“Compliments of the chef,” Jasmine Pettibone said as Connie and I helped ourselves to what the Italians call il sap ore di mare, or the fruit of the sea. The little crustaceans were carefully shelled, perfectly prepared, and absolutely succulent. Leroy’s sauce lost nothing in the transfer from bottle to paper cup. Fresh shrimp is one of the rewards of living not too many miles from the Gulf of Mexico.
Addressing me, Mrs. Pettibone said, “Simon told you about Lyle, my cousin’s boy, out in California.”
I answered that he had and went on to say, “I have no idea what it’s all about. Any further developments?”
“What’s all this?” Connie said, momentarily distracted from Leroy’s offering by the promise of gossip. Momentarily, and not a nanosecond more.
As I related to Connie as much as I knew, Simon Pettibone joined us from his side of the bar.
“Henry Peavey,” Connie said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me. What about you, Archy?”
As I told Mr. Pettibone, it means nothing to me either.”
Huddled around the plate of shrimp we might have been participants in a taste-test happening. It did occur to me that Mrs. Pettibone had intended to pass the goodies around to the other early diners just beginning to arrive at the club, but if Connie and Mrs. McNally’s favorite son didn’t keep their hands off the pickin’s she would have to abort her mission.
“There are more developments, Archy,” Mr. Pettibone declared with a glance at his wife.
Jasmine Pettibone had been blessed with a particularly aristocratic bearing that had served her well. Now displaying what is politely called a full figure, and with streaks of gray in her hair, it was still un mistakenly clear from whence came Priscilla’s lovely face and form.
“Lyle’s daughter called this morning,” Mrs. Pettibone told us. “She heard from her father.”
“So,” I said, ‘the mystery is solved.”
“Hardly,” Mrs. Pettibone said. “Lucy she’s Lyle’s daughter wasn’t home when his call came. He left a message on her answering machine.”
“Saying what?” Connie asked. Now she, too, seemed to be caught up in the mystery of Henry Peavey.
“Saying that he had arrived and was making contacts, and that it just occurred to him to tell Lucy not to answer any questions or make any statements to the press should they try to contact her,” Mrs. Pettibone stated with a resolute nod of her head.
I said, “And that’s it?” at the same time Connie said, “The press?”
Mr. Pettibone gave us both a nod. “And don’t ask where he arrived at because he didn’t say.”
“He originally told his daughter he was going south,” I reminded the Pettibones.
“South of Sacramento goes all the way to the Argentine,” Connie informed us. Consuela Garcia is practical to a fault.
“The plot certainly thickens,” I told them. “Well, keep us posted. I’d like to know what Lyle has gotten up to.”
“So would I,” Mrs. Pettibone answered.
The club was starting to fill, but I noticed that our favorite corner table was still vacant. “What’s Leroy tempting us with this evening?”
A crown roast,” Mrs. Pettibone announced as she moved away with the remainder of the shrimp.
Leroy’s crown roast is a couple of rib sections of a loin of lamb arranged in a circle and roasted with strips of bacon wrapped around the lower section and also covering the ends of the rib bones, to prevent them from being scorched while cooking. Stuffing the cavity of the crown is optional, but I knew that Leroy’s recipe called for an apple-and-raisin filling held together with cubed country bread and garnished with mace, sage, nutmeg, garlic cloves, and enough melted butter to soften a stone. When served, the tips of the rib bones are decorated with paper frills. Truly a feast for a king and therefore aptly named.
Picking up our drinks I led Connie to our table and once settled I noticed the attractive diamond earrings and bracelet she wore. When I complimented her on her expensive taste she laughed and said, “You like them? They’re part of my collection of summer diamonds.”
Now Palm Beach is the land of in-your-face ostentatious ness but summer diamonds? Tray tell, what are summer diamonds?” I asked.
Thrilled with the chance to show her smarts, Connie blurted, “Some-are diamonds and some-are not. Get it?”
“I’ll pretend this conversation never took place, if you promise never to call costume jewelry by any other name.”
“The earrings are real, the bracelet is not, for your information,” she said, not hiding her displeasure. “You get so uppity when you break bread at ritzy diners. Were you at The Breakers with Sabrina Wright?”
“So you’ve heard?”
“Who hasn’t? Mrs. Marsden told Madam you were on the case,” Connie said.
Mrs. Marsden is Lady Cynthia’s housekeeper and a confidant of our Ursi’s. Do you begin to see how Thomas Appleton got the message?
“As a matter of fact, Archy, Sabrina Wright was one of the reasons I wanted to see you today.”
“Really? And I thought you were pining to see me. Don’t tell me you want an autographed book.”
“No. Madam wants to meet her,” she said.
“So does half the world, I would imagine. What’s Lady C’s interest?”
Connie rolled her eyes toward the Pelican’s ceiling, which was in need of a paint job. “It’s got to do with her latest project.”
Lady Cynthia Horowitz had two passions in life: young, handsome, male proteges (and she’s a septuagenarian) and projects. She has championed the cause of nesting plovers, humpback whales, bald eagles, and hirsute violinists. Her last brainstorm was an ingenious scheme to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Really!
Cartier, Tiffany, Hamilton, and Verdura, among other local merchants, were appalled at the idea, but I understand many older gentlemen who spend countless hours trailing after their wives on that boulevard of expensive and useless merchandise joined Lady C’s committee in earnest.
Priscilla breezed by and asked us if we were having the special. We were and I ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to go with the meal.
Then I said to Connie, “Okay, let’s have it. What has your boss got the wind up over this week?”
“She’s going to write her memoirs,” Connie announced unhappily. “She thought she might get some helpful hints from Sabrina.”
Her memoirs, was it? The lady had lived a long life, had had at least as many husbands as fingers on her right hand, all rich and one titled.
She was a living Sabrina Wright novel. Did she imagine a book-signing party at the Classic Bookshop on S. County Road where the couturier and graphic artist Michael
Vollbracht recently appeared to push the reissue of his book Nothing Sacred? The dishy primer is famous for Vollbracht’s sketch of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post holding up a box of Grape-Nuts.
No one knew more about sex, money, and manipulation than Lady Cynthia Horowitz and I said as much. “There’s nothing Sabrina can teach the Madam, Connie. She’s been there, done that, and lived to tell about it. Besides, I’m off the case.”
“So soon?” Connie seemed surprised.
“Yeah. I found her daughter and the guy she ran off with.” It was a slight exaggeration, but who… found whom was now a moot question and when in doubt, take the credit, I always say.
“Madam doesn’t believe the man that got away was Sabrina’s daughter’s lover,” Connie said. “Nor do I.”
Nor do Thomas Appleton, do he? I kept that to myself, however. With Connie I often share and confide, but given the dramatis personae of this charade I immediately decided to play my hand close to the vest.
Besides, I still was not sure what Thomas Appleton wanted to see me about. Not contemporary art, that’s for sure.
“And who does Madam think the guy is?” I asked.
“Sabrina’s young and gorgeous lover,” Connie gushed.
