The Appleton family were to Palm Beach what the Cabots were to Boston and the Astors were to New
York. Thomas was the current patriarch with a son in politics everyone said showed promise. With the Appleton money behind any future campaign, young Troy, I believe that was his name, would no doubt fulfill his destiny. I had seen both father and son around town on a number of occasions and had even watched Troy Appleton on his polo pony in a 22-goal challenge at the Palm Beach Polo and Country Club.
If Thomas Appleton wanted this McNally, he wanted Discreet Inquiries.
If he wanted Discreet Inquiries, there was trouble in paradise. The only question was who had taken a chunk out of the apple, pere or fils
Archy McNally here.”
“Mr. McNally, I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all, sir. How may I help you?”
“I would like to have a word with you at a time and place we can mutually agree upon.”
This meant that he did not want to come to the McNally Building or meet at one of his clubs and certainly not at mine. It was not an unusual request from one of his ilk. Experience taught me that he had already selected our mutually agreed upon turf so I lobbed the ball gently back into his court.
“I leave the time and place to you, sir.”
“How thoughtful, Mr. McNally. Are you familiar with the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art?”
“I’ve heard of it, certainly, and have been meaning to visit but haven’t got around to doing so.”
“Then your time has come,” Appleton said, ‘and you’re in for a treat.
I’m a patron and often take people around, so our meeting won’t cause raised eyebrows should we chance to be seen. You understand, of course.”
“I do, sir.”
“Lake Avenue in Lake Worth,” he told me. “They open their doors at noon; shall we be among the early birds?”
“We shall, sir.”
“Have a look around and then meet me in the New Media Lounge on the second floor. Until tomorrow, Mr. McNally.”
As you sow, so shall you reap. With the likes of Ursi and Jamie scattering the seed there was no doubt that I had just gleaned Gillian Wright’s natural father. Now three of us were privy to the thirty-year-old secret. I had told Gillian that learning her father’s identity could be dangerous. A harbinger for Archy? Who said Palm Beach was dull in July?
Before leaving the office I removed the consumer guide from my wastebasket, slapped a yellow Self-Stick note paper on its cover upon which I wrote, “NOT MINE PLEASE RE-DIRECT,” and dropped it in my outbox. That’ll learn him.
I arrived at the Pelican in a buoyant mood only to be cast down to the depths by the sight of an eight-inch- square butcher block with a serrated knife clinging to its side by magnetic force.
“If that’s a housewarming gift for Binky Watrous, I will shave my head and walk barefoot to the shrines of Guadalupe,” I vowed to Priscilla Pettibone, who was displaying the impressive chunk of wood.
“In that suit?” she questioned.
“What’s wrong with this suit, young lady?”
“Nothing, if you’re trying to pass for a neon sign,” she sassed. “And it is for Binky. It’s a chopping block. Very handy for cutting up lemons and limes for drinks and veggies for dinner.”
“Binky will add chopped fingertips to the minestrone. And just how did you come to learn of the charity event to turn Binky’s kitchen into a chef’s nightmare?”
“From Connie,” Priscilla said. “She was in this afternoon, looking for you. Connie has lousy taste in men, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Turning, she sashayed off in her silver mini-and matching top with the assurance that every male eye in the place followed her every move. One day a shrewd fashion photographer will walk into the Pelican and walk out with our Priscilla.
As Mr. Pettibone served my daiquiri I wondered how Connie had gotten word of the Binky fiasco. As if my thought had conjured her up, Connie came into the bar area looking splendid in slim-fitting black pants, spectator heels, and a charmingly buoyant white halter. Her dark hair cascaded to her bare shoulders. Priscilla now had the attention of only half the men in the Pelican. I got a peck on the cheek before Connie took the stool next to me.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she said to Mr. Pettibone.
I lost no time in venting my indignation at what was fast turning into a United Way for Binky Watrous. Triscilla bought Binky a chopping block, Herb in security got him a waffle iron, I have been ordered to purchase a microwave oven et tu, Brute?”
“Oh, oh, the ladies are fawning over Binky and little Archy is having a tempter tantrum.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, reaching for my drink.
“Get a life, Archy,” Connie advised, not for the first time.
“No, my dear, it’s a microwave I have to get, remember?” When Connie’s drink arrived I ordered a second.
“Mrs. Trelawney told me you were acting like a two-year-old over this.” She took a sip of her drink and proclaimed it “Delicious.”
“You spoke to Mrs. Trelawney and she invited you to join the magi bearing gifts.”
“Yes. I called you this afternoon and when you didn’t answer I tried Mrs. Trelawney. She told me you had gone to lunch so I came here looking for you.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I was lunching at The Breakers.”
“In that suit?” Connie exclaimed as if I had gone to lunch in my birthday suit.
“What’s wrong with this suit?” Actually I was getting bored with both the question and my response. I took refuge in my second frozen daiquiri.
“I bet you were the only man at The Breakers in pink,” Connie wagered.
“I was the only man at The Breakers who didn’t look like every other man in the joint.” Feeling the need I pulled out my English Ovals and lit one. “And don’t tell me you thought I had given these up,” I warned.
“Okay, I won’t. And, for your information, I’m thinking of getting Binky bedding, twin size, I’m told.”
“Don’t you think that’s rather intimate, Connie?”
“I’m not going to share them with him. My God, Archy, you are acting like a spoiled brat and you know what I think?”
“No. Nor do I care to.”
That didn’t stop her. “I think you’re jealous,” she accused.
I almost jumped off my stool. “Jealous. Moi, jealous of Binky Watrous. Are you out of your Iberian mind?”
Connie smiled the smile she had smiled when she shared her eggs Benedict with me at Testa’s. This was not going well. I pulled on my English Oval for comfort and, as always, it did not disappoint. Was anything enjoyable also good for you? Sex? Yes, sex is indeed both enjoyable and healthy. Proof? I had read of a great sultan who kept a harem of one thousand wives. Every night he sent his faithful servant to select one to share his bed chamber. The faithful servant died at the age of fifty. The sultan lived to one hundred. Conclusion? It’s the chase, not the act, that does a man in. Later, in the quiet of Connie’s condo, we would discuss bedding.
“Let’s face it, Archy. Binky is ten years your junior…”
“Nine,” I said.
Ten,” she said. “He’s setting up his own household as most of us do when we reach our majority. Before you know it he’ll be married and settled down.”
Those two sentences were rampant with not so thinly disguised innuendo.
Connie was treading on thin ice and she knew it. I was spared defending my puritanical ethics and my chance for a romantic interlude by the arrival of Mrs. Pettibone, bearing a dish of shrimp surrounding a paper cup of spicy red sauce.
