McNally's Chance (21 page)

You got me here under false pretenses and now you’re wondering what you’re going to do with me. You don’t want to go back to my place where your red car will stick out like a neon calling card, and you wouldn’t dare take me to a motel because I wouldn’t go. Checkmate.”

She was a barrel of laughs, all at my expense. “What do you suggest, Ms Courtney?

“Have the creme caramel, Archy, and we’ll take a walk on the beach.

Then you can drop me off -real fast.”

“He who makes love on the beach knows the meaning of true grit.”

“Archy, that one is older than you.”

“But younger than King Tut.”

The clouds were dispersing to uncover small patches of stars but the moon remained hidden. The steady sound of the surf and the distant sound of cars moving north and south on the Al A are the heartbeat of Palm Beach. With a beautiful woman in your arms it takes on the tremor of a rhapsody.

“Do you kiss on a first date, Bianca?”

“Only when I’m asked.”

She was warm, tender, yielding, and doing the most amazing things with her hands. “Did you learn that in college?”

“No, high school. Oh, buttons. How quaint. Will you come with me to meet Tony tomorrow?”

“You little devil, you have me by my compromising position.”

“That’s the idea. Yes or no, Archy?”

What’s a Discreet Inquirer to do? “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Seventeen

As you may have guessed I awoke late the following morning and Ursi surprised me with one of my breakfast favorites, kippers and scrambled eggs.

“Everyone is talking about Sabrina Wright and her daughter, Archy. Have you heard about it?” Ursi asked as she poured my coffee.

“I’ve heard something, Ursi. What are people saying

“It seems Sabrina Wright’s daughter, Gillian, and her boyfriend are down here looking up old society news stories at the library. Well, Mrs. Marsden over at Lady Cynthia’s says that Lady C thinks the daughter and her boyfriend must be looking for someone from these parts who was on the social scene some years back. And Hanna Ventura told Lady Cynthia that Sabrina adopted the girl, Gillian, as a single parent and raised her in the lap of luxury. Mrs. Ventura read about it in Vanity Fair, and she thinks the girl is looking for her true mother who may be someone we all know. There could be a scandal brewing, Archy, as we speak.”

Dear Hanna didn’t know how close she was to the truth. But with that kind of talk going around and the only other parent one could have was the father, Appleton and Cranston must be quivering in their limos.

In the interest of learning what other rumors were making the rounds, I queried, “So what else have you heard, Ursi?”

Jamie, as always, sipped his coffee while reading the morning paper and listening to every word. They say N. Bonaparte, Buonaparte, could also read and listen at the same time and look what they did to him. Would Jamie one day be exiled to Fisherman’s Island in Lake Worth?

“The girl’s boyfriend,” Ursi continued on pouring a cup for herself,

‘is a newspaper reporter, and he’s going to write about the investigation. You know many adopted people now go in search of their natural parents. It’s exciting. But if the girl’s natural mother put her up for adoption and signed away all rights, she wouldn’t know the girl had been taken in by a famous author. Won’t she be surprised, Archy?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I said with a thoughtful nod.

Here Ursi confided, “Mrs. Marsden was wondering if Lady C is the natural mother. You know she’s had so many husbands and a few on the side, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

“You’re excused.”

“So Sabrina Wright didn’t come down here to stop her daughter from eloping, as she told you, Archy. She came to either help or hinder the girl’s search. That’s what Mr. Anderson told Simone.”

“Simone, Ursi?”

“She’s the Andersons’ upstairs girl,” Ursi said.

As noted, when you get enough people taking potshots at the same target someone is bound to hit the bull’s-eye. The only saving grace was that no one would know whose arrow had hit the mark. Apropos of nothing, did Mrs. Anderson know her husband kept Simone upstairs?

I stood, looking rather fit in a crisp cord suit from Chipp, pale green (I believe it is now known as celadon) button-down shirt with open collar and loafers. Must I say no socks? Socks with loafers in Palm Beach in July is just not done, like diamond tiaras at lunch or pinky rings on gentlemen. “I have to be on my way,” I told the couple.

“Don’t forget the folks will be home in a few days,” she reminded me.

“Doesn’t the time fly?”

I would be happy and relieved to have the lord and lady of our manor back. I especially missed mother and at this juncture would even welcome the advice and consent of father regarding the unenviable positions of Thomas Appleton and Richard Cranston. Or did I just long to retaliate and drop a few names over cocktails? And I had not forgotten my invitation to Casa Gran this evening. Oh, Prescott will be green with envy, rugging on his mustache and sending his one eyebrow toward the ceiling.

Jamie followed me out to our driveway and surmising he had something to add to the morning gossip, I paved the way with, “What do you hear, Jamie?” I asked because Jamie pioneered in don’t ask, don’t tell politics.

“Bit of a flap over at the Cranstons’ is what I hear.” With Jamie that could mean anything from a collapsed souffle to murder.

“Any details?” I encouraged.

“Seems Mr. Cranston sent his regrets to an invitation from the White House. Big social event. Dinner for fifty and then some guy was going to play the cello for the guests. Mrs. Cranston was furious and let him know it as well as everyone else in the house. She got so testy, Cook almost quit.”

This misbegotten affair was taking its toll on the natives. One got the feeling that everyone on the island was holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The most disturbing fact to those concerned must be that there was nothing they could do about it, and frustration is a dangerous humor. Blow the whistle and the jig’s up.

Keeping quiet could get the same result. Sabrina, the paradigm of bargain makers, was the only one in a position to stop Gillian from her inane prying, but was having no success, it seemed. But did Sabrina truly want to stop her?

“Anyone know why Cranston turned down his old fraternity brother?”

Hobo joined us to eavesdrop. Jamie slipped him a treat and Hobo retreated back to his home. “Seems he doesn’t want to leave Palm Beach at the moment, is what the staff hears. Why, they don’t know.”

Neither does poor Mrs. Cranston, which accounted for her rage. With three unmarried daughters she couldn’t afford to turn down invitations where eligible bachelors roamed the range like bison. Ursi’s info was secondhand hearsay, while Jamie’s was straight to-the-point, fact. He wouldn’t think anything else was worth opening his mouth for. I slipped him a pourboire along with a thank-you and hopped in my Miata.

As I headed for the Palm Court I speculated upon how much longer this farce could go on before something gave. But what or who would give was the question. Did Appleton call Sabrina? Did Cranston? If so, had she agreed to see them? And what could she say other than she was sorry she told Gillian as much as she had and promise to stop her their? daughter from causing any more talk than she already had?

Could Sabrina do it twice, without cracking a smile? She could. But would it be enough? I was tempted to call her, but remained unyielding in my resolve to mind my own business and let the chips fall where they may, as long as they didn’t land on poor Archy’s head.

Why was I going to the Palm Court? Because little Miss Buttons and Bows had twisted my er arm until I agreed to see Antony Gilbert. I must say the girl was as subtle as a rattlesnake and just as mesmerizing. The younger generation is a many-splendored thing, let me tell you. Children in adult garb, they are both vampiric and satyric.

I should have sent her packing last night with a sound reprimand. I did not because I wanted to see just how far she would go to attain her goal. Not all the way, but not all that bad either. Did the end justify the means? Well, I’m on my way to do her bidding.

No stretch limos on my tail this morning, but Al Rogoff’s car was in its bay. Binky, of course, was at work. If Al didn’t happen to be looking out his window I’m sure Mrs. Brewster across the way would ring him up to announce that the red car was back without the stretch limo.

Bianca was out her door before I had a chance to close the Miata’s ignition. She came running to the car wearing white shorts and a man’s pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails hanging out.

She had her hair pulled back and tied with a white satin ribbon and a U

of Miami baseball cap on her head and sneakers on her feet. She looked so good she should be illegal.

“Do you think that’s the proper attire for our mission?” I asked as she got into the car.

“Relax, Archy, I dressed down to throw Tony off the scent. You know, casual. Hi, ‘bye, in, out. Let him guess what we’re doing.” She pulled the baseball cap on tighter as we picked up speed.

“Don’t worry, he’ll know what we’re doing there. I’m sure you didn’t hide your displeasure at the police for not carting him off in handcuffs. I hope he lets us in. He doesn’t have to, you know.”

“He’ll let us in. He likes Lolitas, which is really why I got myself gussied up like Betty Cheerleader.”

Her candor was amazing. “Did you enjoy our dinner date?” I questioned.

“Sure. Especially the dessert,” she answered.

“You mean the creme caramel?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

“You are a vixen, missy, and I should take you over my knee.” I reconsidered in a split second and cautioned, “And don’t you dare say what you’re thinking.”

She laughed. “Oh, poor Archy. We had some fun last night and he’s on a guilt trip. Forget it. I have.”

That was unsettling. “I have a cocktail party this evening…”

“How jolly.”

“I repeat. I must attend a cocktail party this evening. Business, you know. But we could meet for dinner after. Say about eight.”

“Only if you take me to the Pelican Club.”

“I would rather not, Bianca.”

“Why, are you ashamed of me?”

“You know that’s not true. I was thinking of something a little more upscale, like Chez Jean-Pierre. Cassoulet, fresh Dover sole…”

“Creme caramel,” came her sharp tongue. Then, unable to contain herself she laughed that child’s laugh to let me know it was all a tease. “I am going to the Pelican tonight, Archy.”

“Not with me, you’re not,” I said.

“I know that, silly. I’m going with Binky. He called this morning and invited me.”

“Binky?” I exploded.

“Yes. What’s wrong with that? We’re going to look over his loot and then go to dinner. He’s a very nice guy, Archy, and he likes me.”

“I know he does, Bianca. Don’t trifle with him, please. He hurts easily.”

“So do I, Archy.”

ZAP! I had been put in my place and I didn’t like it but it was where I belonged. In a corner with the dunce cap on my pointed head. I had deluded myself into thinking she had fallen for the McNally charm.

Think again, Archy. She had been the seductress, going only as far as needed to get her way. If she was looking for romance she wanted to find it with someone who didn’t plan each date as if it were a mission impossible.

Could you blame her? If you have lost a boyfriend, both parents, and a magnanimous employer before you’ve hit the quarter-century mark, you build up your defenses and become very suspicious of someone like me and my microwave oven.

“This will not be Jean-Pierre’s lucky night,” I conceded.

“If you take your lady to the Pelican, we could make it a foursome.”

I would rather stick pins in my eyes.

She directed me to the Gilbert residence, which was on the Intercoastal down toward South Palm Beach.

A pink one-story villa, it lacked only matching flamingos on the lawn.

It screamed two million, give or take. The planting was old even if the money was new. The front door looked like the entrance to a harem den in an old Maria Montez movie. No one answered our ring. Good. We could go home.

“He must have fired Louisa,” Bianca said. “Let’s go ‘round back.”

A flagstone path led along the side of the house and to the rear yard.

It was a long walk, but pleasant, thanks to the carefully landscaped shrubbery, palms, and royal poincianas. We heard the splash of a diver, an eerie sound considering why we were there, before we turned the bend and came upon the rear patio and pool. The diver was now swimming, and a man I believed to be Antony Gilbert was seated at a wrought-iron and glass table in a white terry robe, balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was a typical late-morning Palm Beach scene.

At the sight of Bianca and me he put down his coffee, rose, and came toward us. “Bianca, my dear. What a pleasure. It’s been too long.”

The British accent wasn’t bad as far as phony British accents go and Antony Gilbert wasn’t bad if you liked the phony British accent type. I could see him in a third-rate touring company of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. I have identified and studied two types of the male species who inhabit south Florida in packs I call The Fringe Set. You know the type the guys who are perpetually on the outside, hoping to get in.

First we have the Papa Hemingways. They are especially prevalent in the Keys. Bulky, past their prime, with grizzled beards and fishing caps, they drink only rum and sport a single golden earring and a ponytail. They lust after busty women in bikinis and are usually impotent.

Then there are the Gary Grants. Clean-cut, tall, slim, British accent of dubious origin, charming, and witty. They lust after rich women and are usually bisexual. I have already told you what side Tony Gilbert bats for.

“Hello, Tony,” Bianca said, all smiles. “This is my friend Archy McNally. He gave me a ride. You know how I hate to drive.”

Gilbert and I shook. “A pleasure, Archy. If I may?”