The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Oh yes, Archy,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “It is as I told you it would be. Have you read the books I loaned you?”

  “Some. Not all.”

  “You must read all of them, dear. The truth is there, Archy.”

  “Lydia,” I said, eager to ask the question, “you must tell me another truth: Who killed you?”

  There was no answer. Just silence. I tried again.

  “Please tell me,” I implored. “I can never rest until I know. Who murdered you, Lydia?”

  What happened next shocked and galvanized us.

  “Caprice!” Lydia Gillsworth’s voice shrieked. “Caprice!”

  Handclasps were loosened, four of us rose, stared at Hertha. She was still seated, head thrown back, bare throat straining. And she continued to scream, “Caprice! Caprice! Caprice!” But now it was her voice, not Lydia’s.

  Meg Trumble got to her first, held her arms, spoke soothing words. We all clustered around, and gradually those piercing screams diminished. Hertha opened her eyes, looked about wildly. She was ashen, shivering uncontrollably.

  Frank left hastily and came back in a moment with a shot glass of what appeared to be brandy. Meg took it from him and held it gently to the medium’s lips. Hertha took a small sip, coughed, stared at us and her surroundings as if finally realizing where she was. She took the glass from Meg’s fingers and gulped greedily.

  We stayed in the dining room until Hertha’s color had returned and she was able to stand, somewhat shakily. She gave us a small, apologetic smile, and then we all moved back to the living room.

  Frank had the decency to bring us ponies of brandy, and since Meg wouldn’t touch hers, I had a double—and needed it. I sat in one corner with Irma and Frank. Across the room, on the couch, Meg Trumble comforted the medium, her muscled arm around the other woman’s shoulders. She spoke to her and stroked her hair.

  “What on earth happened?” I asked Irma.

  She shrugged. “Hertha heard or saw something that terrified her. And she became hysterical. It’s happened a few times before. I told you she is a very sensitive and vulnerable spirit.”

  “Caprice,” Frank said, looking at me. “That’s what she was screaming. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. McNally?”

  I shook my head. “A caprice is a whim, an unplanned action. Perhaps Lydia Gillsworth was trying to tell us that the killer acted on a sudden impulse, and her murder was totally unpremeditated.”

  “Yes,” Irma said, “I’m sure that was it.”

  “I’m sorry now that I asked the question,” I said. “I didn’t mean to frighten Hertha. But I did inform you that I intended to ask.”

  “No one blames you,” Irma said. “There are many things in this world and the next that are beyond our understanding.”

  Hamlet said it better, but I didn’t remind her of that. “You’re so right, Mrs. Gloriana,” I said.

  She nodded. “Did you bring your credit card, Mr. McNally?”

  I handed it over; she and Frank left the room to prepare my bill. I remained seated, finishing Meg’s brandy and watching the two women on the couch. Hertha seemed fully recovered now. She and Meg were close together, holding hands and giggling like schoolgirls. I found it a bit off-putting.

  Irma returned with my bill. I signed it, reclaimed my plastic, and took my receipt.

  “I’m sorry the séance ended the way it did,” she said. “But I would not call it a total failure, would you?”

  “Far from it,” I said. “Meg was able to speak to her father and I made contact with Mrs. Gillsworth. I’m perfectly satisfied.”

  “Good,” she said. “Then perhaps you’d like to arrange another private session.”

  “Of course I would. Let me check my schedule and speak to Meg about a date that will be suitable for her. You’ll be here all summer?”

  “Oh yes. We have many activities to keep us busy.”

  “Then you’ll be hearing from me.”

  “When?” she asked.

  A demon saleswoman, this one.

  “Soon,” I said, stood up, and motioned to Meg.

  I shook hands with all the Glorianas before we left. Meg did the same, but then Hertha embraced her, kissed her on the lips, clung to her a moment. In gratitude for Meg’s sympathetic ministrations. No doubt.

  On the drive back to Riviera Beach Meg was so voluble that I could scarcely believe this was the same woman who had been so reticent on our first ride together.

  “What a wonderful medium she is, Archy,” she burbled. “So gifted. She knew so many things about me. And it was so great to talk to dad. Wasn’t it incredible to hear all those voices coming from her? And guess what: I told her I hope to become a personal trainer, and she insisted on being my first client. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s going to do my horoscope—for free! It must be scary having the talent to see into the beyond. She said she usually refuses to predict the future, but after she does my horoscope she’ll tell me what she sees ahead for me. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  I didn’t want to rain on her parade, so I neither voiced my doubts nor cautioned her against relying on the predictions of a seer. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to tell her my own reactions to what we had just experienced. Being essentially without faith myself, I think it rather infra dig to mock the faith of others.

  We arrived outside Meg’s apartment, and now her initial ebullience had faded and she was speaking calmly and seriously of spirituality and how she had neglected that side of her nature and really should start seeking answers to what she termed the “big questions.” I presumed they included Life, Death, and why only one sock got lost in the laundry.

  Somehow it didn’t seem the right moment to remind her of her carnal promise of the previous evening. So, rather than risk rejection, I said:

  “Meg, would you mind awfully if I didn’t come in? I feel totally shattered by what happened tonight—hearing Lydia Gillsworth’s voice and all that. I think I better go home and try to figure things out.”

  She promptly agreed—so promptly that she severely bruised the ego of A. McNally, who may or may not be suffering from a Don Juan complex.

  “I think that would be best, dear,” she said in the kindliest way imaginable, patting my hand. “I’m as emotionally wired as you. We’ll make it another time, Archy.”

  So I drove home alone, howling curses at a full moon and wondering why Hertha Gloriana had granted Meg a farewell kiss and not the laughing cavalier who had picked up the tab. Did the medium bestow her osculations freely without regard for sex, age, race, color, or national origin? Was she, in fact, an Equal Opportunity kisser?

  I went directly to my rooms when I arrived home. I stripped off the dull costume I was wearing and donned my favorite kimono, a jaunty silk number printed with an overall pattern of leaping gazelles. Then I put on reading glasses, sat at my desk, and went to work.

  I was determined to play the devil’s advocate, to view the evening’s events as a cynic who completely disbelieved in alleged manifestations of the occult and had a perfectly rational explanation for what others might consider evidence of the supernatural.

  I scribbled furiously, and this is what I came up with:

  Hertha’s knowledge of Meg Trumble:

  Meg’s sister, Laverne, was a client of the Glorianas and quite likely had her horoscope prepared by the medium. Hertha could easily be aware of Meg’s birthdate, the death of her parents, Meg’s interest in physical exercise.

  The voices:

  Of course no one was familiar with the voice of Xatyl, the Mayan shaman, and it would be relatively simple for an actress with a gift of mimicry to imitate the speech of an old man. The voice of John Trumble might offer a problem, but the man had been dead for eight years, and it was doubtful if Meg remembered the exact sound of his voice. More importantly, she wanted to believe and was eager to accept any masculine voice as that of her departed father.

  Lydi
a Gillsworth’s voice would be easy for Hertha to reproduce since Lydia had been present at several séances and was well known to the medium.

  Hertha’s knowledge of Archy McNally:

  I have already speculated on how my date of birth might have been learned by the Glorianas. And I had mentioned to Irma at our first meeting that I had been reading books on spiritualism. I hadn’t revealed that they had been loaned to me by Mrs. Gillsworth, but Lydia had attended her final séance after lending me the books and could have casually mentioned that she was assisting me.

  I read over what I had written. I didn’t claim that all my explanations and suppositions were one hundred percent accurate. But they could be. And they certainly had as much or more claim to the truth than ascribing all the revelations made by the medium to paranormal powers. If you had to bet, where would you put your money?

  But acting the disbeliever and applying cold logic to the occurrences at the séance failed in one vital and bewildering instance. That was the medium’s screams “Caprice! Caprice!” in answer to my query as to the identity of the murderer of Lydia Gillsworth. Those shocking screams had been uttered in the voices of both Lydia and Hertha.

  I had told Irma and Frank Gloriana that the outburst probably meant that the killer had acted on a whim, a sudden impulse, and the murder was unpremeditated. That was pure malarkey, of course. I thought I knew what that shrieked “Caprice! Caprice!” really signified.

  It was the car in which Lydia Gillsworth had driven home to her death.

  Chapter 11

  I SET OUT DETECTING on Thursday morning sans beret—which was certainly more socially acceptable than setting out sans culotte. It was my intention to visit the remaining three animal hospitals on my list, and I feared outré headgear might tarnish the image I wished to project: a worried swain seeking his lost love and her ailing cat.

  But first I had a small chore to perform and phoned Roderick Gillsworth.

  “Good morning, Rod,” I said. “Archy McNally. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Archy,” he said. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to be home.”

  “Rough time?” I inquired.

  “Rough enough,” he said. “I meant to call you Tuesday night after the funeral, but I had a duel with a bottle of California brandy. The bottle won.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “There was nothing new to report anyway. Rod, I’d like to return your house keys. Will you be home this morning?”

  Short pause. Then: “Only for another half-hour. I have some errands to run—supermarket shopping and all that. Including a liquor store so I can return your vodka.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Could I pop over now? It’ll just take a minute; I won’t linger.”

  “Sure,” he said, “come ahead.”

  When I arrived at the Gillsworth home, his gray Bentley was parked on the bricked driveway. I admired that vehicle. Subdued elegance. A bit staid for my taste but undeniably handsome.

  I rang the bell, Rod opened the door, and I blinked. He usually wore solid blues, whites, and blacks, nothing flashy. But that morning he was clad in lime-green slacks with yellow patent leather loafers, complete with fringed tongues. And over a pink polo shirt was a Lilly Pulitzer sport jacket.

  I don’t know if you’re familiar with that garment, but about twenty years ago it was de rigueur for the young bloods of Palm Beach. Ms. Pulitzer doted on flower prints, and a jacket of her fabric made every dude a walking hothouse. Rod’s was a bouquet of daisies, mini carnations, and Dolores roses.

  He saw my surprise and gave me an embarrassed smile. “A transformation,” he said. “What?”

  “Quite,” I said.

  “Lydia found the jacket in a thrift shop,” he said. “A perfect fit, but I never had the courage to wear it. I’m wearing it now for her. You understand?”

  I nodded, thinking that chintzy jacket had to be the world’s strangest memorial.

  “Come on in, Archy,” he said. “Too early in the morning to offer you an eye-opener, I suppose.”

  “By about two hours,” I said. “But thanks for the thought.”

  I moved inside and we stood talking in the hallway.

  “Here are the keys, Rod,” I said, handing them over. “Everything all right in the house when you returned?”

  “Shipshape. Thank you for your trouble. And you’ve learned nothing new about the investigation from Sergeant Rogoff?”

  “Not a word. The poison-pen letters Lydia received have been sent to the FBI lab for analysis. Rogoff should be getting a report soon.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell you what the report says?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I wish you’d tell me,” he said, and added testily, “That man simply refuses to let me know what’s going on.”

  I had no desire to listen again to his complaints against Al, so I changed the subject. “By the way, Rod,” I remarked, “I had an unusual experience last night. I attended a séance at the Glorianas’.”

  His face twisted into a tight smile. “Did you now? Good lord, I haven’t been to one of those things in ages. I didn’t know you were interested in spiritualism.”

  “Curiosity mostly,” I said. “And the Glorianas are fascinating people.”

  He considered a moment. “Yes,” he said finally, “I suppose you could call them fascinating. Lydia always said that the medium had a genuine psychic gift. Did Hertha tell you anything?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already know,” I said. Then a question occurred to me. “Incidentally, Rod, do you happen to know if Irma, the mother-in-law, is widowed, divorced—or what? I was wondering and of course I didn’t want to ask her directly. It would have sounded too much like prying.”

  Again he paused a moment before answering. Then: “I believe Lydia mentioned that Irma is a widow. Yes, now I recall; her husband was an army officer, killed in the Korean War.”

  “A strong woman,” I opined. “Domineering.”

  “Do you really think so?” he said. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Dominant perhaps, but not domineering.”

  “You poets,” I said, smiling. “You make a nice distinction between adjectives.”

  “I hate adjectives,” he said. “And adverbs. They’re so weak and floppy. Don’t you agree?”

  “Indubitably,” I said, and we both laughed.

  Your hero drove away wondering and happy. Wondering why the bird had suddenly transmogrified from crow to peacock, and happy that I had picked up another item to add to my journal: Mrs. Irma Gloriana was a widow.

  I tooled over to West Palm Beach and started my search. It would add immeasurably to the dramatic impact of this narrative if I could detail fruitless visits to two emergency animal clinics and then conclude triumphantly by telling you I struck paydirt at the last on my list. But I have resolved to make this account as honest as is humanly possible, so I must confess that I succeeded at the first hospital I canvassed.

  I performed my song and dance for the receptionist, a comely young miss. She seemed sympathetic and spoke into an intercom. In a moment a veterinarian exited from an inner office and accosted me. He was wearing a long white doctors’ jacket with five—count ’em, five!—ballpoint pens clipped to a plastic shield in his breast pocket. He was a short, twitchy character who appeared to be of nerdish extraction.

  I repeated my fictional plea, and he blinked furiously at me from behind smudged spectacles. I returned his flickering stare with a look I tried to make as honest and sincere as possible.

  Apparently it worked, for he said in a reedy voice, “I have recently treated a female cat such as you describe, but a man brought her in, not a lady.”

  “A man?” I said thoughtfully. “That was undoubtedly her uncle. He frequently travels with her to prevent her being propositioned by uncouth strangers. She is an extremely attractive young woman. Could you describe the man, please, doctor?”

  “Tall,” he said. “Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed
in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so, I’d guess.”

  “Her uncle to a T,” I cried. “I’m enormously relieved. And was Peaches seriously ill?”

  “I cannot divulge that information,” he said sternly. “Medical ethics.”

  “Of course,” I said hastily. “Completely understandable. Would you be willing to give me their address, sir? I’m eager to offer them what assistance lean.”

  He went back into his office and returned a few minutes later to hand me a scribbled Post-It note.

  “The man’s name is Charles Girard,” he said. “On Federal Highway. A strange address for someone as prosperous as he seemed to be.”

  “A temporary residence, I’m sure,” I said. “I believe Mr. Girard and his niece are on their way to the Lesser Antilles. Thank you so much for your cooperation, doctor.”

  I had noticed a glass jar on the receptionist’s desk. It bore a label requesting contributions for the feeding and rehabilitation of stray felines. The jar was half-filled with coins. I extracted a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and stuffed it into the jar.

  “For the hungry kitties,” I said piously.

  The vet blinked even more rapidly. “You are very generous,” he commented.

  “My pleasure,” I said, and meant it.

  I boogied out to the Miata. I was very, very pleased with the triumph of my charade. Surely you recall Danton’s prescription for victory: “Audacity, more audacity, always audacity.” How true, how true!

  The veterinarian had been correct about the address given him by Charles Girard: it was a strange neighborhood. The buildings on that stretch of Federal Highway appeared to have been erected fifty years ago and never painted since. They were mostly one and two-story commercial structures housing a boggling variety of businesses: taverns, used car lots, fast-food joints, and a depressing plethora of stores selling sickroom equipment and supplies.

  But there were many vacant shops with For Rent signs in their dusty windows. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and defeated about the entire area, as if the Florida of shining malls and gleaming plazas had passed it by, leaving it to crumble away in the hot sun and salt wind.