McNally's Chance (32 page)

Forgetting himself, Silvester said, “I was shocked. I didn’t believe Sabrina’s story. She was a genius when it came to creating plots.”

But not even Sabrina Wright could have created the plot she had lived.

Now, thanks to her assassins, and a loyal Archy McNally, her story would never be told and three very lavish floral wreaths, unsigned, would see her to her rest.

If Silvester didn’t believe Sabrina’s story of Gillian’s birth, neither did Gillian. But when the calls came they didn’t stop to wonder that Sabrina was telling the truth. They thought it convenient that their fictional patsy was real, but Gillian had no intention of waiting around to claim her birthright. She and Silvester wanted only to get away as soon as possible and leave it to the police to solve the thirty-year-old mystery.

The first call must have taken them by surprise. They were not ready to make their move. They needed time for the gossip mill to build momentum. The second call was also a surprise, but when Sabrina went out that night they must have lacked opportunity, perhaps because they couldn’t get rid of Ward. Time was running out and just as they were beginning to put what must have been their original plan into operation, the third call came. This time luck was with them. Zack wanted to see the ball game. Lucky for him. If he hadn’t they would have gotten him out of the way if they had to drug him.

“Sabrina left, you and Gillian got in Gillian’s rented car and followed her. It was conceivable that the meeting would not take place in a public place and you were right.”

But where was Schuyler? If he had kept his date, Silvester and Gillian would have seen him. Did he arrive late to find Sabrina dead?

“It was Gillian’s turn to make the anonymous call,” I finished. “And because you thought any murderer would try to make it look like a robbery, you took the jewelry and cash. That was stupid, Rob. Very stupid.”

Breaking his silence for the second and last time, he said, “The only stupid thing I did was remember your name.” Then he turned his back on me.

Outside I spotted Al Rogoff, but we did not communicate. Due to the delicate nature of our business we find it advantageous to keep our friendship under wraps when in public and especially on Al’s home turf.

It was absolutely necessary for Al to tell his superior of our last conversation and Lieutenant Eberhart’s reaction, grateful though he was, exemplifies the prudence of this artifice.

I could not see Gillian Wright as she was making a statement. I could imagine her trashing mommy, putting the gun in Silvester’s hand, and pleading guilty of being abused by the one and manipulated by the other. If she gave a jury of her peers as good a performance as she had given me this morning, and if she only aided and abetted in the act of matricide, she just might get off with a slap on the wrist. Would she write a book? I must remember to tell her to refrain from mentioning me as I don’t like to be wrote about.

I did see Zack Ward.

“I’m sitting on the biggest story of the century and I can’t get to a phone,” he griped.

My, wasn’t he concerned for the fate of his sweetheart. When he held Gillian’s hand, all he was doing was hanging on to a story. Poor, poor Gillian. Tell me,” I asked him, ‘did you believe Sabrina’s story about a former rich lover in Palm Beach?”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. I was along for the ride. If we struck pay dirt I had the scoop. If we didn’t I could get an exclusive with Sabrina.”

“What did you think when Sabrina got a call from Gillian’s father?”

Ward grinned. “Was it Jill’s father? Only Rob was so certain. Truth is, I thought Sabrina was getting it on with some young dude. That was her thing, you know, young hunks.”

“Silvester didn’t mind?”

“Why should he? He had a few bimbos on the side.” Tabloid reporters sure do tell it like it is.

Fearing the worst, I said, “Not Gillian, I hope.”

“No way. Jill is in love with me,” came the modest retort.

“And you never found Daddy Warbucks,” I said by way of an exit line.

“But I came up with something interesting,” he divulged. “Just about thirty years ago this rich kid named Harry Schuyler gave some wild parties in his hotel suite in Fort Lauderdale during the spring-break craze. The police raided one of them for dope.

It was all pot then, remember? All the kids were hauled in and this Schuyler’s father posted bail for the lot.

“I’d like to check the Fort Lauderdale police blotter for an account of the raid and see if Sabrina Wright was one of the guests. Good angle for my piece and who knows where it might lead?”

I knew exactly where it would lead because this is where I came in so I left.

“The husband did it,” herb called as I passed him on my way to the elevator. “The daughter made a statement. She was in on it. It’s on CNN,” herb keeps a television, the size of a postage stamp, in his kiosk.

Mrs. Trelawney was about to tell me much the same thing, but I stopped her with, “I was at the police station when the girl talked.”

She was most impressed but for the wrong reason. “You went to the police station in a yellow raw-silk jacket? I’m surprised they didn’t arrest you.”

“Watch your tongue, Mrs. Trelawney; the mater and pater purchased this handsome coat on their travels. Is the master in his lair?”

“He is and he told me to let him know the moment you arrived.”

“The moment has come,” I said, and tapped gently on father’s office door.

When I heard, “Come,” I entered a time warp.

Father’s office could double as a set for a nineteenth-century film and I have long suspected that a framed photo of Queen Victoria is hastily removed whenever the door opens. For this reason, one must always knock.

“Well,” father said, ‘you are saved from having to make your momentous decision. I’ve heard the news.”

Taking a chair, I answered, “I am very relieved, sir, but not overjoyed at the outcome.”

Father, in a blue suit with vest and regimental tie I do not believe he is authorized to wear, nodded solemnly. “Yes, a terrible business, but I’m glad it’s over and you are still with us.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Were you instrumental in breaking the case, Archy?”

“Let’s say I helped.”

“Fine. With the Sabrina Wright murder taking up all the news these past two days, something that should be of interest to you slipped through the cracks.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Harry Schuyler has been hospitalized with a stroke.”

Astonished, I asked, “When?”

“Saturday night as he was getting dressed to go out. I understand the situation is not life-threatening and that he is expected to make as much of a recovery as possible for a man in his condition.”

Kismet, I thought. Was Harry’s stroke responsible for Sabrina’s death?

Had he showed up, would it have deterred her avengers or would Harry have saved them the trouble? “I’m sorry to hear that,” I responded, not sure if I meant it.

In his business-as-usual tone, father said, “That girl you were telling me about, Bianca Courtney, was it?”

This was a surprise. “That’s her name, sir. Why do you ask?”

“You said the woman she worked for left her money to charity and not her husband. Is that correct?”

“It is,” I assured him.

“Well, Archy, when I heard this I immediately thought the situation was not what it seemed but wanted to check my facts, which I did first thing this morning, and I was right.”

“Right, sir? About what?”

“In the state of Florida, a surviving spouse has a right to claim up to thirty percent of the estate regardless of the designated legatee.

Thirty percent of a large fortune amounts to millions of dollars. I would check to see if the husband has contacted a lawyer and begun proceedings.”

That evening, alone in my penthouse, I poured myself a marc, lit my first and last English Oval of the day, and made the final entry in my journal regarding the case of “The Man That Got Away.” Then I called Al Rogoff at his home. When he picked up I could hear Vivaldi in the background.

“She talked?” I said.

Talked? Archy, the broad won’t shut up. She’s coming on as a witness for the prosecution against Silvester.”

“Don’t worry when Silvester’s lawyer gets here he’ll have his say. He’s very smart to keep silent till then.”

Would Silvester raise the father issue? It could hurt him more than help him and it was his word against Gillian’s. Ward could be the deciding factor, saying they all believed Sabrina had made up the father tale without actually perjuring himself. He could say their search was an excuse to get away from Sabrina. When Sabrina followed them here it infuriated Gillian and with a little prodding from Silvester, who has a girl in the woodpile, the infamous deed was conceived. Yes, I think that’s how it would play out, with Silvester taking the fall.

“Your boss read me the riot act, Al; sorry about that.”

“Screw him, Archy. Between the two of us we have him looking like a hero. I ain’t worried.”

“I have another lead for you, Al.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

Tony Gilbert,” I said.

“I don’t want to hear it, Archy.”

I told him anyway and, except for Vivaldi, was rewarded with silence.

“I would exhume the body and have the forensic boys go over that barbell with a fine tooth comb.”

“Maybe we should contact Gilbert’s lawyer first.”

“That would help. And, Al, you don’t have to tell Oscar Eberhart I fed you this one.”

“I’ll say it came to me in a dream,” Al laughed.

Remembering my invitation to Arnie Turnbolt I asked, “You free tomorrow night, Al?”

“I pulled a double, so I got twenty-four hours off. Why?”

“Drop in the Pelican and I’ll buy you a round. Might as well make it a party.

“I just might, pal. Thanks.”

Twenty-Six

“The girl is the victim,” Ursi said, handing me a glass of juice. “She came down here to elope with the man she loves and her mother followed her and tried to stop her. The stepfather has a girlfriend and he talked the daughter into the murder, but it was him who pulled the trigger. It’s all in the morning paper.”

Jamie, at table with his coffee, waved the headline in my face.

Gillian had officially plagiarized my early account of her plight.

Could I sue? “I think I’ll have your fruit cup, Ursi, coffee and rye toast.”

“That’s it?” she wondered.

“That’s it,” I said, determined to drop a few pounds before summer’s end. I was feeling the accumulated effects of yesterday’s pizza and last night’s roast beef extravaganza. Not wishing to rehash Sabrina’s murder over my dismal breakfast, I turned to Jamie. “What other news is there, Jamie?”

“They say Troy Appleton is about to announce his candidacy for the Senate,” Jamie read aloud.

“How nice,” I observed over my fruit cup.

“Harry Schuyler, who had a stroke, is on the mend and expected to go back to his summer place up north in a week.”

“More good news,” I said.

“Richard Cranston has been named our ambassador to the Court of St.

James,” Jamie rattled off.

“And his wife has a new hairdo,” Ursi got in. “Cut very short and layered close to the scalp. Very fetching, they say.”

Virginia Cranston will be reaching for a wig when she sees that photo of the accused in today’s paper.

I called Bianca from my office to tell her of father’s brilliant clarification of the late Mrs. Gilbert’s will.

“So I was right. He did it,” she gloated.

“Easy, Bianca. Easy. This just means the police now have a good reason to open the case. I’m sure they’ll want your testimony as they gather the facts.”

I’ll leave them a forwarding address,” she said.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“I’m moving, Archy. I’m going to Coconut Grove with Brandon. He says it’s wild down there, like Haight-Ashbury in the sixties.”

“Does Binky know this?”

“Sure. He’s taking me to the Pelican tonight for a farewell drink. Why don’t you come?”

“Oh, I’ll be there,” I told her, ‘and so will your other neighbor, Al Rogoff.”

“A party!” she said gaily. “My trailer will be up for grabs and Binky is giving Hermioni Rutherford your name as a potential tenant.”

Me, Binky, and Al Rogoff living in a row like cabbages? For this Binky Watrous deserved to die. Could I talk him into using his microwave oven for a hair dryer? Yes, that’s how I would do it.

“Why don’t you call your girl, Archy? I’d like to meet her before I go,” Bianca urged.

“She’s busy,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t squeal on you.”

The girl was out of control. “Okay. Maybe she’s not busy.”

I must say we were a happy group that night at the Pelican. Of course Bianca berated Al Rogoff for not believing her, and Connie was on my case for not calling her back last Sunday. But that aside, we ordered our frozen daiquiris, martinis, beers, and one rum and Coke, happily concocted and served by Simon Pettibone, then bent our elbows in a toast to friendship.

The girls looked splendid in jeans and the guys summery in chinos, white ducks, and shorts. The shorts, I’m happy to say, were on Arnie Turnbolt, not Al Rogoff.

Binky, his bandaged fingers reduced to two Band-Aids, spoke of running down to Coconut Grove to check out the scene. Connie and Bianca seemed to hit it off and giggled a lot over very little. Arnie Turnbolt told us he’s dating Virginia Cranston’s hairdresser.

Priscilla, exotic in a black sheath that began well below her neck and ended well above her knees, joined the party between making her appointed rounds. And dear Jasmine Pettibone once again brought around a tray of shrimp for us to nibble on.

“Any news from California?” I asked Mrs. Pettibone.

“Nothing, Archy. Still not a word from my cousin and his daughter is frantic,” she told us.

“Sorry I never got around to checking out Henry Peavey,” Al apologized.

“But I will when I get back to work.”

“What’s this about Henry Peavey?” Arnie exclaimed.

We all stared at him. “You know who Henry Peavey is?” I asked.