McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “That’s what I figured.”

  “WW did you figure?”

  “You cut from the outside of your wrist down to the inside. You did it on both wrists.”

  I looked at my forearms and then tried slashing with the spoon handle from the underside of each wrist up to the top.

  “Of course I did,” I said. “It wouldn’t be impossible to cut in the other direction, but it’s awkward and you wouldn’t be able to apply as much force. It would be like a backhand tennis stroke versus a forehand.”

  “For sure,” Rogoff said, nodding. “I’ve seen slit wrists before, on suicides and would-be suicides. The slash is always made from top to bottom. But the cuts on Gillsworth’s wrists looked like they had been made from the underside of the wrist to the top. That was my impression anyhow, but I admit I could be wrong. But there’s another thing: Gillsworth’s wrists showed no hesitation marks. Those are scratches and shallow cuts a suicide sometimes makes before he finally decides to go for broke. Gillsworth’s wrists had single deep slashes. Hey, I’ve got to get back. Thanks for the coffee, it juiced me up.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” father said, “for being so forthcoming. I assure you that Archy and I will keep what you’ve told us in strictest confidence.”

  “Yeah,” Rogoff said, “I’d appreciate that.”

  They shook hands, and I accompanied Al out to his pickup.

  “Got just a few more minutes?” I asked him.

  He looked at me a sec, then grinned. “Something you didn’t want your father to hear?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Or he’d have me committed.”

  “Sure, I got a few minutes,” Al said. “Gillsworth isn’t leaving town.”

  I climbed into the cab of the pickup with him. He pulled out a cigar and I pulled out a cigarette. We got our weeds burning, and I turned to face him.

  “Remember before you took off from your place last evening I said I had something important to tell you? Well, I went to a séance at the Glorianas’ on Wednesday night.”

  He didn’t seem surprised. “So? Did you talk to your old friend Epicurus?”

  “No, but I talked to Lydia Gillsworth. The medium contacted her through Xatyl, a Mayan shaman. He’s Hertha’s channel to the spirit world.”

  “Uh-huh. Makes sense to me.”

  “It does? Anyway, Al, I heard Lydia talking. I know the words were being spoken by Hertha, but I could have sworn it was Lydia. But Hertha knew her well, and if the medium has a gift for mimicry, which she obviously has, she could have imitated Lydia’s voice.”

  “That does make sense. What did you and Lydia talk about? Did you ask who offed her?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She became hysterical. She screamed, ‘Caprice! Caprice!’ over and over again.”

  That shook him. He turned his head slowly to look at me, and his expression was a puzzlement.

  “You’re sure that’s what she said?”

  “I’m sure. First it was screamed in Lydia’s voice, then Hertha kept shrieking ‘Caprice!’ in her own voice. You know what she meant, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know. Mrs. Gillsworth’s car was a Caprice. She drove it from the séance to her home the night she was murdered.”

  “That’s right. How do you figure it?”

  Al was silent a long time. He turned away to stare fixedly through the windshield.

  “I’ll tell you something, Archy: I suspected Roderick Gillsworth might have killed his wife. He says he talked to her from your place, was told she had just arrived, and immediately drove home to find her dead. He called nine-one-one, and I got there about fifteen minutes later. Tops. After I heard his story, I went out to the garage and felt the engine block on her Caprice. I didn’t think it was as hot as it should have been if she had just driven home from the séance. But that was a subjective judgment. Also, she was killed on a warm night, and no one in South Florida drives around in late June without turning on the air conditioning. The interior of Lydia’s Caprice wasn’t as cool as it should have been if she had just arrived home—another personal judgment. It was nothing I could take to the State Attorney, but I began to wonder about Roderick Gillsworth.”

  “What about the grandfather clock that was toppled and stopped at the time of death?”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing, Archy. Anyone could have set the clock at any time desired and then pushed it over to stop it ticking. An easy alibi to fake.”

  “So far, so good,” I said. “But he did call his wife from my father’s study.”

  “I know he did,” Al said almost mournfully. “There’s no getting around that. And then, last night, Roderick gets iced—if it was homicide, and I think it was. That helps eliminate him as a suspect, wouldn’t you say? It looks like someone, for whatever reason, crazy or not, wanted to wipe out the entire Gillsworth family, wife and husband. But now you tell me the psychic, speaking in the murdered woman’s voice, yelled, ‘Caprice! Caprice!’ So I’ve got to start thinking again if Lydia’s car really does provide a clue to her killer. Maybe I was right in the first place about the lack of engine heat and no air conditioning inside the car. Listen, Archy, I’ve really got to get back to the Gillsworth place. There’s still a lot to do.”

  “Sure,” I said and started to climb from the truck cab. But he reached out a hand to stop me.

  “I’m going to be tied up with this thing for the next few days at least. Will you check on Otto Gloriana and the catnapping?”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. One more thing: that Atlanta detective said Otto is a nasty piece of work.”

  I was indignant. “And what do you think I am—Little Lord Fauntleroy?”

  “Just watch your step,” he warned.

  I went back into the house, locked up, and climbed the stairs to bed. I tried to sleep but my mind was a kaleidoscope of scary images, and it must have been five A.M. before I finally conked out. I awoke a little before noon, and I was under the shower, all soaped up, when, in accordance with tradition, my phone rang.

  I went dashing out uttering a mild oath—something like “Sheesh!”—and grabbed up the phone only to have it drop to the floor from my slippery grasp. I retrieved it after much fumbling and finally cupped it in both hands.

  “H’lo?” I said.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Harry Willigan demanded. “You drunk or something?”

  I started to explain, but he had no time or inclination to listen. He said he was about to leave on a flight to Chicago for a business meeting. He would be gone until Tuesday, and if I had any news about Peaches I was to phone Laverne; she knew where he could be reached. He hung up before I could tell him I was hot on the trail of his beloved.

  I finished my shower, dressed, and phoned Meg Trumble again. Again there was no answer. Very frustrating. I went downstairs for breakfast-lunch and found Jamie Olson seated at the kitchen table. He was munching on a thick sandwich that seemed to be mostly slices of raw Spanish onion between slabs of sour rye. It looked good to me so I built one for myself, heavy on the mayo. I sluiced it down with a bottle of Buckler beer (non-alcoholic, if you must know).

  “Jamie,” I said, “remember my asking if Laverne Willigan had a little something on the side? You said there was talk she was putting horns on dear old Harry.”

  “Yuh.”

  “Hear any more on the grapevine about who he is?”

  “A dude.”

  “A dude? That’s all? Just a dude?”

  “Yuh. Dresses sharp.”

  “But no name?”

  “Nope.”

  “So all you heard is that Laverne’s Consenting Adult or Significant Other is a dude—correct?”

  “Tall.”

  “Ah-ha, a tall dude! Now we’re making progress. Young? Old?”

  “Half-and-half.”

  “About my age, you think?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Better
and better. Now we’ve got a tall, half-and-half dude. Slender or fat?”

  “Thin.”

  “Dark or fair?”

  “Darkish.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Mebbe, I guess she thinks so.”

  “Excellent,” I said. I now had a tall, half-and-half, thin, darkish, handsome dude. There were many men in the Palm Beach area answering that description, including you-know-who.

  I slipped Jamie a tenner for his enthusiastic cooperation. Then I went into my father’s study and looked up the number of the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. I phoned and was greeted by a woman’s voice.

  “Jo-Jean,” she said, and I wondered which one she was.

  “May I speak to Mr. Charles Girard?” I asked. “South row, Cabin Four.”

  “I know where he is,” she said crossly.

  There was a clicking, the connection went through, and the ringing started. Nine times, I counted, before the phone was picked up.

  “Yeh?” A man’s voice, deep and thick.

  “Mr. Charles Girard?”

  “Yeh. Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Girard, this is the veterinarian who recently provided medical care for your cat. It is my custom to make follow-up calls regarding the animals I have treated to make certain they have recovered satisfactorily. No charge, of course. Let’s see, your cat’s name is, ah, Gertrude?”

  “Peaches,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “It slipped my mind. And how is Peaches feeling, Mr. Girard?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, remember we’re here to serve and ready to provide emergency medical care for your pet should it ever be needed. Thank you, Mr. Girard, and have a nice day.”

  “Yeh,” he said and hung up.

  I was enormously pleased with the results of my discreet inquiries that morning. I reckoned that if my good luck continued, before nightfall I might find Judge Crater and identify Jack the Ripper.

  I boarded the Miata and started my journey to Federal Highway. I drove slowly, for I meant to beard Otto Gloriana in his den at the Jo-Jean Motel and needed to cobble up a believable scenario to justify my appearing on his doorstep. But I could think of no scam that wasn’t sheer lunacy. I decided to trust my modest talent for improvisation.

  I parked in the same area I had used before and walked back to the Jo-Jean office through the midday heat. The same woman I had spoken to previously was perched on the same high stool behind the same counter, bending over a newspaper. But at least the tabloid was different. The headline was “Chef Slays Six With Spatula.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but is Mr. Girard in?”

  “You just missed him,” she said, not looking up. “Him and the missus drove out a coupla minutes ago.”

  “Drat!” I said. “He told me he was staying here. I haven’t seen him in ages, and I came all the way from Fort Lauderdale hoping to surprise him. Is he still driving his Lincoln Continental?”

  “Chrysler Imperial.”

  “Ah, he must have traded in the Lincoln. And is his wife still the same tall, striking blonde?”

  “Brunette. Chunky. Built like a bulldog.”

  “Oh my!” I said, laughing merrily. “Then I guess old Charlie traded in his first wife too. Did he say when he’d be back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Perhaps I’ll just drive around awhile, see the sights, and return later. Thank you for your help.”

  I thought I had been devilishly clever, but suddenly, without looking up, she said, “You got a lot of information for free, didn’t you?”

  I sighed, took a twenty from my billfold, and placed it on the countertop. She plucked it away so swiftly that I swear the visage of Old Hickory seemed shocked.

  I went out into the hot sunlight and wandered down to Cabin Four, south row. It was larger than I had imagined, but it was surely a decrepit structure, badly in need of painting—or a hand grenade. A rusty air conditioner wheezed away in one window, and there was a dented deck chair on the sagging porch, the plastic webbing broken and hanging.

  I stepped up to the door and knocked softly. No one opened it, but I heard a single plaintive meow. I put my lips close to the jamb and whispered, “Do not despair, Peaches. The cavalry is on the way.”

  Then I returned home, realizing that events were moving so rapidly that I needed to update my journal to make sure nothing was forgotten or ignored, no matter how trivial. But first I phoned Meg Trumble again, and this time she answered.

  “Meg!” I said. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. I was beginning to get concerned.”

  “Oh, Archy,” she said, her voice positively bubbling, “I’ve been so busy. That list of names you gave me was a godsend. I’ve already visited four of them, and two are really interested in having a personal trainer. Isn’t that wonderful!”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “How about dinner tonight?”

  “Love to,” she said promptly. “As a matter of fact, I called Laverne just minutes ago to ask if she’d like to eat with me tonight, but she has a meeting of the Current Affairs Society. Now I’m glad she couldn’t make it; I’d much rather we have dinner together.”

  “Ditto,” I said. “Pick you up around seven?”

  “Super,” she said. “Can we go back to that Cafe Istanbul again? I loved it. ’Bye!”

  I sat there a moment, adding two and two and coming up with five. To wit: Harry Willigan was out of town. His wife had a lover lurking in the wings. And Laverne couldn’t join Meg for dinner because she had a meeting of the Current Affairs Society. Hah!

  That Society is a Palm Beach association of men and women, mostly elderly, who meet once a month to hear a lecture on current affairs by a congressman, political science professor, repentant Communist, or the deposed dictator of a banana republic. The lecture would be followed by a Q&A period, and the meeting concluded with the serving of coffee and oatmeal cookies. My mother was a faithful member and had once served as sergeant at arms.

  I went galloping downstairs and found the mater in the greenhouse, chatting to her begonias.

  “I know it’s hot,” she was saying, “but it’s summer, and you must keep your spirits up.”

  “Hallo, luv,” I said, swooping to kiss her velvety cheek. “And how is mommy baby feeling today?”

  “Oh my,” she said, “you are in a chipper mood. Are you in love again, Archy?”

  “Quite possibly,” I acknowledged. “I do feel strange stirrings about the heart, but of course it could be the onion sandwich I had for lunch. Listen, Mrs. McNally, do you have a meeting of the Current Affairs Society tonight?”

  She paused, sprinkling can in hand, to look at me, puzzled. “Why, no,” she said. “The next meeting isn’t until July fifteenth. Why do you ask?”

  “Just confused,” I said. “As usual. See you for cocktails, but I have a dinner date tonight.”

  “Good for you,” she said, beaming. “Someone nice, I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” I said.

  I went back upstairs convinced that the only current affair Laverne Willigan would attend to that night was her own. There seems to be a lot of adultery going around these days. I suspect it may be contagious.

  I worked on my journal for the remainder of the afternoon, jotting down all the information I had learned about Roderick Gillsworth’s death. I added the family history of the Glorianas as related by Al Rogoff, and what I had discovered that day of Otto’s probable involvement in the catnapping of Peaches, aka Sweetums. I finished with an account of Laverne Willigan’s apparent infidelity and her clumsy attempt to conceal it with a feeble falsehood.

  Satisfied with my day’s labors and the way in which the Gillsworth-Peaches case was slowly revealing its secrets, I closed up shop and went for my daily swim. I returned to shower and dress with particular care. I intended to dazzle Meg Trumble with sartorial splendor, which was why I selected a knitted shirt of plum-colored Sea Island
cotton and a linen sport jacket of British racing green. Slacks of fawn silk. Cordovan loafers. No socks.

  I displayed this costume at the family cocktail hour.

  “Good God!” my father gasped.

  I prayed Meg would be more favorably impressed by my imitation of a male bower bird. I was convinced I had been working dreadfully hard and needed a quiet evening to unwind, with no violent deaths, no catnappings, no shocking messages from the beyond. I imagined Meg and I would spend prime time together smiling and murmuring.

  And later, surfeited with moussaka and overcome by gemütlichkeit, she would grant me a session of catch-as-catch-can intimacy. Just the two of us. Alone in the world.

  I rang her bell, quivering with eagerness like a gun dog on point. Meg greeted me with a winning smile. And behind her, seated in the living room, was Hertha Gloriana, who gave me a smile just as winning.

  “Hertha is going to join us,” Meg said happily. “Isn’t that marvelous?”

  Chapter 13

  I HAD DINED WITH two women before, of course—most lads have—and I usually found it a pleasurable experience. To be honest, it gives one a pasha-like feeling: entertaining two from the harem, or perhaps interviewing wannabes. Male self-esteem, always in need of a lift, is given an injection of helium by the presence and flattering attention of not one but two (count ’em!) attractive ladies.

  Having said all that, I must tell you from the outset that the evening was a disaster. Never have I felt so extraneous, so foreign. I began to wonder if men and women are not merely two different genders but are actually two different species.

  It started when we arrived at the Cafe Istanbul. I selected a booth, Meg and Hertha preferred another, although as far as I could see the booths were identical. I expected to sit alongside Meg, with Hertha, the third wheel, placed across the table from us. But the women insisted on dining side by side, so I sat alone, facing them.

  Nothing so far to elevate a chap’s dander, you say—and right you are. But it was only the beginning.