McNally's Chance (17 page)

“No, after that.” Snapping my fingers as if a bulb had just lit up in my head, I exclaimed, “Yes, Bianca Courtney. What else can you tell me besides what she and Binky had for dinner last night.”

“Let’s see. She had a visit this morning from a man driving a red car.

Then a stretch limo pulls up outside her door and sits there until the guy leaves Bianca’s pad. He gets in the limo for maybe twenty minutes, and it just sits there like there’s a meeting going on. When the guy gets out of the limo, it drives off, and then the guy gets back in the red car and follows it.”

This left me not only flummoxed, but speechless. Our brews arrived and I drank to play for time. Mrs. Brewster had witnessed Cranston’s cloak-and-dagger ploy and reported it to the neighborhood cop. Did the snoop get the limo’s license number?

“I got a call at the station house this morning from Mrs. B,” Al said, like I didn’t know. “Nice dame, but old and nervous. She calls me if a UPS truck backfires. So who was in the limo?”

Nervous old ladies did not take down plate numbers. They wouldn’t turn their backs long enough to get pencil and paper. “It was a client, Al.

That’s all I can say.”

“How come a client met you at the Palm Court?”

Not even I could answer that with a story that was remotely believable, so I made no attempt to do so. “You said we’ve known each other for a long time, Al, right?” He nodded with a shrug. “Have I ever done anything to abuse that friendship?” He shook his head but spared me the shrug. “Then I have to ask you to trust me with this one. I can’t tell you a damn thing about the limo, Al, but I promise I will as soon as I’m able.”

“Has it got anything to do with Bianca Courtney and her deceased employer?”

Absolutely not,” I said with joy at being able to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Our onion rings, pickles, and mozzarella sticks arrived and we helped ourselves. I felt I had sweated off enough pounds over Mrs. Brewster’s see-and-tell avocation to make up for the few ounces I was imbibing.

“Has it got anything to do with Sabrina Wright?”

My joy was short-lived. I grabbed a mozzarella stick to ward off the evil eye and to appease the gnawing in the pit of my belly. Lunch with Al Rogoff could be hazardous to your health. The best way to avoid answering a question was to ask one. “How do you know Sabrina Wright is in town, and why would I be involved with her?”

Al was working on a pickle spear. He really loved those things. “We read Spindrift, too, and we like to keep an eye on the visiting firemen, especially the big shots. And there was a rumor going around that she hired Archy McNally to find some guy who ran off on her.”

There was that blind item again. Gadzooks, it had done everything but start World War Three. Bite your tongue, Archy, she’s not out of Palm Beach yet. “Do you read Sabrina Wright, Al?”

“Hell, no. But Tweeny does.”

Somehow I could not imagine Tweeny Alvarez reading anything but the Most Wanted list. Changing the subject without drawing attention to the fact, I said, “I imagine Bianca Courtney reads her, too.”

“So tell me what you were doing at Bianca’s?” Al asked.

I’m so clever it hurts.

“I was delivering a microwave oven,” I said, munching my third mozzarella stick. Well, they’re better than popping tranquillizers.

“Do I have to trust you with that one, too?”

I told Al everything, beginning with Binky’s housewarming and ending with my conversation with Bianca. “I went as a favor to Binky, you understand. The girl, as you know, is young and foolish.”

“The broad, as you and me know, is young and pretty,” Al said, delivering a death blow to the English language. But don’t ever mistake him for a fool. Many a felon has and lived to regret it for anywhere from ten years to life. “She told you about the barbell. It’s a laugh, Archy. She wanted us to dust it for prints. The guy lives in the house, for chrissakes, and if his paws weren’t on everything in the joint I would be suspicious.”

“But did you ask him why he was seen returning it to the exercise room the day after the accident?”

“Yeah. And he didn’t appreciate it. He knew Bianca was the snitch.

The barbell was in the garage holding down a stack of newspapers waiting to be picked up for recycling. The housekeeper confirmed this.”

Funny what people leave out of their stories when they’re trying to prove a point. Now I was committed to visit Antony without an h. Maybe I could talk Bianca out of the visit and into a midnight swim. “One more question, Al. What did the forensic people say about the head wound?”

“The old dame must have hit her head on the floor of the pool when she dove off the board.”

“Must have,” I pounced. “But could the wound have been caused by something else?”

Al dismissed this with a wave of his hand, which actually created a breeze. “But she was alive and well when she dove in the pool and dead when we carried her out. Conclusion, she hit her head in the pool.”

And who saw her dive in the pool, alive and well?”

“Her husband, that’s who.”

Anyone else?” I goaded.

Archy, the guy gets next to nothing from her death. You know that and so does Bianca. He was better off when his wife was alive. Okay, he had to dip his wick a few times a week, but in return he got treated like a prince. Now he goes back to pushing rich old ladies around dance floors.”

I must say Al’s description of the marriage bed had a certain flair.

Priscilla arrived with our grilled salmon, tossed greens and fries on the side. I took this moment to ask her if the family had heard anything from their cousin in California.

“Not a word,” Priscilla said, ‘and mom’s been on the phone with cousin Lucy daily, but she hasn’t heard a thing from her father since his last call.”

Covering his fries with ketchup from a plastic squeeze bottle, Al asked, “What’s this all about?”

I related the tale of Jasmine’s cousin and the diary of Henry Peavey.

“You know the name, Al?”

“Doesn’t mean a thing to me.” He removed a pad from his shirt pocket, and reaching further down he came up with the stub of a pencil. He jotted the name on his pad. “I’ll run it through the local and national police registers and see what comes up.”

“Thanks,” Priscilla said. “I’ll tell mom.”

I heard one of the men at the bar say, “It’s Troy Appleton.” Several people left their tables to get closer to the TV screen.

Curious, I called out, “What’s happening?”

“The local station is showing Troy Appleton speaking on the steps of the capital in Tallahassee,” Mr.

Pettibone announced. “They say he’s going to make a run for the U.S.

Senate.”

If he doesn’t run for cover first.

I knew the Appleton family secret and Richard Cranston claimed to know my secret. Did all the people watching the popular pol have a little secret of their own that only one other person was privy to? Then, did all the people who knew their little secret have one of their own that was shared by one other person? If so, no one was left out and no one was safe.

“How about another beer, Archy?” Al said.

“Why not, Sergeant? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, even if the bloom is off the bud.”

Fourteen

Herb gave me a thumbs-up as I rolled past his glass closet and into my parking space. The signal meant that Mrs. Trelawney was asking for me. I knew he would be on the horn to inform her of my arrival before I was out of the car. Since my meetings with Appleton and Cranston, and especially with Cranston, I had become super sensitive to those who meddle in the affairs of others yrs. truly included. Electronic surveillance, hidden cameras in banks and offices and rest rooms, cell phones that are practically shortwave radios, and let’s not forget the old lady who lives across the street and the kid who delivers our takeout dinners. Al Rogoff took down a name and said he would run it through a national register to see what came up. Who hasn’t wondered what would come up were his name run through Big Brother’s ledger? The Internet leaves paper trails that are capable of delineating the life and times of everyone who was plugged in. Our biographies were being written as we lived them. Appleton arranges a meeting in a museum and Cranston in the backseat of his car. The museum was open to the public and at least three other people, Bianca, Mrs. Brewster, and the limo driver, had observed and recorded Cranston’s not so clever ploy.

“Rat on me and I’ll rat on you,” Cranston had intimated when we parted.

Well, Dickey boy, no man is an island because we’re all connected by that information highway which is swarming with pot holes, culs-de-sac, and sewer rats. And, as Al Rogoff might say, Archy ain’t got no credentials to present to the dame in Buckingham Palace.”

The case I had agreed to take on for Sabrina Wright had lasted less than forty-eight hours, defied a solution, included a cast of thousands, and left me clinically paranoid. I needed to relax and unwind. I needed that midnight swim with Bianca Courtney. I would even consider a few fifty-minute hours with our resident shrink, Dr.

Gussie Pearlberg, if I did not agree with Sam Goldwyn’s malapropism: A man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.

When Binky stuck his head in my doorway a few moments after I had traversed it, I began to regret having gotten him a position at McNally

& Son. Like a potent narcotic, Binky should be taken in small doses between long intervals. Now I had him in my back pocket where I did not need more bulge.

“Thanks for the microwave oven, Archy,” Binky said.

News of my visit to Bianca had traveled faster than a microwave oven could reduce a hot dog to ashes. “Did Bianca Courtney call you?” I questioned.

“No. I went home for lunch and stopped in to see her. She helped me carry it to my kitchen and she’s going to show me how to work it.”

I paused briefly, mulling his phrasing, before intoning, “I believe it comes with instructions,” not mentioning my doubts about Bianca’s own knowledge. “And you don’t want to come on too strong with your new neighbor, Binky. It’s really not necessary to knock on her door every time you pass it. Familiarity breeds contempt, as some closeted extrovert once said, and you should play hard-to-get.”

Reflecting on this sage advice, Binky remarked, “I’m so hard-to-get I’ve never been gotten.”

This was true but not in the sense that either Binky or I had intended.

Moving right along, I advised the boy to tend to his own garden.

“You’ve just moved in. You’ve got a thousand things that need doing and courting your neighbor is not one of them.”

My words went unheeded as, unable to contain his excitement, he said,

“Bianca told me that you’re taking her case. Thanks, Archy. You know I’m available for legwork and reconnaissance, as usual.”

Binky watches too much television and is beginning to talk like a script composed by ten scribes locked in a room with an unlimited supply of legal pads, pencils, and Jim Beam.. The only thing I wanted to reconnoiter on Bianca’s behalf was unmentionable, for which I did not need Binky’s help as usual.

“I’m sorry to say, Binky, that she doesn’t have much of a case. I talked to Al Rogoff this afternoon and it seems the police are satisfied that Bianca’s former employer met with an accident. After hearing the facts, I would have to agree.”

Quick to tell me how well he had integrated into the ebb and flow of life at the Palm Court, Binky disclosed, “Al had Chinese takeout last night, too. Sweet-and-sour pork and spring rolls.”

I was losing patience, a common consequence of a one-on-one with Binky.

“What Al had for dinner last night does not change or help Bianca’s case. Her only clue, the barbell, was being used as a paperweight in the garage and not for bopping the lady of the house senseless. This has been confirmed by the housekeeper.”

“Why couldn’t he have taken the barbell from the garage, used it to knock her out, then return it to the garage?”

My exasperation took the form of a sigh that came deep from within. But we are told to suffer the children, so I explained, “Because he had no reason to do her in, Binky. He doesn’t inherit anything but what might be due him as her legal spouse. In fact he may soon be looking for a rental in the Palm Court.”

“I hope not, Archy. Bianca hates him.”

And I’m afraid she’s allowed her feelings to warp her common sense. I did say I would go with her to meet this Antony Gilbert, and now I’m sorry I did.” Fearing Binky would burst into tears at this, I quickly stated that I would honor my promise, “However futile the effort.”

All smiles, Binky expressed his gratitude. I’m glad, Archy. Bianca really appreciates my help in putting her in touch with you. Anything you do will make her feel better and if you have to let her down I hope you can do it easy, you know what I mean?”

Indeed I did know. I intended to let her down over a cozy supper for two across a candlelit table overlooking a moonlit ocean. How to transport her in my red Miata from the Palm Court to a restaurant, unseen by her ever watchful neighbors, would tax the expertise of a general moving an army across a terrain rigged with land mines. I had been known to rent a Ford or a Chevy for trailing on stakeouts and might have to resort to that maneuver in the courtship of Bianca Courtney. Then, poor Binky once again aided and abated me in my determination to succumb to lust and debauchery.

Are you having dinner with us tonight, Archy?” Binky asked.

“Us? Who’s us?” Was I to be included in another Chinese takeout orgy?

“Connie and me. She’s taking me to the Pelican tonight to celebrate my move to the Palm. I think she bought me something, Archy, because she wanted to know what my color scheme was in my bath.”

“Really? And what is your color scheme?”

“The tile and walls and basin are white, so I told her white was my scheme.”

And my scheme was unfurled before me like bunting at a political convention. With Binky and Connie at the Pelican, I could pick up Bianca without being seen by Binky and not have to worry about running into Connie. Things were looking up. It was a dastardly plan, but all’s fair in love and war and wooing in a trailer park. And if Connie ever learned she was playing decoy for my philandering she would make a spa do out of me in dos minutos. The danger was an aphrodisiac to my senses. Lucky Bianca.