McNally's Dilemma (7 page)

“
We
have an appointment, sir? Surely you don’t mean Discreet Inquiries.”

“I think I do. Mr. Fairhurst was a bit vague on the phone, which, from past experience, makes me believe that he’s in an embarrassing situation.”

“Surely not like Vance Tremaine,” I protested, perhaps too ardently.

“We won’t jump to conclusions until we hear the man out. Now leave the girl in your mother’s care and get here as quickly as you can. And Archy, do dress properly for this meeting.”

I was rudely awakened to run to the aid of a rich man caught with his pants down and instead of a thank-you I was served a backhanded slur on the appropriateness of my choice of apparel. If I didn’t need the job I would have gone back to bed; however, my bed went with the job, or, put more bluntly, if my job went so would my bed—and board.

I showered, shaved, and stood in my T-shirt and briefs—the ones depicting rabbits in pursuit of rabbits—contemplating my wardrobe when the phone rang again. Before I could say, “Archy here,” Lolly Spindrift assaulted me with “Is she still with you?”

“Who’s she, Lol?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Archy. You owe me. Remember Vance Tremaine?”

“I also remember
The Alamo
and
The Sands of Iwo Jima.
Both starring John Wayne.”

“You’re holding Veronica Manning,” Lolly insisted.

Geoff’s murder couldn’t have made the early editions, but Lolly’s editors must have called him as soon as the news hit the wire services. Lolly, after all, was their society editor, and Melva Ashton Manning Williams was society with a capital S.

“Holding her under lock and key? Never.”

“You’re at your worst when you try to be clever, Archy. Veronica is with you, I know.”

“Flattery will get you noplace, Lol, and how, pray tell, do you know Veronica is here?”

“I talked to Binky Watrous.”

“Since when is Binky Watrous a prime source for your gossip sheet?”

“Since one of my spies among the young set told me he saw Binky and Veronica at some ghastly party last night. I know Melva is in custody and I can’t get to her yet, so I tried to contact Veronica but couldn’t get through. I think the phone at the Williams manse is off the hook. I called my informer on the off chance that he knew something and struck pay dirt.”

The Palm Beach grapevine was in overdrive and only luck had prevented Lolly’s spy from seeing me at that ghastly party, but thanks to Binky this didn’t prevent me from being fingered as Veronica’s guardian.

“Binky, by the by, is in a foul mood,” Lolly added. “He says he’s in need of a rabies shot, thanks to you.”

Rabies? Was I to be spared nothing this wretched morning? A glance at my desk clock forced me to put Binky, rabies, and child spies on a back burner. Wishing to do the same with Lolly Spindrift, I ceded, “Okay, she’s here, but I’m on my way out and can’t talk now. Later, Lol, I promise.”

“I want an exclusive, Archy.”

Why not? Lolly Spindrift was a friend to the rich and famous of Palm Beach. He would be kind, if nothing else, and give the proper slant to his interview with Veronica—kind mother, wicked stepfather—it could go a long way in shaping the coverage the press would give the story, all to Melva’s advantage.

I remembered that Lolly Spindrift was one of the last people to see Geoff alive. Lolly drove Geoff to Phil Meecham’s party, where, most likely, Geoff picked up his playmate. Lolly, whose job it was to note and record such facts, could certainly identify the woman. I’m sure the details of the murder were not yet public knowledge, so Lolly had no idea that he would be a pivotal figure in Melva’s defense. But his role in this passion play deemed it even more practical to give him the exclusive interview with Veronica Manning he so craved.

“What’s it like at Melva’s place?” I questioned, stalling for time.

“Pure havoc. The front gate looks like a mob scene for a DeMille epic. A couple of cops behind the gate are keeping them from storming the castle. The police station and the courthouse are also under siege.”

“All bases covered,” I said. Just as well Veronica stays here for now. “I’ll call you later this afternoon, Lol, and arrange something.”

“Promise?”

“On my word, Lol.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Archy.”

Employing a smart Anglo-Saxon expletive, I told Lolly Spindrift that he could go do unto himself as he would have others do unto him, and hung up.

I selected the blue suit and rep tie I had worn to lure Ginny, but substituted a pair of sensible brogues for the Allen-Edmonds kilties. On the second floor, I paused at the guest-room door, which was closed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Veronica—or did I want Veronica to catch a glimpse of me in my corporate attire? Either way, it proved a futile maneuver.

“Don’t you look nice,” Ursi greeted as I entered the kitchen. Did this imply that I don’t always look nice?

“Coffee, Ursi, please. Black and strong,” I answered, without so much as a good morning. Ursi was at the stove, as usual, and Jamie was seated with a cup of coffee and the morning paper before him.

“I’ll brew a fresh pot, Mr. Archy. Won’t take a minute.”

“Father had a problem getting his Lexus out of the garage this morning?” I directed this at Jamie. He nodded without taking his eyes from his newspaper. So taciturn is Jamie that in his presence a clam appears verbose.

“Miss Veronica is still asleep,” Ursi was saying as she plugged in the electric perc.

“How do you know who’s in the guest room?” I directed this at Ursi.

“Mrs. Marsden, of course,” Ursi replied, as if I should have known better than to ask.

“Mrs. Marsden?” I cried. Mrs. Marsden was Lady Horowitz’s housekeeper.

“Yes, Mr. Archy. Mrs. Marsden went to the Williams house this morning to take Hattie a tonic for her change of climate malaise. She makes it herself, and it’s the only thing that helps poor Hattie. Well, when she got there she thought the place had been burgled, what with the reporters and the police and...”

“How did she get into the house?” I asked incredulously.

“The tonic, Mr. Archy. She told the men at the gate she had to deliver the tonic.”

“And they let her through?”

“But of course, and not a moment too soon. Poor Hattie was in desperate need—”

“Is the coffee ready, Ursi?” I broke in, needing it more than poor Hattie needed Mrs. Marsden’s tonic.

“Almost, Mr. Archy.”

“So Hattie told Mrs. Marsden what transpired at the house last night and Mrs. Marsden has passed it along, house to house, on her way back to the Horowitz place.” I spoke as one who knows.

“Isn’t it terrible, Mr. Archy. Poor Mrs. Williams.”

No one had yet said “Poor Mr. Williams,” I noted.

“When I went in to air the guest room, like I do every morning, I saw we had company and told Mr. McNally.” Ursi spoke as she poured my coffee. “That was before Mrs. Marsden’s visit, when we only suspected who the guest might be. We didn’t know you had gone to fetch Mrs. Williams’s child until Mrs. Marsden told us—she having got that news from poor Hattie.”

My head was spinning, but not too fast for me to protest, “She’s not a child, Ursi. Twenty-one, at least.” I accepted the steaming cup of java with thanks and joined Jamie at the table.

“Can I get you a proper breakfast, Mr. Archy?” Ursi offered.

“No time, but I could hang around long enough for a toasted muffin.”

Father knew, but obviously had not told them, who occupied our guest room. If he had, he would have had to tell them about the murder before he knew all the facts, which was not Prescott McNally’s style. Also, I’m sure, he didn’t want to upset Mother with the news sooner than was necessary. “So why,” I thought aloud, “did you suspect it was Veronica before Mrs. Marsden played Paul Revere?”

“Because of Hobo.” It was Jamie who answered.

“Hobo?” My stomach quivered, threatening to eject the hot coffee I was pouring into it.

“When Hobo attacked your friend parking the Mercedes...”

Thanks to Lolly’s mention of Binky being in need of a rabies shot, I didn’t have to hear the rest of Jamie’s story.

“What a ruckus!” Ursi exclaimed, serving my muffin, which I doubted I could get down, let alone keep down.

“When I heard the racket,” Jamie continued, “I went down to see what was going on. Hobo had him by the ankle and I had all to do to shake him loose.” I wanted to ask Jamie if it was Hobo or Binky who got shook, but refrained.

“What a sight,” Ursi said. “I watched from the window, ready to call the police if need be, but then I recognized your friend, Mr. Archy, and told Jamie it was okay.”

“Wasn’t there someone with Binky?”

“Yes,” Jamie said. “There was a car behind the Mercedes, but the boy in it wouldn’t get out to help the other lad.”

“He was afraid of Hobo biting him, too,” Ursi said. “I offered to wash and bandage the boy’s leg, but he refused my help. Just drove off with his friend.”

I had the disquieting feeling that I was trapped inside an Olsen and Johnson movie.

“This Binky said the car belonged to Veronica Manning and he was delivering it on your orders, Mr. Archy. Then he limped off to the other car. That’s why we suspected it was her in the guest room,” Ursi finished.

I didn’t think I could take much more, but I had to know—“Why was father late this morning? Why couldn’t you just move the Mercedes so he could get the Lexus out of the garage?”

“No key,” Jamie said and went no further. I wondered if he had spoken his allotted number of words for the day and whether I would I have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of the story.

“The key wasn’t in the ignition?” I prompted.

Jamie shook his head.

“Did you try the glove compartment?”

Jamie nodded.

“And?”

“It was locked,” Ursi said. “We had to jimmy the lock.”

“I figure,” Jamie began, coming to life, “that the boy opened the glove compartment with the ignition key, but didn’t actually unlock it, if you get what I mean—then he put the key in the compartment, and when he closed the door, he locked the key inside.”

I silently sentenced Binky Watrous to a year in the pen with Hobo as his cellmate.

Mother was in the greenhouse surrounded by her beloved begonias. She wore a printed dress and gardening gloves and sported a dark smudge on her forehead. In this verdant setting, she looked as calm, serene, and happy as this lovely lady had every right to be. I had foolishly, and perhaps naïvely, hoped to keep mother from learning about the murder, but Mrs. Marsden’s visit had brought about the inevitable sooner rather than later.

“Why, how nice you look, Archy,” she stated as I entered the greenhouse, which was warm even on this sunless morning.

I kissed her flushed cheek and took her gloved hand in mine. “You’ve heard about Melva Williams?”

“I have, Archy. Mrs. Marsden was here earlier, as I suppose Ursi has already told you.”

“Melva’s daughter spent the night with us, Mother.”

“We thought it was Veronica,” she said, putting down her trowel. “Is she very upset, Archy?”

“Yes, Mother, but the young are resilient. It’s Melva I’m worried about.”

“That’s kind of you, Archy. But I thought Melva’s husband fell off a horse and died a long time ago.”

“He did, Mother. He was Veronica’s father. The dead man is Geoffrey Williams, Melva’s second husband.”

Mother shook her head. “How things have changed, Archy. Time was when everyone had just one husband.”

“I know, Mother.”

“And something like this happening among people we know—why, it was unheard of. I don’t understand it, Archy.”

“No one can understand something like this, Mother, so don’t dwell on it. Concentrate on your flowers. They are so beautiful.”

“Yes, Archy, aren’t they?” She nodded and smiled, happy to focus on something other than the vulgarities of modern life.

“I must go to the office, as Father is expecting me. When Veronica gets up and has had her breakfast, I was wondering if you would show her your garden and perhaps let her assist you in the greenhouse.”

“Oh, Archy. What a lovely idea. I would be delighted. Shall I say how sorry I am that her father fell off his horse?”

“No, Mother. I don’t think that will be necessary. But you might tell her the name of every variety of begonia you so ardently raise and nurture.”

“Of course. She would like that, wouldn’t she, Archy?”

“Yes, Mother, she would like that very much.”

“A
RCHY? MY, MY, DON’T
you look nice.”

First Ursi, then mother, and now Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s secretary. Not exactly an authoritative triumvirate of male fashion, but even so, this diverse threesome had me regretting that I had not had a chance to show myself off to the lovely Veronica this morning. Would she have turned my female admirers into a quartet?

I acknowledged Mrs. Trelawney’s compliment with a humble bow of the head, a gesture denoting modesty and the self-chastising employee who was ten minutes late for a meeting with the boss. “I didn’t have time to put together my expense account, Mrs. Trelawney, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Fine, Archy. It’s been a busy morning and, truth be told, I’m not in the mood for lyrical fiction.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“And I’ll pretend I didn’t say it. Do you want to go out, come in, and start all over again?”

“I can’t spare the time.”

“I’ll say you can’t.” Extending her arm, she waved her wristwatch at my face.

“Lovely, my dear. Is it a Rolex or a Timex?”

“Whatever it is,
my dear,
it says it’s twelve minutes after twelve. You are late.”

“Better late than never, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“Around here, better never late, Mr. McNally.”

“Is the great one here?” I nodded toward the closed door of father’s inner sanctum.

“Which one?” Mrs. Trelawney questioned.

“How many are we expecting?”

“Well, there’s the one in residence, and the other who arrived on the stroke of twelve. Had you not stopped to chat with Herb you would have been here before him.”

Herb is the security person who keeps us safe from his post inside a glass booth in our underground garage. “How do you know I passed the time of day with Herb?”