McNally's Chance (19 page)

I didn’t need our research librarian to give me details on the life and loves of Dolly’s grandson, Harry III. Both were written in headlines from the time he was slapped with a paternity suit when he was a junior at St. Paul’s. Yes, kids, the prep school. After Dartmouth, where he excelled at Winter Carnival, he took a flat in New York and welcomed the age of Aquarius with long hair, funny cigarettes, and substances that sounded like the components of alphabet soup.

Always ahead of his time, Harry married a super model before there was such a thing as a super model. She gave him a son and a divorce after one year, leaving Harry the boy and taking a good chunk of his fortune to France where she became the companion of a French film star.

After that there came the movie star, the hat check girl who wanted to be a movie star, and the tennis pro who wanted to be the fourth Mrs.

Harry Schuyler. The twist came with Harry’s son who was so far from a chip off the ol’ block he could be a genuine mutation. Shy, conservative, and scholarly, he had graduated from Harvard with honors, went on for a Ph.D.” and continued for his M.D. According to Lolly Spindrift, Harry IV had been invited to join the staff of the prestigious Rockefeller Institute in New York and was about to announce his engagement to a young lady from a good family, who was herself an M.D.

“Why me?” I repeated.

“I imagine he’s being polite,” Mrs. Trelawney said. “I called as soon as this came and told Mr. Schuyler’s secretary that your parents were away and I would have to tender their regrets. He said he hoped the young Mr. McNally could attend.”

It was becoming very clear that the young Mr. McNally was the sought-after guest and his parents a smoke screen. If my father knew this, his one eyebrow would reach for his hairline before he acquiesced with pleasure. If this wasn’t an indirect appeal to Discreet Inquiries, I would cancel my plans for Bianca Courtney. No, I take that back. Even I can be wrong sometimes.

But why? Young Harry was Snow White in pants and Harry the elder had become a paragon of virtue since his son’s rise to prominence. To learn the answer was what made my job so titillating. There’s a little bit of scandal monger in the best of us and a little bit of voyeurism in the rest of us. But take heart, it’s said one cannot become a saint until one acknowledges one’s sins.

“Isn’t Casa Gran usually wrapped in mothballs for the summer with Schuyler shifting to Southampton for the season?”

“That’s what I always thought,” Mrs. Trelawney answered, ‘but these days who knows? No one pays any attention to seasons any more, or anything else for that matter. It’s a scandal.”

Mrs. Trelawney was beginning to sound like her boss, who subscribed to the London Times in order to keep pace with the Court Circular. At breakfast he will tell us the Duchess of Kent is confined to her bed with a cold and mother will say it’s going around, dear.

But I love my parents as well as Mrs. Trelawney, who has helped me out of many a jam as well as let me know when I was heading for one. Our verbal sparring keeps her from getting too bossy and me from becoming too cocksure.

If I wasn’t already in debt to Lolly I would see what he could tell me about Schuyler’s impromptu cocktail party but I couldn’t afford to feed the scribe on a steady basis. “Did you tell his secretary I would attend?”

“Naturally. And please remember, Archy, you’re representing the firm.”

“Meaning?”

“Informal means no tie, not halloween garb. I’m sure you own a nice summer suit. And not that salmon-colored concoction.”

“Yes, ma’am. I swim in it and I shall wear it to Casa Gran, without the top.”

I would think about Casa Gran, the Sabrina Wright imbroglio, and Lolly Spindrift tomorrow, if the planet Earth was still in her orbit and if Archy was still bumming a ride thereon. To assure that I would remain a passenger on that speck in the Milky Way, I would have to attend to Binky Watrous ASAP.

I headed for the mailroom which, incidently, was four times the square footage of my work space. Binky was surprised to see me. “That’s the perfect look, Binky, my boy. Save it for your housewarming.”

“You don’t think my eyes are too wide open, Archy?”

“Not at all, laddie. The wider the better. You’re playing to the balcony, remember.”

“I think I’ll get there a few minutes late to be sure I’m the last to arrive.”

Heaven forbid he should get there before a toaster, a corkscrew, or a potato peeler. “I know it’s not necessary but I want to remind you not to breathe a word to Connie, or anyone else, about the Bianca Courtney investigation. The first rule of detective work is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

“I know that, Archy. You can trust me.”

Having made the point, I rubbed his face in it. “It’s true, Connie is a friend, but you say something to a friend and that friend passes it on to a friend who is a friend of the guy we’re stalking. Discreet, Binky, is the cornerstone of our business. Don’t tell anyone about Bianca’s suspicions or that I’ve met with her and may be acting on her behalf.”

Looking as if he were taking the oath of allegiance to the French Foreign Legion, he promised, “I won’t say a word to anyone. I won’t even tell Connie that you know Bianca.”

Tine, Binky. I’m sure I didn’t have to remind you, so forgive the presumption. Enjoy your party.”

One down and a zillion to go.

Bianca was delighted to hear from me. “Archy,” she exclaimed, “I just got off with Antony Gilbert. I told him I wanted to stop by tomorrow to pick up some things I had left in my room, but I didn’t tell him you would be with me. I thought the element of surprise would work to our advantage.”

The young have such rich imaginations. But, come to think of it, so do the old. The only thing that might surprise Gilbert was not seeing Bianca alone, as I’m sure he was hoping would be the case. The grieving widower would not take kindly to Archy. I hoped to talk Bianca out of the visit this evening.

“Could we get together later to discuss the situation, Bianca? I like to know as much as I can about the people involved before I tackle a case. What you gave me this afternoon was rather sketchy.”

“Why, yes, Archy. Would you like to come here?”

“How about I come by and take you out to dinner?” Did I detect a moment’s hesitation? “If you’d rather not.. .”

“Oh no. I would,” she assured me, and I believed her because I wanted to believe her. “Where would we go? I only ask so I’ll know what to wear. Binky told me about your club. Would we be going there?”

Only if you want to see me strangled with a royal-blue bath towel. “Do you like shore dinners?” I asked.

“I do, Archy.”

“Then let’s go to Charley’s Crab. There’s a lovely ocean view from the bar and the crab cakes are so good you could eat the plate they come on.”

Tine. Is seven okay?”

“Perfect, Bianca. See you later.”

“And thanks again, Archy.”

“For nada, senorita.”

Two down.

What a long and arduous day it had been. I had been followed by a stretch limo and ended up in its backseat with Richard Cranston spilling his guts and what a startling revelation it was. I had to listen to Bianca’s life story over coffee, then lunch with Al Rogoff to learn that Bianca’s cause was hopeless. Fending off Lolly Spindrift and promising to wine and dine him at Acquario would ultimately break the bank. I had told Lolly I would call Sabrina Wright and had no intention of doing any such thing. Then the strange and totally surprising invitation to Casa Gran, which led to setting up Connie and Binky to clear my way into the Palm Court without being seen. And, finally, securing a date with Bianca Courtney.

When I got home I was too tired to swim and opted for a warm bath, which I do when I need to meditate on the slings and arrows of life in the fast lane.

The Ford wagon was in its berth, but the kitchen was empty. Ursi and Jamie, therefore, were in their quarters over the garage. Hobo stuck his nose out of his castle and withdrew almost instantly. Is his abode air-conditioned?

Once in my sanctuary I undressed, drew my tub and added a dollop of scented oil to the warm water Mountain Pine. One comes out smelling a little like a Christmas tree, but is that bad?

I floated the rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag hint, hint, you are immature then eased myself into the aromatic brew where one’s troubles are supposed to melt away and exquisite rapture enfold the senses. Well, that’s what it says on the bottle of Mountain Pine. This was not to be my experience. The rubber duckies reminded me of Connie and my inability to make a commitment to her. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Is it? There are times, like when I’m soaking in a hot tub, that I’m just not sure.

Not too long ago, when Connie had caught me carousing with a young lady, she told me she had considered hiring a hit man and having me blown away. Believe me, with Connie’s Cuban cousins by the dozens, this is no idle threat. Lucky for me she reconsidered and decided instead of honor our open relationship by accepting a date with my friend, Ferdy Attenborough. I was shocked to learn that Ferdy had asked her for a date, but having preached the virtues of an open relationship for so many years I could only say I was glad and hoped she had a good time.

That night, alone, my one small marc was almost more than I could handle. My bed became a carousel,

which spun in counterpoint to my leaky ceiling. I’m sure Ferdy Attenborough, riding a broomstick, went flying by with a mocking grin on his dumb face. If she did or did not go out with Ferdy, I will never know because I never asked and Connie never told. Henceforth, Ferdy appeared uncomfortable in my presence, or was I imagining it? One night at the Pelican I ran into him in the men’s room. He ran out saying he had made a mistake. Really? Had he intended to use the ladies’ room?

After that I was especially attentive to Consuela Garcia and she showed her appreciation in many ways both public and private. This taught me that what is good for the gander is not good for the goose and I am a chauvinist A. Gide notwithstanding.

I climbed out of the tub and patted myself dry, removing the moisture and leaving behind the scent of Christmas in July. I wrapped myself in one of my favorite kimonos, the one picturing Jack and Jill tiptoeing through the tulips.

I sat at the desk, removed the top from my Mont Blanc, and recorded both the interview with Richard Cranston and the antics of Gillian and Zack. I ended by saying the omens were ominous and, as Ursi had once written on her shopping list, “The Tide is out and there is no Joy.”

With this I closed the case of The Man That Got Away one mo’ time.

Sixteen

“I’ll just go powder my nose. Won’t be a minute.”

That exit line could account for at least a dozen chores milady was on her way to performing while her gentleman caller cooled his heels. When he took her home, if all went well, she would excuse herself with,

“I’ll just slip into something comfortable.” Or did that happen only in the movies?

I was cooling my heels in Bianca Courtney’s parlor on cement blocks, sipping a white wine that had never been within a mile of a cork. It was dreadful. Bianca did not keep hard liquor in the house, owing, no doubt, to her mother’s caution, “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”

I reflected sadly upon why I was sitting in a railroad car decorated in buttons and bows, boxed in by Al Rogoff’s sleeper and Binky Watrous’s caboose. Final answer: pure lust. Bianca’s idea of decor was to bring the outside inside. Every piece of fabric had a flower motif, many with birds and bees and butterflies, all on the wing. I would happily trade the wine for an antihistamine nasal spray.

Bianca had greeted me dressed in peach linen slacks and a blouse just a shade lighter. The blouse was of a material so gossamer that as she moved one caught glimpses of her bra. I found this distracting. The outfit, accesorized with a pair of finely crafted leather sandals and a tiny matching baguette bag, bespoke not only a casual chic, but expensive taste. If these trappings were due to the largesse of the late Lilian Ashman Gilbert, I could see why Bianca was incensed at the lady’s passing, but not a reason to point a finger at poor Mr.

Gilbert.

Seeing her peach ensemble I was glad I had avoided pastels for the occasion and had chosen instead white jeans with a button fly and a boat-neck cotton pullover from JHG in navy. I thought it befitting for a shore dinner and, besides, it made me feel like Gene Kelly dancing with Jerry the mouse. Knowing when to compete and when to withdraw, my

“I-shirt was not visible beneath the pullover.

Upon returning, Bianca had added a lightweight pashmina wrap to her costume, but not a discernable trace of powder on her pretty nose. I’m ready but we can wait if you want to finish your wine,” she said.

“No, no,” I protested. “Let’s go. Our reservation is for eight and they do get testy. It’s a popular joint. I’ll just leave this in the kitchen.” Where it might discourage night crawlers, and I did not mean Binky and Al. When the summer sun sets, Florida vibrates with the pitty-pat of many-footed creatures of the night.

I had parked in Binky’s space. Was there no limit to my brass? and once again lucked out with Al Rogoff’s carport empty. He was at work today, so he was most likely at some highbrow offering this evening, incognito. Last winter Al attended the Jacques Thibaud String Trio at Dreyfoos Hall in the Kravis Center and was in ecstasy for weeks. Tweeny does not understand why Al refuses all invitations to enjoy an evening at her digs viewing wrestling or the Roller Derby on her mammoth TV.

“I pay the cable company extra to get those channels,” she tells Al, who is not sympathetic.

It was a refreshingly cool evening, the sky cloudy and dark. “The top is down,” Bianca cleverly noted. “It looks like rain.”

I opened the door for her and sang, “Last night we met, and I dream of you yet, with the wind and the rain in your hair.”

She giggled. “What’s that?”

An old song.”

“How old?” she insisted.

I got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. “How old are you, Bianca?”