That figures.
Eight
The next morning I called upon Sofia Richmond once again to get some background information on the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art.
When I’m able, I like to do a little homework before meeting with a new client, if indeed Thomas Appleton would become a client. As he was a patron of the museum it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on its history so as to appear smarter than I am. Who knows, the guy might ask questions.
I didn’t have to delve into the Appleton family closet as its contents were more or less in the public domain. If it contained a skeleton, as I now suspected it did, its name was Sabrina Wright.
The PBICA, as it’s familiarly referred to in print, owes its existence to the philanthropists, Robert and Mary Montgomery. He is a noted attorney. The Montgomerys renovated the Lake Theater, a landmark art deco movie house that now houses the PBICA, after purchasing it from the Palm Beach Community College. The facility formerly held the contemporary art and design collection of J. Patrick Lannan. When the Lannan Foundation relocated the collection to Los Angeles, they donated the building to the college.
The PBICA purports to be a venue for major national and international art in all media and a meeting ground for the diverse populations who live in and visit the Palm Beach region. Who could find fault with that?
I got there minutes after it opened its doors to the public and wondered whom I could bill the three-buck admission charge to Appleton or Sabrina? It was most likely to show up on my expense report as a miscellaneous disbursement, a category that often comprised fifty-five percent of my expenditures, much to Mrs. Trelawney’s chagrin. I ambled around, fascinated with what I looked upon, before making my way to the second floor and the New Media Lounge.
Thomas Appleton was already there, seated before three television screens. He rose when I entered and came to meet me.
“Mr. McNally, thank you for being prompt.” He offered his hand and we shook.
“I glanced at the exhibits before coming up and was most impressed,” I said. “I intend to come back when I can give them more attention.”
“Shall we sit?” When we did Appleton pointed to the screens. “Each shows a video presentation by a current artist. As you can see there is no audio.” Pointing to the earphones on an ultramodern glass-top table, he instructed, “One must use these, which allows for a private viewing. The two computer stations you see are connected to the Internet. With them, visitors are able to surf Web art sites worldwide via a list provided by the museum. The Lounge is the concept of our new director, Michael Rush.”
“The medium is the message,” I quoted.
Thomas Appleton looked like Kriss Kringle, clean shaven and out of uniform. Round face, ruddy complexion, and a shock of white hair combined to give the impression of a jolly gent more inclined to be an insurance salesman than a multimillionaire bon vivant, sportsman, and sidekick of presidents and kings. I had heard he was usually under par on the golf course, but judging from his waistline I would imagine he was more a devotee of croquet than tennis. In Palm Beach, croquet is taken quite seriously with teams competing from other states as well as the land-of-the-game’s origin.
Being early, the New Media Lounge was empty except for us and knowing Appleton wanted to conduct our business as quickly and as privately as possible, I thought it prudent to get down to the particulars before he changed his mind or was spotted by someone he knew, in which case I would have to play the guy who came to service the earphones.
“It’s all very interesting, Mr. Appleton, but not the reason for our meeting,” was how I approached the delicate subject.
“Very true, Mr. McNally, and I respect your directness. Time, as they say, is money.”
I could have said that not being officially in his employ, time was bleeding my wallet, but one didn’t talk that way to an Appleton without being blackballed from places that didn’t solicit my business. It was a no-win situation and one in which I felt very much at home.
“I understand that you represent the author Sabrina Wright,” he finally stated.
“Represented, sir. My business with her has been concluded as of yesterday.”
Was it my imagination or did those ruddy cheeks lose their glow? “Are you saying Sabrina, that is Ms Wright, has found what she came here looking for?”
“I am, sir.”
I knew what the guy was thinking, but did he know I knew? For a moment I thought about putting that heretofore jolly face at ease by telling him he was among friends, but I didn’t know how much Appleton was ready to ‘fess up to, and, more to the point, I had not forgotten my prediction that knowing the identity of Gillian Wright’s father could be dangerous. He had invited me here, therefore the onus was on him to say why he wanted to see me.
In the ensuing silence Thomas Appleton stared at the three television screens as if he were waiting for the commercial to end and the show to begin. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and finally said, “The girl, Gillian, ran off with a man, came here, and Sabrina hired you to find them. Is that correct, Mr. McNally?”
It was the story I had spread around but the fact that he was asking for confirmation suggested that he didn’t believe it. No fool, Mr.
Appleton.
With a show of surprise I poured a little oil on the fire and stated,
“You’re familiar with Sabrina’s daughter’s name.” What the hell, I liked the ambiance of the PBICA but I had no intention of spending the entire day here.
To be sure,” he said. “It’s no secret. I mean the woman and her daughter do get their names in the press.”
If he insisted on shadewboxing I would simply leave the ring. “I’m sorry, sir, but client confidentiality is sacrosanct even after I’ve closed the books on a case. If your purpose, for whatever reason, is to learn why Ms Wright hired me I’m afraid I’ll have to abort this meeting.” I half rose to prove my resolve.
Appleton restrained me with a hand on my elbow. “Of course, Discreet Inquiries. Friends have told me the name factually delineates your work ethics. My compliments, Mr. McNally. But the truth of the matter is, I did ask you here for just that reason.”
“Then I can see no further reason to continue this game of cat and mouse, Mr. Appleton. It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure.”
“Oh, not so fast,” he again held out a restraining hand. “Can we make a deal, Mr. McNally?”
With a shrug I countered, “That depends, sir. What’s in it for me?”
He smiled. “I like you, Mr. McNally. I like you very much. I even like your white cotton trousers and your red- and-white-striped hop sack jacket. I hope it starts a trend.”
“If it does, Mr. Appleton, I will give the ensemble to Goodwill. I like to think of myself as one of a kind.”
Now he laughed with gusto. “And judging from your ethics, Mr. McNally, you are just that.”
Without a pause I said, “But it’s my ethics you want to compromise, Mr.
Appleton.”
“So it is. Will you hear me out?”
“Only a fool refuses to listen, sir. What are you putting on the table?”
“A thirty-year-old secret. Interested?”
And what must I give in return, sir?”
“First, your word that you will never repeat what I tell you and, second, you will tell me if Sabrina Wright’s visit to Palm Beach has anything to do with that secret. Deal?” He actually held out his hand which I shook, for the second time that day.
“Deal,” I responded.
