McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  Her sister pouted. “I want Leon to get busy on the silver; it’s getting so tarnished.” She turned to me. “Archy, the Porsche is at the garage in West Palm for a tune-up. They phoned that it’s ready. Could you drive Meg in to pick it up?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Delighted.”

  “That’s a good boy,” she said. “Meg, Archy will drive you to the garage and you can use the Porsche all afternoon. How does that sound?”

  “Fine,” the other woman said, expressing no gratitude to me. “I’ll get dressed. I won’t be long, Mr. McNally.”

  “Listen, you two,” Laverne said. “Enough of that ‘Miss Trumble’ and ‘Mr. McNally’ crap. Be nice. Make it Meg and Archy. Okay?”

  “Brilliant suggestion,” I said.

  The sister gave me a frosty smile and headed for the house.

  “Don’t mind her,” Laverne advised me. “She’s coming down off a heavy love affair that went sour.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “It turned out the guy was married. Now she’s in an ‘All men should drop dead’ mood. Treat her gently, Archy.”

  “That’s the way I always treat women who lift weights,” I said. “Thank you for the drink, Laverne. Please call me at my office or home if you hear from the catnappers. And I’ll let you know if I learn anything about Peaches.”

  “I don’t much care,” she said, “but when Harry is miserable he makes sure everyone is miserable, if you know what I mean. So find that lousy cat, will you.”

  I bid her adieu and was standing next to the Miata puffing my first English Oval of the day when Meg Trumble came striding from the house. She was wearing a tank dress of saffron linen, and I saw again how slender and muscled she was. Her bare arms and legs were lightly tanned, and she had the carriage of a duchess—a nubile duchess.

  I gave her the 100-watt smile I call my Supercharmer. My Jumbocharmer hits 150, but I didn’t want to unnerve her. “You look absolutely lovely,” I said.

  “I would prefer you didn’t smoke,” she said.

  I could have made a bitingly witty riposte and withered this haughty woman, but I did not lose the famed McNally cool. “Of course,” I said, flicked my fag at a dwarf palm, and wondered why I had agreed to chauffeur Ms. Cactus.

  We headed north on Ocean Boulevard, and when we passed the McNally home, I jerked my thumb. “My digs,” I said.

  She turned to stare. “Big,” she said.

  “I live with my parents,” I explained, “with room enough for my sister and her brood when they come to visit. Laverne tells me you’re thinking of moving down here.”

  “Possibly,” she said.

  And that was the extent of our conversation. Ordinarily I am a talkative chap, enjoying the give-and-take of lively repartee, especially with a companion of the female persuasion. But Meg Trumble seemed in an uncommunicative mood. Perhaps she believed still waters run deep. Pshaw! Still waters run stupid.

  Then we were in West Palm Beach, nearing our destination when, staring straight ahead, she suddenly spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  What a shock that was! Not only was she making a two-word speech, but she was actually apologizing. The Ice Maiden had begun to melt.

  “Sorry about what?” I asked.

  “I’m in such a grumpy mood,” she said. “But that’s no reason to make you suffer. Please pardon me.”

  If I had accepted that with a nod of forgiveness and said no more, I would have saved a number of people (including your humble servant) a great deal of tsores. But her sudden thaw intrigued me, and I reacted like Adam being offered the apple: “Oh boy, a Golden Delicious!”

  “Listen, Meg,” I said, “after I leave you I planned to have a spot of lunch and then go back to my office. But why don’t you have lunch with me first, and then I’ll drive you to the garage.”

  She hesitated, but not for long. “All right,” she said.

  We went to the Pelican Club. This is mainly an eating and drinking establishment, although it is organized as a private social club. I am one of the founding members, and it is my favorite watering hole in South Florida. The drinks are formidable and the food, while not haute cuisine, is tasty and chockablock with calories and cholesterol.

  The place was crowded, and I waved to several friends and acquaintances. All of them eyeballed Meg; the men her legs, the women her hairdo. Such is the way of the world.

  I introduced her to Simon Pettibone, a gentleman of color who doubles as club manager and bartender. His wife, Jas (for Jasmine), was housekeeper and den mother; his son, Leroy, was our chef, and daughter Priscilla worked as waitress. The Pelican could easily be called The Pettibone Club, for that talented family was the main reason for our success. We had a waiting list of singles and married couples eager to become full-fledged members, entitled to wear the club’s blazer patch: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet.

  Priscilla found us a corner table in the rear of the dining room. “Love your hair,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Not you, dummy,” Priscilla said, laughing. “I’m talking to the lady. Maybe I’ll get me a cut like that. You folks want hamburgers?”

  “Meg?” I asked.

  “Could I get something lighter? A salad perhaps?”

  “Sure, honey,” Priscilla said. “Shrimp or sardine?”

  “Shrimp, please.”

  “Archy?”

  “Hamburger with a slice of onion. French fries.”

  “Drinks?”

  “Meg?”

  “Do you have diet cola?”

  “With your bod?” Priscilla said. “You should be drinking stout. Yeah, we got no-cal. Archy?”

  “Frozen daiquiri, please.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Now I know it’s summer.”

  She left with our order. Meg looked around the dining room. “Funky place,” she observed.

  “It does have a certain decrepit appeal,” I admitted. “How come no hamburger? Are you a vegetarian?”

  “No, but I don’t eat red meat.”

  “I know you don’t smoke. What about alcohol?”

  “No.”

  “Then you must have a secret vice,” I said lightly. “Do you collect cookie jars or plastic handbags?”

  Suddenly she began weeping. It was one of the most astonishing things I’ve ever seen. One moment she was sitting there quite composed, and the next moment tears were streaming down her cheeks, a perfect freshet. Then she hid her face in her palms.

  I can’t cope with crying women. I just don’t know what to do. I sat there helplessly while she quietly sobbed. Priscilla brought our drinks, stared at Meg, then glared at me. I knew she thought I had been the cause of the flood: Priscilla believed breaking hearts was my hobby. Ridiculous, of course. I may be a philanderer, but if there is one thing I have inherited from my grandfather (a burlesque comic) it is this inflexible commandment: Always leave ’em laughing when you say goodbye.

  “Look, Meg,” I said awkwardly, “did I say the wrong thing?”

  She shook her head and blotted her face with a paper napkin. “Sorry about that,” she said huskily. “A silly thing to do.”

  “What was it?” I asked. “A bad memory?”

  She nodded and tried to smile. A nice try but it didn’t work. “I thought I was all cried out,” she said. “I guess I’m not.”

  “Want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “It’s so banal,” she said. “You’ll laugh.”

  “I won’t laugh,” I said. “I promise.”

  Priscilla brought our food, glanced at Meg, gave me a scowl, then left us again. While we ate our lunch, Meg told me the story of her demolished romance. She had been right: it was banal.

  It had been a high-voltage affair with a handsome rogue. He had vowed undying love and proposed marriage, but continually postponed the date: he wanted to build up his bank account, his mother was ill, his business was being reorganized, etc. The excuses went on for almost two years.


  Then a girlfriend brought Meg a newspaper from her swain’s town. He had won a hefty prize in the state lottery. The front-page photograph showed him grinning at the camera, his arm about the waist of a woman identified as his wife. That was that.

  “I was a fool,” Meg said mournfully. “I don’t blame him as much as I blame myself—for being such an idiot. I think that’s what hurts the most, that I could have been tricked so easily.”

  “Did you enjoy the relationship?” I asked.

  She toyed with her salad a moment, head lowered. “Oh yes,” she said finally, “I did. I really liked him, and we had some wonderful times together.”

  “So it’s really a bruised ego that makes you weep.”

  She sighed. “I guess I always had a high opinion of my intelligence. I know better now.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Intelligence had nothing to do with it. It’s your emotions that were involved, and you were too trusting, and so you were vulnerable and got hurt: a constant risk for the hopeful. But would you rather be a crusty cynic who denies all possibility of hopes coming true?”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t want to be like that.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I said. “Meg, when one is thrown from a horse, the accepted wisdom is to mount and ride again as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

  “You will be,” I assured her. “You’re too young, too attractive to be grounded.”

  Then we finished our lunch in silence. I was happy to note that despite her sorrow she had a good appetite: she emptied the really enormous salad bowl.

  “Basil,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “The name is Archy.”

  She laughed. “In the salad, silly. It was delicious. Archy, are you really one of Laverne’s dearest friends?”

  I tried to raise one eyebrow (my father’s shtick) and failed miserably. “Not quite,” I said. “Your sister has a penchant for hyperbole.”

  “You mean she lies?”

  “Of course not. She just exaggerates occasionally to add a little spice to life. Nothing wrong with that. No, my relationship with your sister and brother-in-law is more professional than personal.”

  I handed over my business card and explained that I had been assigned by McNally & Son to locate the missing feline—the reason for my visit to Casa Blanco. I asked Meg when she had last seen Peaches, and she corroborated what Laverne had told me: she had been apartment hunting on the day the cat disappeared.

  “Meg, do you think anyone on the staff might have had a hand in the catnapping?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said. “None of them liked Peaches. And I didn’t either.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, and told her the story of how the beast had regurgitated on my lavender suede loafers.

  She laughed again and leaned forward to put a hand lightly on my arm. “Thank you for making me laugh, Archy,” she said. “I was afraid I had forgotten how.”

  “Laughter is medicine,” I pontificated. “Even better than chicken soup. You must promise to have at least one good giggle a day, preferably just before bedtime.”

  “I’ll try, doctor,” she vowed.

  Coffee was another of her no-no’s and neither of us wanted dessert, so I signed the tab and we went out to the Miata. I drove Meg to the garage and just before she got out of the car she thanked me for lunch.

  “And for being such a sympathetic listener,” she said. “I feel better. I hope I see you again.”

  “You shall indeed,” I said, meaning that I would probably be nosing about Casa Blanco frequently in my search for Peaches.

  But she looked intently into my eyes and repeated, “I do want to see you again,” and then whisked away.

  There was no misinterpreting that; it seemed evident Ms. Trumble was ready to ride a horse again, and I was the nag selected. I didn’t know whether to be delighted or frightened. But I was certain I would not act wisely. Like most men, my life is often a contest between brains and glands. And you would do well to bet Gray Matter to place.

  I returned to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, parked in our underground garage, and waved to Herb, the security guard. I took the elevator up to my tiny office and lo! on my desk was a telephone message: I was requested to call Consuela Garcia as soon as possible. I did.

  “Hi, Connie,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Who was that baldy you had lunch with at the Pelican?” she demanded.

  I believe it was Mr. Einstein who stated that nothing can move faster than the speed of light. It’s obvious Albert had no knowledge of the Palm Beach grapevine.

  Chapter 2

  I SPENT AT LEAST fifteen minutes trying to placate Connie. I explained that the luncheon had been professional business, part of an investigation into a catnapping. I said that Margaret Trumble, sister of Mrs. Laverne Willigan, had valuable testimony to offer, and I needed to question her away from the scene of the crime.

  “Is she living with the Willigans?” Connie asked.

  “Visiting.”

  “For how long?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you going to see her again?”

  “If my investigation requires it,” I said. “Connie, I am shocked—shocked!—by your suspicious tone. I only met Meg this morning and—”

  “Oh-ho,” she said bitterly, “it’s Meg, is it?”

  “Holy cow!” I burst out. “Laverne insisted I address her sister as Meg, and I complied as a matter of courtesy. Connie, your attitude is unworthy of you. What happened to our decision to have an open relationship: both of us free to date whomever we choose?”

  “So you are going to see her again!”

  “Only in the line of business.”

  “Just make sure it’s not monkey business, buster,” she said darkly. “Watch your step; my spies are everywhere.”

  And she hung up.

  I did not take lightly her warning of “spies.” Consuela Garcia was secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of our wealthiest and most socially active matriarchs. Connie knew everyone in Palm Beach worth knowing, and many who weren’t. I had no doubt that she was capable of keeping tabs on my to-and-froing. After all, Palm Beach is a small town, especially in the offseason.

  It was a sticky situation but, I reflected, there was more than one way to skin a cat. And recalling that old saw brought me back to the search for the missing Peaches. I only hoped the catnappers were also aware of the ancient adage.

  I phoned Harry Willigan’s office, and a male receptionist answered. His employment, I reckoned, was Laverne’s doing; after marrying the boss, she wanted her hubby’s office cleared of further temptations. Smart lady. Harry had the reputation of being a willing victim of satyriasis.

  I identified myself and asked for a personal meeting with Mr. Willigan as soon as possible. The receptionist was gone a few moments and then came back on the line to say that if I could come over immediately, I would be granted an audience to last no longer than a half-hour. I told him I was on my way.

  Willigan’s office was only a block from the McNally Building. Ten minutes later I was seated alongside the tycoon’s littered desk, trying hard to conceal my distaste for a man who apparently thought a silk cowboy shirt with bolo tie and diamond clasp, silver identification bracelet, gold Piaget Polo, and a five-carat pinky ring were evidence of merit and distinction.

  He was built like a mahogany stump and, to carry the arboreal analogy farther, his voice was a rough bark. I imagined he might have been a good-looking youth, but a lifetime of sour mash and prime ribs had taken their toll, and now his face was a crumpled road map of burst capillaries. The nose had the hue and shape of a large plum tomato.

  “What are you doing about Sweetums?” he screamed at me.

  I quietly explained that I had barely started my investigation but had already visited his home to learn the details of the catnapping from his wife. I intended to return to question the
servants and make a more detailed search of the premises.

  “No cops!” he shouted. “Those bastards claim they’ll kill Peaches if I go to the cops.”

  I assured him I would not inform the police, and asked to see the ransom note. He had taken it from the safe prior to my arrival and flung it at me across the desk. I questioned how many people had handled it. The answer: he, Laverne, his receptionist, Leon Medallion and perhaps the other servants at Casa Blanco. That just about eliminated the possibility of retrieving any usable fingerprints from the note.

  It was neatly printed on a sheet of good paper, and appeared to have been written on a word processor, as Willigan had told his wife. What caught my eye was the even right-hand margin. The spacing between words had been adjusted so that all lines were the same width. Rather rare in a ransom note—wouldn’t you say?

  I asked if he had received any further communication from the catnappers, and Willigan said he hadn’t. I then inquired if there was anyone he thought might have snatched the cat. Did he have any enemies?

  He glowered at me. “I got more enemies than you got friends,” he yelled. (A comparison I did not appreciate.) “Sure, I got enemies. You can’t cut the mustard the way I done without making enemies. But they’re all hard guys. They might shoot me in the back, but they wouldn’t steal my Sweetums for a lousy fifty grand. That’s penny-ante stuff to those bums.”

  I couldn’t think of any additional questions to ask, so I thanked Willigan for his time and rose to leave. He walked me to the door, a meaty hand clamped on my shoulder.

  “Listen, Archy,” he said in his normal, raucous voice, “you get Peaches back okay and there’s a nice buck in it for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said stiffly, “but my father pays me a perfectly adequate salary.”

  “Oh sure,” he said, trying to be jovial, “but a young stud like you can always use a little extra change. Am I right?”

  Wretched man. How Laverne could endure his total lack of couth, I could not understand. But I suspected the Bloody Marys with fresh horseradish helped.

  I walked back to the McNally Building, swung aboard the Miata, and headed for home. The old medulla oblongata had enough of the misadventure of Peaches for one day. I gave all those bored neurons a treat by turning my thoughts to Meg Trumble and Laverne Willigan.