McNally's Dilemma (11 page)

“Who was on board last night?”

“The usual suspects.”

“How many?” I probed.

“I think I invited about thirty, so I assume sixty showed up.”

A big group, plus a few too many libations, and a host couldn’t be chided for neglecting a guest or two. Things were looking up. “Did you notice Lolly in the crowd?”

“Of course,” Meecham answered.

“Well, Lolly came with Geoff Williams,” I exclaimed.

That, finally, got Phil Meecham’s undivided attention. “Lolly and Geoff together? Really? Is that why Melva shot him?”

Peanut Island loomed ahead of us and I figured the boat was making more progress than I was. “No, Phil. She shot him because he couldn’t remember who was at your party.”

My words went either unheard or unheeded as we sailed through the Lake Worth Inlet before plowing into the Atlantic with a thrust of the prow that bespoke the apocalyptic clash between irresistible force and immovable object. While the Atlantic was indeed an irresistible force, Meecham’s expensive tub was far from immovable. In fact, the yacht’s motions were rather like the undulations of the Minsky chorus girls who added the oomph to Grandfather McNally’s act that kept the paying customers begging for more.

“We’ll calm down once we get our stride,” Meecham reported.

I deposited my glass in a hole in the arm of my deck chair made especially for this purpose. I had hardly touched my tomato and vodka but noticed that the only thing left in Meecham’s glass was the swizzle stick, which, incidently, was a plastic rendition of a celery stalk. “How close to the shore can we get?” I asked, hoping my stomach would focus in on the S word and give me some peace. It didn’t.

“Buzz said the tide is with us, so I suppose we can get within a hundred yards of the beach.”

I would hate to see the tide when it was agin’ us.

Meecham took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to keep it off his forehead, where the wind insisted it belonged. “I love the ocean,” he called, competing with the roar of the surf and the drone of our diesel engine.

“So do I,” I yelled back. “I swim every day, weather permitting.”

“I use the pool at the Bath and Tennis,” Meecham said.

“I prefer the ocean,” I answered, then added, “for swimming.”

“At the Bath and Tennis the pool water is piped in from the Atlantic,” Meecham informed me.

If I swam offshore of the Bath and Tennis, might I get pulled into one of their pipes and end up doing laps with charter members? In my cerise Speedos? Perhaps I had better rethink my bathing attire.

We were moving south now under a partly cloudy sky and a sun playing peekaboo with the Atlantic Ocean. Buzz had us close enough to the shore so that I might easily pick out the elegant Breakers—the Palm Beach Country Club—and the Bath and Tennis Club, which I now knew was sucking in the water beneath us. A few minutes later First Mate Buzz turned off our engine, allowing the
Sans Souci
to rock in the surf like an oversize sitting duck.

“This must be the place,” Meecham announced, rising from his deck chair.

As we approached the salon, Veronica and Lolly stepped out onto the deck, where Buzz was already waiting. The scribe resembled a cat who had just enjoyed a bowl of cream, so I assumed all went well with the interview. Veronica had tied back her hair with what appeared to be a simple piece of string and looked more enticing than ever. Buzz, as previously stated, looked like Cary Grant from the neck up and an ad for an exercise machine from that point down. Archy looked a bit green around the gills for more reasons than I care to elaborate on.

“There’s the house,” Buzz said, pointing toward shore. He was rewarded with a touch of Veronica’s hand on his muscled arm.

“I’ll stay with the ship,” Meecham informed us. “The rest of you get into the speedboat. Buzz’ll pilot you onto the beach.”

I hadn’t counted on either Buzz or Lolly coming ashore with us. Just how I had imagined getting Veronica and me to the house and back to the ship, I couldn’t for the life of me remember. On film a quick cut would get us to the house and another would have us back on the
Sans Souci.
Sorry, Oscar, but life does not imitate art. And having brought Lolly this far into our confidence, there was no closing the door in his face at this juncture. The next time I decided to play James Bond, I would have a closer look at the script.

Buzz opened the gate cut into the ship’s railing and stepped onto the small, square platform, to which was attached a flight of stairs. These led to a smart speedboat that bobbed in the surf like a baby duck alongside its mama.

“I’ll lead,” Buzz told us, full of the confidence of youth, beauty, and a master’s degree in nautical protocol. “You next, Veronica, than Lolly—Archy can bring up the rear.”

I doubted if Buzz had the brains for astringent humor, so credited that last command to ensure that two strong, young men formed protective bookends for our expedition.

“And,” Buzz advised, “I suggest you take off your shoes and socks and roll up your pant legs, but bring your shoes with you. You’ll need ’em ashore.” He might be first mate on the
Sans Souci,
but he was captain of that speedboat.

I have often heard that one should never look down during a precarious descent, so I looked up and saw a chopper heading straight for our little party.

“Smile, kids,” I shouted down the line, “we’re on
Candid Camera.”

H
ATTIE WAS WAITING FOR
us on the beach. Veronica fell into the faithful housekeeper’s arms and the two had a long cry before a word was spoken. The men hung back: Buzz sticking with the speedboat; Lolly mentally inscribing the scene; me, feeling a little like Moses having delivered his people safely across the Red Sea, breathing a sigh of relief.

“First, I saw the big boat,” Hattie began, sounding as if she had spotted the Loch Ness monster on our shores. “Then the little boat. Then the helicopter.” We all looked up at the chopper that had escorted us from ship to shore. It was still circling, the din of its engine carried by a strong offshore breeze. Buzz, wouldn’t you know it, was smiling and waving at the pilot and crew. “I didn’t know what was happening, Miss Veronica.”

Veronica put her arm around the old lady’s shoulders and gently began to propel her toward the house. Lolly and I followed, and Buzz, who had to stay with the speedboat, was content to smile for the cameras. I hoped a stiff neck would be the end result of his vanity.

“When I saw the blond hair, Miss Veronica, I knew it was you. I thought you were bringing Missy home. Where is Missy? The policemen in the house tell me nothing and I don’t ask.”

“I’ll explain everything to you as soon as we get inside, Hattie,” Veronica promised. “We haven’t much time. First I want to go to my room and pack—”

“Pack?” Hattie moaned. “Why pack? Where are you going? Where’s Missy?”

“Hattie, please.” Veronica spoke more sternly now, like one accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. “I said I would explain everything and I will. You brew a pot of coffee for Mr. Archy and Mr. Spindrift and then come to my room—and bring me a cup.”

“Did you say the police are still in the house, Hattie?” I asked as we approached the pool.

“Yes, Mr. Archy. Two. In the solarium, where the accident happened.”

Accident? Was Melva’s housekeeper doing a little missionary work? If so, no fool Hattie. And there it was again, like a pinprick to my brain. The thought that Hattie had said something last night that I should have questioned on the spot—but didn’t. What was it?

“What’s happening out front?” Lolly wanted assurance that his colleagues were still waiting, in vain, at the gate.

Hattie, leading our procession, stopped abruptly, and we all followed suit. Marching behind Mother Hattie in her black dress with white collar and cuffs while clutching our shoes, we must have resembled a group of worshipers walking barefoot to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

“Out there?” Hattie cried. “At the front gate? A mob like Grand Central Station at the rush hour. Cameras, walkie-talkies, telephones without cords, spyglasses, and even a truck selling coffee and sandwiches but the police got rid of it, thank God.

“Mrs. Marsden came with my tonic this morning, bless her, and the policeman said there’s a crazy lady out there saying she’s delivering medicine. Only crazy one around here, mister, is you, I told him. Let her through or I’ll call the police.”

So, to avoid redundancy, Mrs. Marsden made it through, and Hattie, fortified by her tonic, was feeling her oats.

“I tried calling,” Veronica began, hoping to stem the tide, but this only brought about another verbal deluge from Hattie.

“After they took Missy away, and the house still full of policemen, I couldn’t sleep. Then I did finally nod off, four or five in the morning, but then the calls started coming in and never stopped. The policeman told me to pull the plugs. I say, ‘No, Missy might want me.’ He says, ‘Missy can’t call.’ I didn’t believe him but the phones don’t stop and none of the calls were from Missy. Everyone wanted a statement. ‘I have nothing to say,’ I told them. After, I just pick up and hang up, don’t even put it to my ear. Then I give up waiting for Missy but I don’t know how to pull the plugs, so I ask the policeman and he does it.”

“Poor Hattie,” Veronica said. “Is there food in the house? Do you have everything you need?”

“Plenty of food, Miss Veronica. But I have no appetite. My change of climate sickness and then the...” Hattie once again burst into tears. Veronica, attempting to comfort her, joined in.

“Come,” Veronica urged once again. “Let’s get inside. I need that coffee.”

We were nearing the solarium, where I noticed that all the blinds were tightly drawn. Lolly gave me a poke in the ribs and pointed, mouthing a silent “In there?” Before I could confirm or deny, Hattie exploded once more.

“We can’t go through there,” she announced, like a Historic House Tour guide telling her group the private quarters were off-limits. “They were in there until it got light. Taking pictures, I think. Then the ambulance came and they took...”

Veronica saved us from another round of crying and comforting by taking the lead and marching toward an unobtrusive back door. “We’ll go in through the kitchen,” she stated.

“Shake off the sand and put on your shoes,” Hattie commanded. “I mopped the floor twice today. What else was there to do?”

The kitchen was huge, all white tile and chrome. There were enough professional-grade appliances to make any restaurant chef jealous. The fact that it was used to serve three people who ate out four nights out of seven boggled my mind—but then my mind is easy to boggle.

Hattie went straight for the electric perk, and Veronica told us to wait in the drawing room before disappearing upstairs. Lolly followed me, taking in every detail of the rental mansion. “Do you know who this place belongs to, Archy?”

“No. Do you?”

“An old couple who went into hock to get their daughter married to an English title. Now they have to rent the place every winter and go live with their daughter and son-in-law in his family castle. No central heat, sixty bedrooms, one loo, and if you want to take a bath you have to order the hot water a week in advance.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Would I lie to you, Archy?”

“Yes.”

Melva once told me that the New York apartment and the East Hampton house were all the real estate she wanted to own. One of the advantages of being very rich was having the means to rent, at exorbitant rates, a mansion in Palm Beach or a castle in Ireland, and walk away when the season ended.

The drawing room brought back memories of last night, and I wondered if Melva had dressed before the police arrived, or greeted them in her peignoir. Strange the things you think about at times like this. Melva had wondered if Geoff’s date drove off naked a minute before she pulled the trigger. And there it was again—what did Hattie tell me?

“You know the way to the solarium?” Lolly asked.

“You heard Hattie. It’s a no-no and the police are still in there.”

“One peek, Archy. You want to see it as much as I do.”

I did, but only because I thought a look at the room might start the little gray cells meshing and endow me with total recall of all that Melva and Hattie had told me last night. It always worked for M. Poirot. “Quick,” I said, “before Hattie brings the coffee. She’ll think we’re ghouls.”

“Well, aren’t we?”

I retraced the route I had taken last night. Then, I had found the solarium door open, and did again. But instead of Geoff, dead, I was greeted with the sight of Sergeant Al Rogoff and one of his men who looked young enough to be Al’s son—both alive. As is our custom in company, Al and I exchanged a brief nod but said nothing. The room looked as serene as a picture out of a glossy magazine. All traces of last night’s “accident” were gone. The photographers and print men must have done their thing hours ago, so why the no-trespassing order with the police still there to enforce it? I would have to ask Al, but not in front of Lolly and the rookie. I foresaw lunch at the Pelican, and so did Al.

“You can’t come in here,” Al told his unwelcome visitors.

“I know,” Lolly answered, “we just wanted to look in. We’re here with—”

“I know who you’re here with,” Al said. “I saw you coming.”

“One if by land, two if by sea,” I recited. The rookie looked at me askance (impudent pup) and Al shook his head. “The yacht was my idea,” I proudly told them.

“It figures,” Al commented. I wanted to tell him to forget lunch at the Pelican but remembered that silence was golden. If I was going to be of any use to Melva Williams and John Fairhurst III, I would need all the help I could get and Al Rogoff was my
numero uno
contact on the PBPD.

“Would you please tell the young lady I’d like to see her as soon as possible,” Al ordered.

“Can I know why?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but I’m sure she’ll tell you why as soon as I’m finished with her.”

I gave Al our covert nod but he didn’t nod back, so I gently pulled Lolly out of the doorway and saluted the boys in blue. “Ta-ta, lads.”