The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What’s your name?” she demanded.

  “My name is Archibald McNally,” I replied. “But it would give me great pleasure if you called me Archy.”

  Silence. “Don’t you want to know my name?” she finally asked.

  “I can guess,” I said. “You are Lucy Forsythe and you live here.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I know everything,” I told her.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “Do you want to hear a dirty word?”

  I sighed. “All right.”

  “Mud,” she said and laughed like a maniac. I did, too.

  “You’re very pretty,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Not as pretty as you.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Sort of,” I answered. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Why aren’t you in school today, Lucy?”

  “I’m sick,” she said and giggled again.

  “Nothing catching I hope.”

  “Well, I’m not really sick but I said I was because I didn’t feel like going to school today. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Not me,” I said. “I know how to keep a secret.”

  “Hey,” she said, “want to see my secret place?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  She was wearing a pink two-piece playsuit and a matching hair ribbon. She was a gangly child with a lovely apricot suntan and a deliciously gawky way of moving, flinging arms and legs about as if she had not yet mastered the art of controlling those elongated appendages.

  She took my hand and tugged me along. We stepped off the bricked walk and slipped into a treed area so thickly planted that sunlight cast a dappled pattern onto ground cover sprinkled with small white flowers I could not identify. Then we came into a small open area hardly larger than a bathmat but carpeted with bright green moss.

  “This belongs to me,” Lucy said proudly. “It’s my secret place. Isn’t it nice?”

  “It is indeed,” I agreed. “What do you do here?”

  “Mostly I just sit and think. Sometimes I eat a sandwich.”

  “Do you invite many guests?”

  She looked at me shyly. “You’re the first.”

  “I’m honored,” I said. “When you come here to think, what do you think about?”

  I wasn’t trying to pump the child, you know; just making conversation I hoped would interest her. I know she interested me. I thought her alert and knowledgeable beyond her years.

  She considered my question. “Well, sometimes I come here when things get noisy at home.”

  “Noisy?”

  She looked away. “They start shouting. That scares me. I’m afraid they’ll kill each other.”

  “I don’t think so, Lucy. Grown-ups have different opinions and occasionally they begin arguing and their voices get louder.”

  “Then they send me out of the room,” she said. “They always say, ‘Little pitchers have big ears.’ I don’t think my ears are so big, do you?”

  “Of course not. You have beautiful ears. It’s just a saying, like ‘Children should be seen and not heard.’ I bet you’ve been told that one, too.”

  She stared at me in astonishment. “How did you know?”

  “I told you I know everything. Lucy, I’ve enjoyed your company and I thank you for showing me your secret place. But I’ve got to get back to the house and go to work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I’m preparing a catalog of your grandfather’s library.”

  “What’s a catalog?”

  “A list of all the books he owns.”

  “There’s an awful lot of them.”

  “There certainly are. That’s why I’ve got to begin. Would you like to come back with me?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll just sit here and think.”

  I nodded and started away.

  “Archy,” she called, and I turned back. “Will you be my friend?” she asked.

  I said, “That would make me very happy.”

  “What we could do sometime,” she said, suddenly excited, “is have a little picnic here. Zeke will make us some sandwiches.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  I left her then. Curious child. Lonely child.

  I emerged from the wooded area and stood a moment on the back lawn, examining the Forsythe mansion. I had been correct in describing it to my father as a castle. I have never seen such an excess of turrets, battlements, parapets, and embrasures. All that hideous pile of stone lacked was a moat and drawbridge. The whole thing looked as if the architect had expected the Visigoths to descend on the Town of Palm Beach at any moment.

  The rear entrance to the Forsythes’ granite shack consisted of double doors. The inner was solidly planked and fitted with a stout lock. That portal was wide open. The exterior door, closed, was merely a screen in an aluminum frame.

  Although Mr. Forsythe had granted me permission to come and go as I pleased, I thought it best to announce my arrival and so I rapped lightly on the jamb of the screen. No response. I thought that odd since I could hear a muted conversation within. I knocked more vigorously. Still no answer, but I became aware that the volume of the dialogue was rising.

  Eavesdropping is one of my minor vices, and I moved closer to the screen in an effort to hear what was being expressed so forcibly. But I could make out no words, only angry voices. One, male, seemed to be supplicating. The other was female, furious and scornful. I recalled what Lucy had just told me of being frightened by the loud arguments of grownups.

  Then I heard what had to be a violent slap: someone’s palm smacked against another’s face. This was followed by a woman’s gasp and wail. I delayed no longer but opened the screen door and shouted, “Hallo, hallo! Anyone home?”

  Silence. And then, a moment later, a woman approached from what appeared to be a tiled corridor. She was sturdily constructed, wide through shoulders, bosom and hips. I could not get a good look at her features for she was holding a hand to her right cheek.

  “Good morning!” I said cheerily. “My name is Archibald McNally. I hope Mr. Forsythe informed you that I’ll be to-ing and fro-ing while I catalog his library.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said in what I can only describe as a strangled voice, “he told us. I am Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, the Forsythes’ housekeeper.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I said and held out my right hand, knowing that to shake it she would have to uncover her face. She hesitated an instant then did what I had hoped. I saw at once that she had been the slapee, for her right cheek was reddened.

  “I’ve been taking a look at your bully greenery,” I said breezily. “Mr. Forsythe suggested you would be willing to give me a tour of the interior.”

  It took her half a mo to regain her composure. I could understand that; she had just taken a good clop to the jaw and it had rattled her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said finally. She tried a brave smile but it didn’t work. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. McNally, I’ll show you everything.”

  I doubted that but I willingly trailed after her. She was remarkably light on her feet for such a heavy woman. She was wearing a flowered shirtwaist dress and I noted her thick, jetty hair was drawn back and held with a silver filigreed pin.

  “That’s a handsome barrette, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said. “Is it an antique?”

  She turned and I could see she was pleased. She reached back to touch it. “Oh yes,” she said, “it’s Victorian. Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe gave it to me as a birthday gift. I do like nice things.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said, and we both laughed. She ceased leading and we walked alongside each other, shoulders touching occasionally in the narrow hallways.

  “I think we’ll start at the top,” she said, “and work our way down. From attic to dungeon.”

  “Dungeon?”

  “That’s what
we call the basement area. Very dark and damp. Nothing but cobwebs and our wine racks.”

  “Cellars are rare in South Florida,” I commented.

  “Ours is supposed to be haunted,” she said. “By the ghost of Mr. Forsythe’s grandmother.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “She committed suicide.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  3

  WHAT A MAZY MANSION that was! As we traipsed from floor to floor, room to room, I became convinced that the architect had been totally deranged. Regal corridors led to naught but cramped window seats; artfully carved walnut doors opened to reveal a shallow linen press; some of the bedchambers were ballrooms and some were walk-in closets.

  I had welcomed this inspection as an opportunity to spot a hidey-hole where the purloined works of art might be stashed. But it was hopeless; there were simply too many “nooks and crannies,” as Mr. Forsythe had warned. It would take a regiment of snoops a month of Sundays to search that hodgepodge—and even then a cleverly concealed cache could remain hidden.

  “An astounding home,” I remarked to Mrs. Bledsoe.

  “Well, it is a little unusual,” she admitted. “I’ve been with the family for many years, and it took me two to learn where everything was and how to get about. Just last month I discovered a cupboard I didn’t know existed. It was behind draperies in one of the guest bedrooms.”

  “And what was in it?” I asked eagerly.

  “Old copies of Liberty magazine,” she said.

  We were on the third floor, or it might have been the second, when I heard harpsichord music coming from behind a closed door. I stopped to listen. I thought it might be Scarlatti or perhaps Jelly Roll Morton.

  “That’s Mrs. Sylvia playing,” my guide explained. “The younger Mr. Forsythe’s wife. She’s very good.”

  “Would she mind if we intruded?”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  She knocked once, pushed the door open, and we entered. It was a mid-sized chamber completely naked of any furnishings except for the bleached pine harpsichord and the bench before it. The seated woman stopped playing and looked up inquiringly.

  “Mrs. Sylvia,” the housekeeper said, “this gentleman is Archibald McNally who is preparing a catalog of Mr. Forsythe’s library.”

  “Of course,” the young lady said, rose and came sweeping forward, if one may sweep while wearing tight blue jeans and a snug T-shirt inscribed with Gothic lettering: Amor vincit omnia. Right on, Sylvia! She had the same flaxen hair as Lucy; the two could have been sisters instead of mother and daughter.

  “Mr. McNally,” she said, giving me a warm hand and an elfin smile, “welcome to the catacombs.”

  “A bit overwhelming,” I confessed. “Please forgive this interruption.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I needed a break. Vivaldi is so difficult.”

  So much for Scarlatti and Jelly Roll Morton.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter earlier this morning,” I told her. “An entrancing child. We had a nice chat.”

  Her smile faded to be replaced—by what? I could not decipher that expression but I imagined I saw something cold and stony.

  “You mustn’t believe everything Lucy says,” and her laugh was as tinny as the harpsichord. “She’s quite imaginative.”

  “Children usually are,” I agreed. “How long have you been playing?”

  “Years,” she said and turned to look at her instrument. “I made it.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did,” she said, nodding. “Didn’t I, Nora? It came in a kit but I put it together. It took ages.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “I play tenor kazoo with a pickup jazz combo at my club but that’s the extent of my musical talent.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m sure you underestimate your talents, Mr. McNally. Do stop by again. Whenever you like.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I shall.”

  Mrs. Bledsoe and I continued our tour. But I was wearying. In truth, it was a dreary dwelling, a fitting abode for the Addams Family. I could understand why Lucy yearned for a sunlit place all her own.

  I was given a brief peek into the haunted dungeon and then we returned to the kitchen, large enough to feed the 1st Marine Division. The entire staff had gathered, preparing for lunch. I was introduced to all, tried to remember names and faces, and failed miserably. They were pleasant enough except for Anthony, Mrs. Bledsoe’s son, who seemed somewhat surly. And Fern, one of the maids, was apparently afflicted with a nonstop giggle.

  The chef, Zeke Grenough, a diminutive man who wore a wire-rimmed pince-nez, was stirring a cauldron of what smelled aromatically like squid stew. I hoped I might be invited to share their noontime repast, for I am hopelessly enamored of calamari in any form whatsoever. But no one urged me to remain and so I bid that lucky crew a polite adieu and departed.

  I tooled the Miata south on Ocean Boulevard, my salivary glands working overtime as I reflected there was probably red wine in that stew and it would possibly be served over saffron rice. It was enough to make me whimper.

  I pulled into the driveway of the lavish estate belonging to Lady Cynthia Horowitz and drove around to the rear. I entered the main house through the unlocked back door and went directly to the office of Consuela Garcia, social secretary and the lady with whom I am intimate and to whom, regrettably, I am inevitably unfaithful.

  Connie, as usual, was on the phone but raised her face for a cheek kiss. I was happy to oblige. Then I flopped into the only visitor’s chair available and listened with delight as my leman tore the hide off a florist whose last delivery of arrangements to the Horowitz home had wilted and shed petals not in days but within hours.

  “In hours!” Connie shouted wrathfully. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Those flowers had rigor mortis when they arrived. Where did you find them—on graves?”

  She listened a moment and seemed mollified. “I should think you would,” she barked into the phone. “Get the replacements here by three o’clock or we cancel our account—is that clear? And go easy on the daisies. We’re paying orchid prices for daisies?”

  She slammed down the receiver and grinned at me. “I love to read the riot act to these banditos,” she said. “They think that just because Lady C. has zillions she’s a patsy. No way! How are you, hon?”

  “Tip-top,” I said. “Lunch?”

  She shook her head. “No can do. We’re planning a benefit dinner and I’ve got to get cracking on it.”

  “Benefit for what? Or whom?”

  “Unwed mothers.”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Connie,” I said. “I’m not guilty.”

  “I wish I could be sure,” she said. “Is that why you popped by—to ask me to lunch?”

  “That and some information.”

  “It figures. Who is it this time?”

  “The Griswold Forsythes.”

  “Dull, dull, dull,” she said promptly. “Except Sylvia, the daughter-in-law. She’s a live one. The others are lumps.”

  “What about Geraldine, the unmarried daughter?”

  Connie thought a moment. “Strange,” she said finally. “Bookish. Travels a lot. And brainy—except when it comes to men. A few years ago she had a thing going with a polo player who turned out to be a slime. Not only did he dump her but, according to the gossip, he took her for heavy bucks.”

  I nodded. It never ceases to amaze me how many seemingly intelligent women grant their favors to absolute rotters. (I myself have been the lucky beneficiary, of that phenomenon.)

  “But I guess the Forsythes could afford it,” Connie went on. “It’s old money, isn’t it, Archy?”

  “So old it goes back to beaver pelts and canal boats,” I told her. “All neatly tied up in a trust fund. I don’t think the Griswolds Two and Three have done a lick of work in their lifetimes. They keep a small office on Royal Palm Way not far from the McNally Building and they employ a male secretary one year younger
than God. A few months ago I had to deliver some documents and the three of them were playing tiddledywinks.”

  She howled. “You’re making that up!”

  “Scout’s honor. What else have they got to do except clip bond coupons? Well, luv, if you can’t have lunch I better toddle along and see what the Chez McNally has to offer. Thanks for the info.”

  “Call me tonight?” she asked.

  “Don’t I always?”

  “No,” she said. “Kissy-kissy?”

  So we kissed. Very enjoyable. Almost as good as squid stew.

  I arrived home to discover the only inhabitant present was our taciturn houseman, Jamie Olson. He and his wife, our cook and housekeeper Ursi, are the McNallys’ live-in staff and manage our home with Scandinavian efficiency and an Italianate delight in good food. They are an elderly couple and a blessing, both of them.

  Jamie is also a great source of backstairs gossip currently making the rounds amongst the domestics serving the nabobs of Palm Beach. Butlers, maids, and valets know or can guess who’s doing what to whom, and more than once I have depended on Jamie Olson to fill me in on the high and low jinks of our uppercrust citizens.

  My mother and Ursi having departed on a shopping expedition, Jamie was preparing a luncheon that consisted of four varieties of herring with warm German potato salad, plus buttered black bread. I saw nothing to object to and the two of us sat at the kitchen table and scarfed contentedly.

  “Jamie,” I said, “do you know Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, the keeper of the keys for the Griswold Forsythes?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Married, divorced—or what?”

  “Her mister took off a long time ago.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Present whereabouts unknown, I suppose.”

  “Yep.”

  “So she went to work for the Forsythes. What about her son, Anthony? Butler and houseman, I understand. Do you have any scoop on him?”