McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  “And was it?”

  “Yeah,” Al said, staring at me. “A pair of latex gloves. Marita kept them under the sink to use when she scoured pots.”

  “Latex gloves,” I repeated. “Lovely. The final prints on the walking stick that killed Lydia were made with latex gloves, weren’t they?”

  “That’s right.”

  I took a deep breath. “How do you compute it, Al?”

  “I don’t,” he said, almost angrily. “It makes absolutely no sense that a stranger breaks into the house and goes looking for latex gloves before he kills. I’ve got that mystery on hold. But meanwhile, what do you think of my scenario on Gillsworth’s murder and the faked suicide?”

  “Plausible,” I said. “There’s only one thing wrong with it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve provided a believable exegesis on how it happened, but you haven’t said a word about why.”

  “Why?” he said disgustedly. “Why does a chicken cross the road?”

  “For the same reason a fireman wears red suspenders,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Al. A bloody bathtub is not the most fitting dessert for a herring breakfast.”

  But he said he wanted to stay, and mumbled something about taking additional measurements. I didn’t believe that. Al Rogoff, despite his cop’s practicality, is something of a romantic. I reckoned that he wanted to wander through that doomed house for a while, reflect on the two sanguinary murders that had happened within its walls, try to absorb the aura of the place, listen for ghosts, and perhaps conceive a reason for the seemingly senseless killings.

  All I wanted was blue sky, hot sunshine, and uncontaminated air to breathe. Evil has a scent all its own, not only sickening but frightening.

  I drove directly to the Pelican Club. I was a bit early for my date with Connie Garcia, but having spent the morning impersonating a corpse, I was badly in need of a transfusion. I was certain a frozen daiquiri would bring roses back to the McNally cheeks.

  The luncheon crowd had not yet assembled, but Simon Pettibone was on duty behind the bar, reading Barron’s through his Ben Franklin glasses. He put the financial pages aside long enough to mix my drink, an ambrosial concoction with just a wee bit of Cointreau added.

  Mr. Pettibone went back to his stock indices, and I nursed my plasma, savoring the quiet, cool, dim ambience of my favorite watering hole. A few members wandered in, but it was a pleasant Saturday afternoon and most Pelicanites were in pools or the ocean, on fairways and courts, or perhaps astride a polo pony out at Wellington. Life is undoubtedly unfair and one would be a fool not to enjoy one’s good fortune.

  Connie showed up a few minutes after noon. She was wearing stone-washed denim overalls atop a tie-dyed T-shirt. Her long black hair was gathered with a yellow ribbon, and there were leather strap sandals on her bare feet. She looked—oh, maybe sixteen years old, and I told her she might have to show her ID to get a drink.

  We went back to the empty dining area, and a yawning Priscilla showed us to our favorite corner table. Connie ordered a white zin and I had a repeat of my daiquiri.

  “Sorry about tonight, Archy,” she said, “but there was just no way I could turn Lola and Max away; they are family.”

  “No problem,” I said. “After they’ve gone, we’ll make up for lost time.”

  She reached across the table to clasp my hand. “Promise?” she said.

  “I swear by Zeus,” I said. “And a McNally does not take an oath to Zeus lightly.”

  “Who’s Zeus?” she asked.

  “A Greek who owns a luncheonette up near Jupiter,” I said.

  I was spared further explanation when Pris brought our drinks and rattled off the specials of the day. Connie and I both opted for the mixed seafood salad (scallops, shrimp, Florida lobster) with a loaf of garlic toast.

  “I’ve got news for you,” Connie said after we ordered, “and you’re not going to like it.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “No, dammit,” she said. “I’d love to have kids, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Being of the male gender.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, laughing. “Anyway, the bad news is this: I was turned down by that medium.”

  “What!?”

  She nodded. “I got a letter from Hertha Gloriana, a very cold letter. She said it was obvious to her that the person I described doesn’t actually exist, and therefore she could not provide a psychic profile and was returning my check. She also told me not to apply again unless I told her the truth.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Archy, how did she know my letter was a phony? There was nothing in it that might tip her off it was a scam.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t figure how she knew. But what’s even more puzzling is that she returned your money. If the Glorianas have a swindle going, as I thought, Hertha would have cobbled up a fictitious profile and cashed your check.”

  “Perhaps she really is clairvoyant and knew at once that my letter was a trick.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Our lunch was served, and we talked of other things as we devoured our salads. Connie gave me a long account of her trials and tribulations in planning Lady Horowitz’s Fourth of July bash, but I hardly listened; I couldn’t stop brooding about Hertha’s reaction to the fake letter. How did she know?

  Connie didn’t want any dessert and said she had to get back to her houseguests. I told her I was going to loll around the Club awhile and would phone her on Sunday. I escorted her out to her little Subaru.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Archy,” she said, “and I’m sorry I depressed you with the bad news about the medium’s letter.”

  “You didn’t depress me.”

  “Sure I did. You’ve hardly said a word since I told you, and when Archy McNally doesn’t chatter, he’s depressed.”

  “I think I’m more mystified than anything else. Connie, you don’t happen to have that letter you received from the Glorianas, do you?”

  “Yep,” she said, fishing in the hip pocket of her overalls. “I’m glad you reminded me; I thought you might want it for your files. Don’t forget to call me tomorrow, sweet.”

  She handed me a folded envelope, kissed my cheek, and hopped into her dinky car. I waved as she drove away. Then I unfolded the envelope, took out the letter, and read it in the bright sunlight. It was coldly phrased and stated pretty much what Connie had already told me. There were no surprises.

  But what shocked was that it had an even right-hand margin and had obviously been written on the same word processor as the Gillsworth letters and Peaches’ ransom notes.

  I went back into the Pelican Club and used the public phone in the rear of the bar area. I called Al Rogoff but he wasn’t in his office, and they refused to tell me where he was. On a hunch, I then phoned Roderick Gillsworth’s home and got results.

  “Sergeant Rogoff,” he said.

  “McNally,” I said. “You’re still there? What on earth are you doing?”

  “Reading poetry.”

  “Gillsworth’s? Awful dreck, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Al said. “Erotic stuff.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Gillsworth’s poetry is about as erotic as the Corn Laws of England. Which book of his are you reading?”

  “I’m not reading a book. I’m going through unpublished poems I found in a locked drawer in his desk. I picked the lock. A piece of cheese. Inside was a file of finished poems. They’re dated and all appear to have been written in the past six months or so. And I’m telling you they’re hot stuff.”

  I was flabbergasted. “I don’t dig that at all,” I told Al. “I’ve dipped into some of his published things, and believe me they’re dull, dull, dull.”

  “Well, the stuff I’ve been reading is steamy enough to add a new chapter to Psychopathia Sexualis. Maybe he decided to change his style.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “We can talk a
bout that later. Right now I’ve got something more important.”

  I told him how the Glorianas were selling psychic profiles by mail, how I tried to prove it a scam by having Consuela Garcia send in a trumped-up letter from a nonexistent woman, how Hertha rejected the fake application, and how her missive was identical in format to the Gillsworth-Willigan letters.

  “That does it,” Rogoff said decisively. “I’ll send the rookie to the Glorianas’ office to see if he can confirm that they own a Smith Corona word processor. And instead of one undercover cop, I’ll plant a couple, man and woman, out at the Jo-Jean Motel and put round-the-clock surveillance on Cabin Four. And if the brass will give me the warm bodies, I’ll stake out the Glorianas’ apartment.”

  “That should do it,” I said. “Al, Frank Gloriana carries a gun. Lydia Gillsworth told me.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Tell me, Archy, how do you figure the medium knew the letter you sent her was a phony?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”

  I went back to the bar to sign the tab for lunch.

  “Mr. Pettibone,” I said abruptly, “do you believe in ghosts?”

  He stared at me a moment through his square specs. “Why, yes, Mr. McNally,” he said finally. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Surely not the Halloween variety,” I said. “The kind who wear white sheets and go ‘Whooo! Whooo!’”

  “Well, perhaps not those,” he admitted. “But I do believe some of the departed return as spirits and are able to communicate with the living.”

  I had always considered the Pelican Club’s majordomo to be the most practical and realistic of men, so it was startling to learn he accepted the existence of disembodied beings. “Have you ever spoken to the spirit of a deceased person?” I asked him.

  “I have indeed, Mr. McNally,” he said readily. “As you know, I am an active investor in the stock market. On several occasions the spirit of Mr. Bernard Baruch, the successful financier, has appeared to me. We meet on a park bench and he gives me advice on which stocks to buy and what to sell.”

  “And do you follow the ghost’s advice?”

  “Frequently.”

  “Do you win or lose?”

  “Invariably I profit. But Mr. Baruch’s spirit has a tendency to sell too soon.”

  “Thank you for the information, Mr. Pettibone,” I said gravely and left him a handsome tip.

  I drove home, garaged the Miata, and entered the house through the kitchen. Ursi and Jamie Olson were both working on a rack of lamb dinner we were to have that evening. They looked up as I came in.

  “Ursi,” I said without preamble, “do you believe in ghosts?”

  “I do, Mister Archy,” she said at once. “I frequently speak to my dear departed mother. She’s very happy.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said and turned to Jamie. “And how about you?” I asked. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Some,” he said.

  That evening during the family cocktail hour I asked my mother the same question.

  “Oh my, yes,” she said airily. “I have never seen them myself, but I have been told by people whose opinion I respect that spirits do exist. Mercedes Blair’s husband died last year, you know, and she says that ever since he passed, their house has been haunted by his ghost. She knows because she always finds the toilet seat up. No matter how many times she puts the cover down, she always finds the seat up when she returns. She says it must be her dead husband’s spirit.”

  I looked to my father. His hirsute eyebrows were jiggling up and down, a sure sign that he was stifling his mirth. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle and measured.

  “Mother,” he said, “I would not accept the testimony of Mrs. Blair as proof positive of the existence of disembodied spirits. It’s similar to saying, ‘I saw a ghost last night. It ran down the alley and jumped over a fence. And if you don’t believe me, there’s the fence.’”

  I asked: “Then you don’t believe the spirits of the departed return to earth and communicate with the living?”

  He answered carefully. “I think when people report seeing a ghost or talking to a spirit, they sincerely believe they are telling the truth. But I suggest what they are actually reporting is a dream, a fantasy, and the spirit they allegedly see is a memory, a very intense memory, of a loved one who is deceased.”

  “But what if the spirit they claim to see is a historical character, someone they couldn’t possibly have known?”

  “Then they are talking rubbish,” my father said forthrightly. “Utter and complete rubbish.”

  I retired to my lair after dinner to add entries to my journal, which was beginning to rival the girth of War and Peace, and to sort out the day’s confused impressions.

  I consider myself a fairly lucid chap. Oh, I admit I might exhibit a few moments of pure lunacy now and then, but generally the McNally hooves are solidly planted on terra firma. But now I was faced with a mystery that baffled me. How did Hertha Gloriana know Connie’s letter was a hoax? And how was the medium, speaking in the voice of Lydia Gillsworth, able to shriek “Caprice!” and identify a clue that had already intrigued Sgt. Al Rogoff?

  It was possible that Hertha had a genuine psychic gift. But if you admitted the existence of such a specialized talent, then you had to allow that the actuality of spirits was also conceivable, communication with the dead tenable, and all the other phenomena of the psi factor similarly capable of realization, including ESP, psychokinesis, telepathy, precognition, and perhaps, eventually, discussing the International Monetary Fund with dolphins.

  That afternoon I had discovered that several perfectly normal citizens believed in ghosts and by extension, I supposed, in other manifestations of the supernatural. Could they be right and my father’s cogent disbelief wrong?

  I went to bed that night and with my eyes firmly shut I willed with all my strength for the appearance of Carole Lombard’s ghost.

  She never showed up.

  Chapter 14

  LIKE MOST PEOPLE I consider Monday the first day of the week. It is actually the second, of course, but Sunday is usually observed as a day of rest, a faux holiday, a twenty-four-hour vacation to be devoted to worship, a big midday meal, and just lollygagging about and recharging one’s batteries.

  But that particular Sunday turned out to be something entirely different. It deepened my confusion and increased my suspicion that events were moving so swiftly it was impossible to cope. Men who have been in battle have described it to me as disorder in the nth degree. Before that Sunday concluded, I felt I deserved a combat ribbon.

  It began when I overslept and went downstairs to find that my parents had already departed for church. And the Olsons had left for their church. So I fixed my own matutinal meal, succeeding in dropping a buttered English muffin onto the floor. Butter-side down, inevitably—another puzzle I’ve never solved. I also knocked over a full cup of coffee. That brunch did not augur a successful Sabbath.

  The phone rang as I was mopping up the spilt coffee and I really didn’t want to answer, thinking it was sure to be calamitous news. But I girded my loins (how on earth does one gird a loin?) and picked up after the sixth ring.

  “The McNally residence,” I said.

  “Archy?” Meg Trumble said. “Good morning!”

  You could have knocked me over with a palm frond. “Good morning, Meg,” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “If you must know, I’m wiping up spilled coffee.”

  She laughed. “That doesn’t sound like much fun. Archy, Hertha Gloriana is with me, and she’d like to speak to you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Put her on.”

  “No, no. Not on the telephone. Can you come over to my place?”

  “Now?”

  “Please. We’re going to do some aerobics, and then we plan to go to the beach. Could you make it soon, Archy? It’s important.”

  “All right,” I sai
d. “Half an hour or so.”

  The day was muddling up nicely, and as I spun the Miata toward Riviera Beach I didn’t even want to imagine what lay ahead. I knew only that it would add to my flummoxization—and if there isn’t such a word, there should be.

  I walked into quite a scene for an early Sunday afternoon. The two women were wearing exercise costumes of skin-tight gleaming spandex; Meg in a cat-suit of silver and Hertha in a purple leotard and pink biking shorts. Apparently they had finished their workout, for both were sheened with sweat and still panting slightly. And they were sipping glasses of orange sludge.

  “Carrot juice, Archy?” Meg asked.

  I fought nausea valiantly. “Thank you, no,” I replied. “I have no desire to see in the dark.”

  “A cold beer?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Hertha patted the couch cushion beside her, and I sat there, a bit gingerly I admit. I had an uneasy feeling of having intruded into a ladies’ locker room. I had been invited but couldn’t rid myself of feeling an interloper.

  Meg brought me a popped can of Bud Light, which I accepted gratefully.

  “Hertha,” she said commandingly, “tell him.”

  The medium turned to me. She seemed uncommonly attractive at that moment, her fair skin flushed from exercise and something in her eyes I had never seen before. It was more than happiness, I thought; it was triumph.

  “It’s about Peaches,” she said to me. “I had another vision. Remember I told you I saw her in a plain room? It’s in a small building, like a cabin. I think it may be at an old-fashioned motel.”

  I took a gulp of my beer. “That’s interesting,” I said. “Did you see where the motel is located?”

  “I’m sure it’s in the West Palm Beach area.”

  “Tell him what else you saw, Hertha,” Meg ordered.

  The medium hesitated a second. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be revealing this,” she said, “but it troubles me and you did ask for my help. I hope you will keep it confidential.”