The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I was speaking metaphorically,” I soothed him. “You shall have your dinner complete with appetizer, soup, entree, dessert, and whatever else your ravenous hunger and thirst demand. Now let’s have the names of Johnson’s references.”

  “Wait a sec while I call them up on my screen,” he said. “We’ve got new software and it’s a doozy. When are you going to get a computer, Archy?”

  “Give me a break,” I pleaded. “I can’t even operate a battery-powered swizzle stick.”

  Eventually I received the information requested. Hector Johnson’s two references were J.P. Lordsley and Reuben Hagler. I studied their addresses and reckoned that if I left immediately, I could manage a relaxed drive to Fort Lauderdale, enjoy a leisurely snack, check out both individuals, and be back in time for my daily dunk in the sea.

  But it did not happen. My phone jangled ere I could depart, and a feminine voice inquired, “Archy McNally?”

  I recognized that coo, and my heart leaped like an inflamed gazelle. “Theo!” I said. “How nice to hear from you.”

  “I do hope I’m not interrupting,” she said. “I know how busy you must be.”

  “Work—” I said. “It’s a four-letter word and I try to avoid it.”

  “Let me help,” she said, her voice positively burbling. “You did offer to show me your home, you know, and it’s such a lovely day I was hoping to persuade you to take a few hours off.”

  “Splendid idea!” I practically shouted. “And as I recall, lunch was also mentioned. Still on?”

  “Of course. Daddy is using our car this afternoon, so could you pick me up?”

  “Delighted,” I said. “Half an hour? How does that sound?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you, Archy,” she said softly and hung up, leaving me to interpret her final words in several ways, not all of them honorable.

  I was happy I had worn dove gray slacks and my navy blue blazer adorned with the Pelican Club patch: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet. I also sported tasseled cordovan loafers (no socks) and a mauve cashmere polo shirt, the cost of which had made a severe dent in my net worth.

  Thankfully the heat and humidity of the previous day had dissipated and it was a brilliant noontime with a cerulean sky brushed with horsetail clouds, and a sweet ocean breeze moving the palm fronds. I should have been elated by the anticipation of spending a few enchanting hours with Madam X, but I must admit two questions dampened my euphoria.

  One: If the Chinless Wonder was correct in stating that he was to become the fiancé of Theodosia Johnson—and commissioning her portrait certainly proved the sincerity of his intent—why did she seem so eager to enjoy a luncheon with yrs. truly? She had to be aware that Chauncey was out of town, and her cozying up to another man in his absence was a mite off-putting.

  I was not accusing her of blatant infidelity, mind you, and I had no desire to make a moral judgment. Not me, who believes “connubial bliss” is an oxymoron. But her conduct was a puzzle. I concluded she had a motive I could not ken.

  The second question was where in the world was I going to take Madam X to lunch. You must understand that Connie Garcia, partly due to her position as social secretary to Lady Horowitz, maintains a network of spies, snitches, close friends, and catty enemies who like nothing better than to relate the behavior of Archy McNally, particularly when I am observed in activities sure to ignite Connie’s Latin temper. If I was seen lunching with the nubile Ms. Johnson, it would undoubtedly be reported to the lady with whom I was intimate, and I didn’t wish to imagine what her reaction would be. Incendiary, I was certain, and possibly damaging to the McNally corpus.

  But all my uncertainties and hesitancies vanished when I rang the bell of the Johnsons’ condo and the door was opened by Theo. A vision! Physical beauty, the eggheads tell us, is ephemeral, of no lasting value, and we must admire only the inner virtues. I much prefer a swan-like neck.

  She was wearing a slip dress of tangerine silk. With her apricot-tanned shoulders and peachy complexion she was a veritable fruit salad of delight. Once again her beauty had the effect of answering all my questions and banishing all my doubts. Suspect this woman of chicanery? Nonsense! Might as well accuse the Venus de Milo of being a pickpocket.

  “Archy!” she said, clasping my hand. “You look smashing. What is that crest on your jacket?”

  “The Pelican Club. A private dining and drinking establishment.”

  “Wonderful. Are we going there for lunch?”

  “No, no,” I said hastily. “It’s a comfortable spot, but regretfully the cuisine is something less than haute. We’ll find a place with a more enticing menu. But first let me show you the McNally home.”

  What a pleasure it was to have that paragon seated alongside me in the Miata as we zipped over to Ocean Boulevard and gazed on the glimmering sea.

  Theo was wide-eyed as she glimpsed the mansions fronting the Atlantic. “The money!” she said.

  “Playpen of the idle rich,” I admitted blithely. “But not all of us. The McNallys, for instance. We work, we’re hardly multis, and our spread is relatively modest. My father had the great good sense to buy years and years ago before real estate prices rocketed into the wild blue yonder.”

  I parked on the graveled turnaround at our three-car garage and led my guest on a stroll through our smallish estate.

  “We employ a live-in couple who have their own apartment over the garage,” I said. “The greenhouse is my mother’s domain. No pool, you’ll notice. What’s the point with the ocean a short trot away? The doghouse belonged to Max, our golden retriever, but he’s gone to the great kennel in the sky. Let’s see if mother is at work.”

  We found her in the potting shed. She stripped off a rubber glove to shake hands with our visitor.

  “How nice to meet you, Miss Johnson,” she said brightly. “I’ve already met your father at our garden club. What a charming man he is.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McNally. Your home is lovely.”

  “But you haven’t seen the inside yet,” I protested. “It’s nothing but bare walls and a few hammocks.”

  “Don’t believe a word he says,” mum advised.

  “I don’t,” Theo said with more conviction than I liked.

  “Archy, will you and Miss Johnson be staying for lunch?”

  “Not today, darling,” I told her. “We want to see some of the local scenery.”

  “Well, do come back,” she urged Theo. “Perhaps you and your father might visit some evening.”

  “I’d love that, Mrs. McNally. Thank you so much.”

  We walked toward the house. “She’s beautiful,” Theo said. “And so—so motherly.”

  “Isn’t she,” I agreed. “I just adore sitting on her lap.”

  “You’re a nut,” she said, laughing.

  “And now for the fifty-cent tour,” I said. “Let’s make it fast because the pangs of hunger are beginning to gnaw.”

  I showed her everything: kitchen, father’s study, living and dining rooms, second-floor sitting room, master and guest bedrooms, and my own little suite on the third floor. All the furnishings were of good quality but obviously mellowed. The interior looked as if everything had been inherited, which was exactly the ambience my father had striven to create when he moved up from Miami.

  “It’s all so handsome,” Theo said, suitably impressed. “So solid and warm and comfy.”

  I didn’t tell her the truth, that everything in the place had been purchased in the past thirty years from decorators, galleries, and antique shops. Our home was a stage set. But it was convincing.

  We reboarded the Miata, and I had what I fancied was a minor stroke of genius.

  “You know,” I said thoughtfully, “there are many fine restaurants in Palm Beach, but it’s such a scrumptious day, why don’t we take a drive down to Boca Raton along A1A. I know a marvelous place in Boca where we can lunch alfresco.”

  “Sounds divine,” Theo said.

  So having reduced the possib
ility of being spotted by one of Connie Garcia’s spies to an absolute minimum, I turned southward. We followed the corniche, and my companion never stopped exclaiming at the glory of the vistas and the wealth displayed by the private mansions and luxury condominiums along the way.

  I drove directly to Mizner Park, my favorite mini-mall in South Florida. There we entrusted the Miata to a valet and secured an umbrella table at the Bistro L’Europe. Outdoor dining at Mizner is a charming way to enjoy anything from a boutique pizza to a five-course banquet. But, of course, the main attraction is people-watching.

  I cannot recall the exact details of our lunch. I have a vague recollection of sharing an enormous Caesar salad with Theo after we had demolished a duck terrine. I do remember very well that everything I consumed was ambrosial. That may have been due to the full bottle of Beaujolais we finished, but I prefer to believe my pleasure was heightened by being in the company of such a ravishing dining partner.

  “Archy,” she said, nibbling on a garlic crouton, “why have you never married?”

  I had an oft-repeated response to that. “I am very prone to allergies,” I told her. “Research has shown that more than half of all divorces are caused by one spouse becoming allergic to the other. I just can’t take the chance.”

  That sinfully entrancing dimple appeared and she shook her head hopelessly. “You’re a devil,” she said.

  “That wounds,” I said. “All I wish to be is your guardian angel. Where are you from, Theo?”

  “Michigan,” she said promptly. “Isn’t everyone?”

  “During the tourist season one might think so. I understand Michiganders refer to Florida as the Lower Peninsula. Tell me, if a man is a Michigander, is a woman a Michigoose?”

  She ignored that antiquated wheeze—and rightly so. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Right here. One of the few residents actually born in Florida.”

  “You don’t sound like a native Floridian.”

  “I went to prep school up north and then later to Yale.”

  I told her the story of why I was booted out of Yale Law and she was mightily amused. “You are a devil,” she said, “and I really shouldn’t be associating with you.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” I said boldly. “I understand you’re soon to be affianced.”

  She lifted her chin and looked at me coolly. “Maybe,” she said, “and maybe not. I haven’t yet decided. Do you know Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his mother?”

  “I am acquainted with the lady.”

  “Then surely you know why I am postponing a decision.”

  I said nothing.

  “Meanwhile,” she went on, “I am living the way I want to live. I’m an independent cuss. Does my behavior shock you?”

  “No, it does not. But it puzzles me.”

  “You feel I should leap at the chance of marrying Chauncey?”

  “You could do much worse. Me, for instance.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” she said.

  “May I ask how old you are, Theo?”

  “You may ask but I shan’t answer. Older than you think, I’m sure.”

  “Another personal question you may or may not wish to answer: Is your mother living?”

  “Yes. My parents are divorced. My mother has remarried and is presently living in San Diego. And now I have a personal question for you: Do you have a ladyfriend?”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re not faithful to her.”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  She laughed. “A statement. I do believe you’re as selfish as I am.”

  “Quite possibly,” I acknowledged. “Theo, would you care for dessert?”

  “Yes,” she said decisively, staring at me. “You.”

  I sought to quell a slight tremor.

  She discussed the logistics of our assignation as calmly as if she were making an appointment for a pedicure. Daddy had driven down to Fort Lauderdale that morning. It was a business trip and daddy would be gone all day. And daddy had promised to phone before he started back to Palm Beach so they could make dinner plans.

  In addition, both condos adjoining the Johnsons’ were unoccupied, the owners having gone north for the summer.

  “So you see,” Theo concluded, “we’ll have all the privacy we could possibly want.”

  “Yes,” I said, tempted to add, “But God will be watching.” I didn’t, of course, since it verged on blasphemy.

  We didn’t converse on our return trip to Palm Beach although there were a few occasions when I suspected she was humming. I was simply amazed at her insouciance. She sat upright, smiling straight ahead, shining hair whipping back in the breeze. She looked as if she owned the world, or at least that part of it she coveted.

  We arrived at the Johnsons’ condo, and I suggested that since the blood-red Miata was such a noticeable vehicle, it might be more discreet if I parked some distance away. But Theo would have none of that, insisted I park at her doorstep, and led the way inside. And instead of inviting me into a bedroom, she rushed to that hideous cretonne-covered couch in the living room and beckoned. I scurried to her side.

  She undressed with frantic and unseemly haste, and all I could think of was a cannibal preparing for a feast of a succulent missionary.

  I shall not attempt to describe the rapture of that afternoon. It is not that I lack the vocabulary—you know me better than that—but it is because some events in one’s life are so private that it is painful to disclose them, even if they are pleasurable.

  I can only permit myself to record that Theodosia Johnson was all women. Not all woman but all women. She reduced the plural to the singular, multiplicity to one. After knowing her, there seemed no need for another. She was the Eternal Female, capitalized, and at the moment I was bewitched. Not bothered and bewildered—just bewitched.

  There was one intimate detail I am forced to reveal because it has a bearing on what was to follow. Theo had a small tattoo of a blue butterfly on the left of her tanned abdomen, almost in the crease of her thigh. It was, to the best of my recollection, the first time I had ever kissed a butterfly.

  I returned home too late for my ocean swim—a mercy since I hadn’t the strength—but in time to shower and dress for the family cocktail hour and dinner. My thoughts, needless to say, were awhirl, but I believe I hid my perturbation from my parents. The only discomposing moment came during our preprandial martinis when I eagerly asked my mother, “What did you think of Theo Johnson?”

  The mater gave me her sweet smile. “She’s not for you, Archy,” she said.

  It was cataclysm time. “Why on earth not?” I demanded.

  Her shrug was tiny. “Just a feeling,” she said.

  I was subdued at dinner and retired to my quarters as soon as decently possible. I wanted to note the day’s adventures in my journal but was unable. I merely sat rigidly, counting the walls (there were four), and tried to solve the riddle of Madam X.

  I was still in this semi-catatonic state when Connie Garcia phoned. Her first words—“Hi, honey!”—were an enormous relief since they signified she had not yet learned of my hegira to Mizner Park with Theo Johnson.

  “Listen,” she went on, “seems to me you gabbled about a dinner date this week. When? Put up or shut up.”

  “Let me consult my social calendar,” I said. “My presence has been requested at so many—”

  “Cut the bs,” she interrupted. “It’s on for tomorrow night at the Pelican Club. I called and Leroy is planning to roast a whole suckling pig. How does that sound?”

  “Gruesome,” I said. “I am a suckling pig.”

  “As well I know,” Connie said. “Around eight o’clock—okay?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll even change my socks.”

  I realized, after hanging up, that perhaps an evening with the open, forthright, and completely honest Ms. Garcia was exactly what I needed. After an aftern
oon spent with the disquieting and inexplicable Ms. Johnson, it would be like popping a tranquilizer. Of course after dinner Connie would expect me to expend some energy in her Lake Worth condo, but that prospect didn’t daunt me. I hustled to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and slid two B-12 sublingual tablets under my tongue.

  Wasn’t it John Barrymore who said, “So many women, so little time”? If he didn’t say it, he should have.

  Chapter 8

  CHAUNCEY WILSON SMYTHE-HERSFORTH returned from New Orleans on Thursday morning, and at eleven o’clock he and his mother had a conference with my father. I was not invited to attend. But after it ended the Chinless Wonder came down to my office wearing a grin so smarmy I wanted to kick his shins.

  “This is your office?” he said, glancing around. “My walk-in closet at home is bigger than this.”

  “Most of my work is done on the outside,” I said frostily. “Like going down to Fort Lauderdale to interview Shirley Feebling on your behalf.”

  He immediately composed his features into a theatrical expression of sorrow. “That was a terrible thing,” he said, shaking his fat head. “Just terrible. She was a nice girl, Archy. I really liked her.”

  I made no response.

  “What’s the world coming to?” he demanded rhetorically. “Violence everywhere. Silas Hawkin murdered and now this. A decent citizen isn’t safe on the street anymore.”

  I had enough of his profundities. “What’s happening with your letters?” I asked.

  The smarmy grin returned. “Your father is going to pull every string he can to get them back from the Lauderdale police. They’re of no use to them, are they? I mean I have a perfect alibi; a hundred people saw me at the convention. Listen, Archy, how much money did Shirley want?”

  “She didn’t want any. She just wanted to marry you.”

  “She should have known that was impossible,” he blustered, running a finger between collar and neck. “The difference in our class and all that...”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And what was your mother’s reaction to your proposing marriage to Shirley?”

  That deflated him. “Well, uh, in your father’s office she just said, ‘Boys will be boys.’ But when I get home tonight I expect she’ll have more to say on the subject.”