McNally's Folly (33 page)

Here, I played my final card. “I could use a drink myself, DeeDee. How about you?”

“You think I’m stupid. Turn around. I have to shoot you in the back like I didn’t know who you were.”

I did as I was told and now I was the one with a wet forehead.

Who would have thought Archy McNally would go down in Desdemona Darling’s boudoir, clutching an autographed photograph of her first husband?

I heard a groan and when I turned, gingerly, I saw Al Rogoff holding Desdemona’s neck in the crook of his elbow. Her gun went off and made a neat hole in the bedroom ceiling.

“Why didn’t you wait until she shot me?” I groaned.

“Because I would never have forgiven myself, pal.”

A
SEARCH OF JOE
Anderson’s apartment in Juno Beach turned up a tin can designed to hold a reel of movie film. It was empty, as are most of the closets that contain our personal bogeymen.

Desdemona Darling hired a “dream team” of Hollywood lawyers to help prove her insane at the time of the two murders. Given Desdemona’s acting ability, especially in the glare of a spotlight, Father thinks the prosecution will have a tough time refuting the defense’s plea.

A member of Mother’s garden club graciously volunteered to tend the begonias in Mother’s absence. “I’m relieved,” Mother admitted to me. “I hated to tell your father, but Kate Mulligan didn’t know very much about gardening in general and begonias in particular. I just didn’t have the heart to fire her.”

I replied by kissing Mother’s rosy cheek.

“All’s well that ends well,” I quoted to Binky Watrous, “and there’s a job opening at McNally and Son with your name on it.”

“I know, Archy,” he nodded sadly, not exactly ecstatic over the prospect of fulfilling his dream.

“Just think, Binky. Job security, medical benefits, a pension fund, two weeks’ paid vacation, the Duchess off your case, and all the coffee you can drink.”

“I just wish poor Joe had retired in a more conventional way. It’s wrong to profit from a crime.”

Binky is as honorable as a comic book superhero, but without the four-color poster boys’ built-in defense mechanisms. This sometimes worries me. “Cheer up and take solace in the motto
ad astra per aspera.
”

“What does that mean, Archy?”

“To the stars, through difficulties. It happens to be the motto of the state of Kansas, and everyone knows you have to pass through Kansas in order to reach Oz.”

From the column of Lolly Spindrift. Palm Beach. The Ides of March.

Our very own Archy McNally pulled off a coup de théâtre last night at the Lake Worth Playhouse where, under his direction,
Arsenic and Old Lace
was presented by the Palm Beach Community Theater. The community theater’s own Creative Director, Lady Cynthia Horowitz, scored a hit in the starring role of that delightful murderess, Abby Brewster. Another society matron of note, Penny Tremaine, ably supported Lady Cynthia as her equally charming but also lethal sister, Martha Brewster. Other stalwarts of our island in the sun, including Hanna Ventura, Vance Tremaine and Phil Meecham, excelled in supporting roles. And special kudos to Arnold Turnbolt, who had them rolling in the aisles with his portrayal of Dr. Einstein; stage manager Binky Watrous, who also portrayed one of the police officers; and Director McNally himself in the role of Mr. Gibbs.

Honorable mention to cast members Ron Seymour, William Ventura, Ed Rogers and Henry Lee Wilson. Everyone looked so well, thanks to makeup consultant Priscilla Pettibone, and remembered their lines, thanks to prompter Consuela Garcia.

But I have saved the best for the last. Not only did Buzz Carr and Elizabeth “Fitz” Fitzwilliams charm the audience as the play’s young lovers, they also drew the eye of a noted Hollywood producer who has offered to screen-test the duo for his next epic! People are recalling names like Tracy and Hepburn, Bogie and Bacall, McQueen and MacGraw, wherever the couple appear. Lady Cynthia Horowitz will give a reception the night of the play’s closing to celebrate its success and the good fortune of Buzz and Fitz. WOW!

Give unto me a break.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

S
ABRINA WRIGHT.

She was perched on a faux leather stool at Bar Anticipation looking exactly as she did in her author photo on the jacket of her latest bestseller,
Desperate Desire
. Her ebony hair was drawn back so severely from her scalp as to render her startled at what e’er she looked upon and, I suspect, served as a do-it-yourself face-lift. Her eyes were like two shiny black olives; her complexion was one that had never felt the sun’s warmth; and her lips, painted the color of a fine Bordeaux, were pursed in an elongated moue reminiscent of the late actress Joan Crawford. She wore a smart white linen suit and black-and-white sling-back pumps that drew just enough attention to her well-turned ankles and calves. Before her was a frothy concoction in a stemmed glass known, I believe, as a Pink Lady.

Sabrina Wright’s novels are bodice-rippers
par excellence
. Her first,
Darling Desire
(Darling being the heroine’s given name), enjoyed fifty-two weeks on the
New York Times
bestseller list, usurped, finally, by her second blockbuster,
Dangerous Desire
. She subsequently penned such memorable classics as
Deceptive Desire
,
Dark Desire
,
Demanding Desire
,
Devious Desire
, and
Delicious Desire
, as well as this year’s sensation,
Desperate Desire
.

Collectively known as the
Books of Desire
, they had been released as a Moroccan-leather boxed set, illustrated in full color, and translated into thirty languages, including Swahili. For the visually challenged they were available in large print as well as Braille. Sabrina Wright’s oeuvre had spawned films, miniseries, and a long-running evening soap.

Needless to say, I approached with caution.

“Ms. Wright, I presume.”

She turned, startled. “Mr. McNally. How good of you to come.” The voice was deep—if she sang she would be an alto—and pure New York. The delivery announced her point of origin with neither pride nor shame, but as a matter of fact.

I moved in closer but avoided mounting the empty stool next to her. “Are you aware, Ms. Wright, that you are sitting in the most infamous bar in South Florida?”

Her dark eyes scanned me, from head to size-eleven white bucks, as her claret lips curved into a condescending smile. “My readers wouldn’t have it any other way, Mr. McNally. In Chapter One, my heroine is hustling drinks in a dive like this. In Chapter Five, she owns the joint, and by the final page she’s waltzing down the aisle with a title, be it corporate or of the blood.”

So the lady had not only borrowed Joan Crawford’s lips, she had also borrowed Joan’s film plots. As B. Brecht had so aptly put it, “From new transmitters come the old stupidities.” Pointing to the empty stool, she invited me to sit. Gray sharkskin merged with Naugahyde as I accepted the offer, saying, “Have you ever considered altering the plots?”

“If it’s not broke, Mr. McNally, why fix it?”

Why indeed? “May I ask how you got my name, Ms. Wright?”

“From the Yellow Pages.”

“I’m not in the Yellow Pages.”

“Precisely. If you were, I would not have called. One cannot be discreet and in the Yellow Pages. That would be an oxymoron.”

She referred, no doubt, to my position as sole employee of a section of the law firm McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law, yclept Discreet Inquiries. My father is the Attorney, I am the Son, who left New Haven after being expelled from Yale Law. Upon my return in disgrace to Palm Beach, my father provided me with gainful employment as a Discreet Inquirer. If our rich clients should find themselves in a compromising position, they may come to me rather than seek help from law enforcement agencies because they do not wish to see their problems headlined in tabloids for their housekeepers to peruse while waiting in the checkout line at Publix.

I tell people I was tossed out of Yale Law for streaking across the stage, naked except for a Richard Nixon mask, during a performance by the New York Philharmonic of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major. If you choose to believe that, fine. If not, I will give you a hint that is closer to the truth. It wasn’t a Richard Nixon mask and it wasn’t Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9.

I was in my office, located in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, when Sabrina Wright’s call came through. My office is a windowless affair originally intended, I believe, to be a storage closet, albeit a very small storage closet. My father, the venerable Prescott McNally, took pity on me one sweltering August several years back and ordered our maintenance crew to install an air-conditioning duct. This act of kindness made the room’s ambiance more amiable not only for me, but for penguins, should they care to stop by. If you think
mon père
is chagrined over my misunderstanding with the authorities at Yale, you are correct.

“This is Sabrina Wright,” she announced in the manner of a grande dame on the intercom with her kitchen help. I confess, when I ran the name Sabrina Wright through my mental Rolodex I came up with zilch. However, I found it impossible to say no to a sultry female voice imploring me to meet her in a low-life hangout at high noon. Had I refused, I would have had to turn in my Mickey Spillane decoding ring as well as my gumshoes.

One of the resources of a good law firm is its library. At McNally & Son we are doubly blessed with our librarian, Sofia Richmond. Sofia is a superbly qualified librarian, a computer whiz, and a researcher nonpareil. In addition, she not only keeps abreast of all the Palm Beach gossip but, with a little coaxing, will impart what she knows. Reluctantly, I sought Sofia’s help in identifying Sabrina Wright. I say “reluctantly” because I am celebrating one year of
almost
being a nonsmoker. Sofia puffs away happily and will die, I am sure, at the age of one hundred and one with the healthiest pair of lungs in captivity. Leaving my English Ovals behind, I headed for the library.

I found Sofia at her computer, surrounded by intimidating tomes, legal briefs, and an ashtray the size of a flying saucer. Looking at me through her horn-rimmed glasses she tossed out, along with a cloud of smoke, “You look cute.”

In my dove-gray sharkskin suit, blue cambric shirt
sans
cravat, and white bucks left over from my preppy days, I must say I had to admire her keen perception and wished I could return the compliment. But, alas, with her thick spectacles, tight French braid, sturdy oxfords, and two-piece denim dress, I couldn’t bring myself to respond in kind. I have often imagined Sofia leaving work, arriving at her apartment, removing her glasses, letting down her hair, and donning a strapless sheath in shimmering ice-blue satin, after which she heads for a supper club in Boca where she is the headlined chanteuse. Her signature song? “Let’s See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have.”

Lest you think I am off my rocker, I give you the sage words of M. de Sade: “Imagination is the only reality.”

“If you fed the name Sabrina Wright into that machine, what would it spew back?” I asked.

“You’re kidding,” she responded.

“No. Why should I be?”

“You don’t know who Sabrina Wright is, Archy?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here, ingesting secondhand smoke when I could be contracting pneumonia in my minuscule igloo. Who is she, Sofia?”

“Don’t you read novels?” she prodded.

“One a week, so help me Marcel Proust.”

“And what was the last novel you read?” With those glasses and that hair, I could swear I was being questioned by Miss Lowenstein, my tenth-grade English teacher.

“
All Quiet on the Western Front
.” It’s what I would have reported to Miss Lowenstein, bringing tears to her eyes. All I got from Sofia Richmond was a shrug and a cheeky retort.

“Well, Archy, times have changed since the Big War. Sabrina Wright’s been leading the charge on behalf of the sexual revolution.”

“An occidental
Kama Sutra
?” I ventured.

Sofia trashed her cigarette in the flying saucer. “Archy, this lady makes the
Kama Sutra
read like the Girl Scouts’ handbook.” It was at this point that I was given a précis of the works of Sabrina Wright, from desire to desire.

“How old is she?” I asked Sofia when she had finished lecturing.

Shaking her head from side to side as if counting the years, Sofia guessed, “Near fifty, I would say, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her.” She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought out a copy of
Desperate Desire
. “See for yourself,” she said, handing me the book with Sabrina Wright’s photograph on the book’s back jacket. After viewing Sabrina, I took a quick glance at the cover art which depicted a blonde Amazon being ravished by a young man in football garb, sporting a film of manly perspiration and a torn jersey that bared his torso. Looking deep into the blonde’s blue eyes, the jock appeared to be saying, “My chest is bigger than yours.”