” they looked up vacantly as if I had just interrupted a shared dream.

  “Oh,” Binky said. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Bridget said.

  “Hi,” I added, “and I trust that concludes the ‘hi’s’ for the evening. Having a good time?”

  They looked at each other and wondered if they were fully aware of where they were, so lost they seemed to be in their private world.

  “Binky,” I said, “have the police come to the store?”

  He nodded. “They showed up today. Two detectives.”

  “Asking questions about Emma and Tony,” Bridget said sorrowfully. “We couldn’t tell them much.”

  “Did they talk to Ricardo?”

  “He wasn’t there,” Binky said. “He’s away on a business trip.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Is he here tonight?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” Bridget said. “Have you, lover?” she asked her swain. Lover?! Calling Binky Watrous a lover is similar to labeling Caligula an Eagle Scout.

  “Haven’t seen him,” my unpaid helot replied. “He’s away a lot.”

  “The new employees,” I said. “The ones replacing Tony and Emma—are they present tonight?”

  “They’re here but you won’t like them,” Bridget advised. “Riffraff.”

  “The riffest of the raffest,” Binky added.

  I expressed thanks and left. There were more questions I wanted to ask but I felt I was intruding on their twosomeness (I think that’s a new word I just coined). I confess I was envious. I wondered where Connie Garcia was at that moment and what she was doing. Stubborn, mulish, obstinate woman! Grrr.

  CHAPTER 26

  I WISH I COULD TELL you I had a blast at Hiram Gottschalk’s memorial, but I did not. All the other guests, and there were many, seemed to be having a high old time. The decibel count rose as more drinks were consumed, laughter became raucous, and I even witnessed the sight of a middle-aged man putting a fringed lampshade on his head and attempting an imitation of Carmen Miranda. Yes, I actually saw it.

  But despite a second vodk
a I remained subdued if not dejected. A series of events contributed to my angst.

  I met the new domestic staff hired to replace Mei and Got Lee. They were an unprepossessing couple with none of the cheery charm of their predecessors. They were obviously foreign-born and I overheard them conversing in a language I could not positively identify although I recognized a few French words. I finally guessed they were speaking Creole, which might explain their wariness. They acted as if an agent from the Immigration Service might tap them on the shoulder at any moment.

  Just as off-putting were the man and woman employed to take the place of Tony Sutcliffe and Emma Gompertz at Parrots Unlimited. I introduced myself and found them a singularly surly and uncommunicative couple. They stood stiffly, full glasses gripped tightly. They seemed totally divorced from the revelry around them and, having put in an appearance, were eager to depart as soon as possible.

  “How’s the parrot business?” I asked the man genially, trying to jolt him into even the merest semblance of casual conversation. I think his name was Martin something.

  “You’re interested in parrots?” he said, staring at me suspiciously.

  It was all I needed—a challenge like that.

  “Well, I’m not,” I said briskly, “but my dear old grandfather is absolutely dotty about them. Must have at least twenty, give or take, and he’s still collecting. They’ll probably outlive him—right?”

  “Probably,” the woman said. I think her name was Felice something.

  “He owns some rare birds,” I burbled on. “Beautiful specimens. His ninety-second birthday is coming up and I’d like to buy him a special gift. Do you have any unusual parrots in your shop? I mean something he’s not likely to have in his attic.”

  Martin thawed. A little. “I think we can supply a rare and lovely bird,” he said. “Expensive of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Stop by the store and I’ll show you what’s available.”

  “Great!” I said. “I know it’ll make gramps happy.”

  I gave them an idiotic grin. Did I know what I was doing? No, I did not but it was a gambit worth a try.

  I was beginning to think it was time to make a surreptitious departure, when I observed a pas de trois being performed across the thronged living room. My view was frequently obscured by the mingling of guests and I heard nothing of what was being said. The rising volume of gibble-gabble prevented that.

  Peter Gottschalk was seated in the center of the tattered velvet love seat. Crowded in were the twins, Julia and Judith, pressing him between them, a slender dun volume held tightly by two garish bookends. There was a bottle of what appeared to be red wine on the cocktail table before them, and each of the three held a full glass.

  From my distance it was a scene in mime but I had no doubt what was happening. The sisters urged him to drink. He resisted. They laughed and whispered into his ears. He laughed. They lifted their glasses. A toast. He took a sip. They gulped and nudged him. He drank more. They all laughed.

  I didn’t know if the twins were fully aware of their brother’s condition but I thought their behavior abhorrent. I wanted to push my way through the mob and strike the glass from his hand. But I couldn’t do that, could I? People would think me drunk or insane, and the three principals involved would be outraged by my officiousness. And so I did nothing. Just watched, saddened by the sight of the sisters clutching his arms, petting him, keeping his glass filled. I saw it as a kind of corruption.

  Then I did leave, sneaking away and hoping my departure was unobserved. No such luck. I was standing alongside the Miata, looking upward and happy to see the sky was clearing—a few stars were winking at me—when Yvonne Chrisling came running to slide an arm about my waist.

  “You naughty boy,” she said. “Leaving without a good-night kiss.”

  “I apologize,” I said. “I wanted to thank you for an enjoyable evening but you were busy with your guests.”

  “I wanted everyone to have a happy time,” she said in such a simpering tone I was tempted to utter a blasphemy. “Did you have a happy time, Archy?”

  “I did indeed,” I assured her. “My only regret is your stepson wasn’t present. I was looking forward to chatting with him.”

  “Ah, poor Ricardo,” she said. “On a business trip. He works, works, works. He is so determined to make the business a success.”

  “I’m sure he shall. But I did have a chance to talk with Peter for a few moments. He seems in much better shape.” I watched closely for her reaction.

  She sighed. “Such a problem, that one. He’s going to doctors, you know, for help in curing his depression and stopping the crazy things he does. But I’m afraid he will not do what they say or take his medication. Peter is so weak, so weak. Are you weak, Archy?”

  “Only physically, mentally, and emotionally,” I told her. “Other than that I am a tower of strength.”

  She smiled. “May we sit in your car a moment? I need a few moments away from the hullabaloo.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  So there we were, side by side in the parked Miata. I do not believe she was using a perfume but I was conscious of her scent, deep and musky. And disturbing I might add. Dim starlight gleamed on bare shoulders. The diamond choker seemed reflected on dark skin. I thought it a bit chill for her costume but she made no complaint. Perhaps she generated her own warmth, an inner furnace never extinguished. (Oh, McNally, you’re such a poet!)

  She turned sideways and took my hand. “Do you think you shall ever marry?” she asked suddenly.

  I was startled. “I honestly don’t know, Yvonne. How can one possibly predict something like that?”

  “Take my advice and don’t marry,” she said.

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “You’re not the type.”

  “You mean there’s a marrying type of man and natural-born bachelors who smoke a pipe, keep a cat, and sew leather patches on the elbows of their Harris tweed sport jacket?”

  She was kind enough to laugh. “Let me tell you something, Archy. It’s a secret but I shall reveal it to you. Every smart woman in the world knows if she had been born a man she would never marry.”

  “What a cynic you are,” I said.

  “Oh no, but I am realistic. And I know marrying or not marrying is not so important. A piece of paper. What is important is how a man feels about a woman and how she feels about him. You agree?”

  “I do,” I said with the uneasy feeling this woman knew more about everything than I knew about anything.

  She began fondling my right ear. She seemed to have a thing about ears. That’s okay. I have a furtive fondness for the backs of female knees. And it is said the Japanese admire an attractive nape. One never knows, do one?

  “Age means nothing,” Yvonne continued. “And really, physical attractiveness is not, ah, crucial. It’s the stirring one feels.”

  She pressed closer. I began to appreciate how a trapped ferret must feel.

  “Also,” she said, “it is necessary a man and a woman who are simpatico do not hurt each other. It is very necessary. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you, Archy?”

  “Of course not,” I said staunchly without the slightest idea where this woman was coming from. She was speaking words that made little sense unless she was implying a meaning I could not fathom.

  “I know you won’t,” she said, and I was immediately aware she had switched from “wouldn’t” to “won’t.” “And I won’t hurt you. And so,” she concluded with a sigh of content, “there is no reason you and I cannot enjoy an intimate relationship and make each other happy.”

  Then she enveloped me. I can’t think of a more fitting verb for I felt engulfed, surrounded, swallowed as she lurched to enfold me in her arms and plaster my mug with wet, passionate kisses. What a scene! Acceptable in a boudoir certainly but in an open car parked on a crowded driveway? I mean, how louche can you get?

  I touched her hair cautiously, fearing I might fin
d a nest of snakes. But it was pure gloss. Was I tempted to respond to the bold advances of this intense woman? Of course I was tempted. I am, after all, not whittled of oak. But if my glands were energized the bowl of Cheerios I call my brain sent forth a warning alert.

  She wanted something from me, I guessed, and then I reckoned it was possible she was playing the siren because there was something she didn’t want from me. Her operatic seduction (opera buffa, not grand opera) might be an attempt to persuade me to inaction. She wanted me to cease and desist. It was an intriguing hypothesis.

  Rejection without giving offense to the rejectee is a delicate art. I weaseled of course, as is my wont, and explained to Yvonne as gently as I could that while we undoubtedly were kindred spirits, this was neither the time nor the place for continued intimacy. But our moment would arrive, I assured her, when our new and delightful relationship could come to glorious fruition. In other words, I stalled her.

  She disengaged far enough to peer into my eyes. “You promise?” she asked huskily.

  “I do not take promises lightly,” I told her. It was, you may note, a classic example of a dissembler’s talent. Not a lie but not a definite pledge, either.

  “When?” she persisted.

  “As soon as possible,” I replied, which gave me plenty of wriggle room. “I’ll call you.”

  “Very soon,” she said, and gave me a final kiss. What a wicked tongue she had! “And if you don’t, I shall call you. Frequently.”

  She may not have meant it as a threat but I took it as such. She was not in the habit of being denied. She gave my ear one last tweak, slid from the car, and stalked back to the party. I watched her go, admiring her erect posture and the way she seemed to thrust herself forward. I could not believe she ever had a doubt in her life.

  I drove home at a relatively early hour, congratulating myself on escaping from what might have been a sticky situation. I believe I hummed “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor (on the Bedpost Overnight)?” but it could have been Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major. Whatever, I found I had recovered from my brief spasm of Weltschmerz earlier in the evening. I wasn’t exactly chipper, you understand, but in a relaxed, ruminative mood.