“I take it you’re not joking,” she said.
“No, ma’am. He is going to call you.”
“How do you know this, may I ask?”
“You may,” I said. “I know this because he told me so.”
A pause. She was thinking, but unable to see her face I had no idea what she was thinking. “Mr. McNally, I demand to know how all this transpired.”
“It was that blind item in the paper. Remember? He thought you were down here looking for him. He contacted me, we met, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“We can do without the levity,” she cautioned, employing the royal pronoun. And just how the hell did he know you were involved on my behalf?”
She was seething and running scared. Like Chauncey’s common face and noble tail, this, too, was a lethal combination. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Ms Wright, without giving away the tricks of my trade.”
“Damn your tricks, mister. You tell me what you know or I’ll sue you from here to hell and back again.”
I heard a voice in the background that I assumed to be Silvester’s wanting to know what was happening. Without bothering to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand in the time-honored tradition, Sabrina told her husband to ‘shut up.” A moment later she was back on my case.
“Did you hear me?” she shouted.
“Let’s not lose our heads, Ms Wright. You hired me to do a job and in the course of my investigations on your behalf, I was approached by this individual. Still acting on your behalf, I told him just why you were in Palm Beach. The truth, Ms Wright. I told him the truth or should I say, I told him what you told me?”
“What are you getting at?” She was practically ranting. A stratagem I would never have attributed to the fair Ms Frigidaire. Was her hair in disarray? Doubtful. But I bet Silvester’s was.
To be sure, her response spoke volumes. “I’m getting at nothing,” I lied, ‘but before you have your attorney present me with papers just remember who I will call to bear witness on my behalf.”
That did it. The tornado fizzled into a languid breeze. “Mr. McNally, forgive me. You must understand what’s happening here. Without warning I get a call telling me I am about to hear from someone I have not seen or heard from in thirty years. Someone with whom my emotional involvement led to dire consequences. Is it any wonder I lost my cool?”
“No, ma’am. But don’t blame me. I thought I was being helpful.”
“You are, Mr. McNally. You are.” She had it all together once again and like a good general was now sensibly getting the lay of the land.
“What does he want? Did he say?”
“He wants to make sure that you will never betray him.”
“Didn’t you tell him I was down here for that very purpose?”
I told her I had done just that. “But he’s worried. He’s most upset that you told Gillian her point of origin.”
“So am I. I made two mistakes in my lifetime,” she philosophized. “One was opening my heart, the other was opening my mouth. I parlayed the first to my advantage and I will not allow the second to negate what I worked to achieve. I thought Gillian would be more sensible about my plight and empathize with what I had done for her. Instead, she insists on going against my wishes and digging up the past. It is not acceptable, Mr. McNally.”
It would never occur to Sabrina Wright that had she been a more empathetic mother, Gillian might not be obsessed with finding her father whom she hoped might give her the love Sabrina had forgot to include along with fancy Swiss finishing schools and a generous monthly allowance.
I, too, had made a mistake. Calling the lady to warn her of the voice from the past with which she would have to deal in the immediate future. Instead of a thank you I got flak, which just shows to go you that the most perceptive seer of the twentieth century was the great Dorothy Parker who preached: The do-gooders of the world are the louses of the world. Case closed.
“Mr. McNally,” my nemesis said, ‘can you assure me that no one else on our planet knows who he is?”
“If they do, they didn’t hear it from me, and they never will.”
Not able to let go until she had tried one more time, she questioned,
“And you will not tell me what compelled said person to call you?”
“No, ma’am. I will not.”
“Then I think our business is concluded, Mr. McNally. I will deal with my friend.” Getting in the last word, she bid me, “Good day. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure.”
Bitch was the only word that came to mind as I dropped the phone. I wondered how much of our conversation she was going to repeat to Silvester. I would imagine he had heard enough to know what was afoot, and wasn’t he as curious as Gillian to know the name of his wife’s former lover? That name, by the bye, never passed our lips the whole time we talked, a fact that was going to soon boomerang and hit Archy on the back of his unsuspecting noodle.
“I will deal with my friend,” Sabrina had said. The irresistible force was going to go head-on with the immovable object. Who, or what, would give remained to be seen. I would have to go head-on with Lolly Spindrift when I reported that the exclusive I had promised him with Sabrina Wright was off. That would cost me a fortune in willing and dining to appease his rage.
Speaking of which, I was in need of a drink and what I got was Binky Watrous and the afternoon mail.
“Well, if it isn’t Hannah Homemaker, in person. What’s new at the trailer court, young man?”
With a fervent gushing I found boring, if not offensive, Binky informed me in great detail. Binky does not understand that a simple “How are you?” is a greeting, not a question.
“I signed my lease and Mrs. Rutherford gave me a key and a coffee mug with my name on it. Compliments of the Palm Court.”
Compliments of the management? Did everyone at the Palm Court have a coffee mug with their name on it? Al Rogoff had never mentioned owning such a piece of crockery but then there was much the sergeant didn’t admit to. “And when does the actual move take place?” I asked as if I cared.
“I already started, Archy. I brought my shaving gear over this morning and most of my clothes. I’m going to sleep over tonight.”
Not without his Victoria’s Secret collection, I bet. The shaving gear brought to mind the mustache Binky used to sport when he was in love with a girl who fancied men with hairy upper lips in the tradition of Gable and William Powell. Binky’s was a pale blond affair that was all but invisible except when it got rained on. Then it resembled the tassels of a wilted ear of corn.
And I introduced myself to some of my neighbors,” he gushed on like a garden hose that had sprung a leak.
I foresaw a mass exodus from the Palm Court that might cause the waters of Lake Worth to part. “What neighbors?” I asked as if I cared, and I did.
“Bianca Courtney.” This was accompanied by a grin that brought to mind a cat who has just moved next door to a creamery. “Do you remember her, Archy?”
I pretended to ponder the question before answering, “Vaguely. A chubby thing with a poor complexion.”
“No way, Archy. Bianca is a dish. She invited me in for a cup of coffee.”
Wasn’t that nice. Please understand that for obvious reasons Binky and I have never competed for the affections of a lady fair and I wasn’t about to start now. That said, the memory of a pretty lass getting into her Mercedes is something that sticks to your ribs, like a hearty breakfast of eggs and porridge. And, as Binky didn’t stand a chance with this one I saw no reason to withdraw in his favor.
“Did she have a mug with her name on it?” I wanted to know.
“No, Archy. We drank from proper china cups, with saucers. Bianca is a lady.”
Saucers certainly attested to good breeding. Could she be the victim of impoverished gentry, hence the motor court digs and the job as companion to a rich old lady? In short, a latter-day Jane Eyre? If so, Binky Watrous was not her Mr. Rochester and the Palm Court was no Thornwood. Picking up the packet of envelopes Binky had deposited on my desk, I made a show of looking for one that was affixed with a first-class stamp. And what did you
