“It is,” I answered, knowing I was making a public statement in the privacy of my home just like the musings of the man in the Oval Office.
“Is Sabrina Wright going to allow them to wed?” Ursi asked, removing the chicken from the oven.
“She can’t stop them,” I said. “Her daughter is of age, and so is her beau.”
Under different circumstances I would have gone into more details of the case with Ursi and Jamie, but that would mean hearing the below-stairs gossip regarding Sabrina’s visit. Should the Appleton name wend its way into the conversation I didn’t want to risk having to avoid hearing it. Jamie Olson may be as vocal as a clam but he is also as slippery as an eel. Therefore I was relieved when Ursi announced dinner. “Are you going to have wine, Archy?” she asked, bringing the platter of lemon chicken to the already set table. The chickens had been expertly quartered by Ursi herself, garnished with parsley, and presented with the rice pilaf.
“I think I’ll stick with beer tonight,”I said, unfolding my napkin and placing it on my lap.
In lieu of grace Ursi said a “Bon appetit.”
We had the romaine salad with our meal crisp and cool and dipped into a Dutch apple crumb cake for dessert along with iced Caffe Verona, ground fresh at our local Starbucks. I went up to my aerie sated, got out my journal, and recorded my last conversation with Sabrina Wright, officially ending the case. Having done my duty, I poured myself a marc and lit an English Oval in celebration of not having had one all day. Here, as often happens when I’m alone in my allotted space long past sunset, I ruminated on man’s inhumanity to man and to Archy McNally in particular.
Binky had gotten his own pad, and Connie was, once again, tossing out hints as shrouded as hand grenades that Archy do the same. What she really wanted was to begin the begat, as the Good Book encouraged. I was very comfortable where I was and not yet ready for the dubious benefits of love and marriage.
Last evening, as predicted, we did go back to her place, a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth, a one-bedroom affair with a great view from her tiny balcony. I have been there so often I know she keeps the Absolut in the freezer and that you have to jiggle the handle of the toilet to avoid a perpetual flush.
She played her Spanish tapes, which are Greek to me, and after many passionate kisses which, like a spider’s web, leads to a fly’s undoing, we retreated to the bedroom where a framed poster of the film Casablanca hangs over the bed. We undressed with all the nonchalance of an old married couple.
Sparks didn’t fly, but neither did they fizzle. We knew each other’s erogenous zones and played them like skilled pianists on the closing night of a long tour. Okay, I’m making it sound far worse than it was.
The truth is, it’s sometimes better than the first time but not all the time. Would marriage and a family make a difference? If so, how? For better or for worse? And don’t you just know why the marriage vow covers both possibilities and all the stops between?
When Dora, my sister, visits on the holidays, do I look upon her, my brother-in-law, Ted, and their three lovely children with a wistful eye? Do I grow a little sentimental when I enter the kitchen just as Ursi’s soap is interrupted by a commercial for Disneyland? The answer to both is certainly I do.
However, as the Bard spoke of music’s charm, Archy speaks of our modern-day poets, namely the lyricists, who give voice to the plaintive airs. “Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor’ or ‘high as a flag on the Fourth of July,” these word smiths never fail to come up with a phrase to sum up our sentiments in twenty-five words or less. Lionel Bart said it for me when, in his musical, Oliver, he has Nancy rationalizing the fact that Bill Sikes will never marry her. Nancy says of wedded bliss, “Though it sometimes touches me. For the likes of such as me. Mine’s a fine, fine life.” Charlie D. couldn’t have said it better.
Eleven
The Caper of the Trojan Horse or, beware Archy bearing a microwave oven. I dressed in jeans, a pink Izod, and penny loafers. The boy next door? One look in the glass told me I had achieved that goal without shouting its intent.
After breaking my fast with fresh squeezed orange juice, cinnamon French toast with pure maple syrup and a cup of Java, Paris set out for the rape of Helen. Really, it’s just a figure of speech.
When I turned the Miata onto Ocean Boulevard I glanced in my rearview mirror and watched a black stretch limo materialize like a mirage out of the sultry air. I didn’t see it approaching when I pulled onto the boulevard so it must have been parked on the road’s shoulder waiting for a chance to join the traffic or waiting for me? In Palm Beach, stretch limos are a common sight and a fear of the mechanical dinosaurs has never been among my many phobias, but in my business it pays to keep alert.
I moved south, passing the Palm Beach Country
Club and swung onto N. County Road. The limo came with me. I stayed on N. County to Breakers Ocean Golf Course, went west on Cocoanut Row, ignoring the Flagler Memorial Bridge. I kept south to the PB
elementary school and then took a sharp right over the Royal Palm Way bridge. When I got to the mainland, the limo was no longer visible in my rearview mirror. My thrill for the day? With what I had in mind, I hoped not.
Owing to the Inland Waterway that runs smack through Lake Worth, Palm Beach island is connected to the mainland by three drawbridges. It has long been thought that should a big heist take place on the island, the police could order all the bridges up, trapping the culprits on the island. Not a bad place to linger with a sack full of legal tender, I should think.
At a trendy appliance store I purchased a microwave oven like I knew what I was doing. Instinct told me not to buy the top of the line because it would contain a lot of frills not necessary to nuking a frozen chicken pot pie. I avoided the bottom of the line because it probably would have trouble melting an ice cube. Like Americans on Election Day, I went with the one in the middle, veering slightly toward the top. My guess was that Binky would spend hours trying to bring in the evening news on the gadget’s fifteen-inch screen.
I had it gift-wrapped and a kind salesperson helped me carry it to my car. The microwave and Archy filled the Miata’s front seat. From there to the Palm Court where I parked in the space reserved for number 1170.
One space over was filled with a black Mercedes. My, my, what a surprise.
Toting the bulky package without help was cumbersome but not impossible. I hauled it up the three steps to number 1168 and rang the bell. The Greeks had landed.
Bianca opened her door, looked at the man on her doorstep holding a gift-wrapped crate, and said, “I didn’t order it.”
“It’s not for you,” I told her.
“Then go away,” she said.
“If I may explain…”
“Are you selling computers, door to door?”
“No, ma’am. It’s a microwave oven.”
“I have one,” she said. “Good day.”
Before the door closed in my face, I explained, “It’s for your neighbor Binky Watrous. I’m Archy McNally.”
Her pretty blue eyes opened wide, from her ruby lips came an “Oh!” and the faintest hint of color surfaced on her white cheeks. If Helen’s was the face that launched a thousand ships, Bianca’s was the one that got Archy to buy Binky a microwave oven. Who’s to say which face will survive the test of time? This woman was made for color snaps, picnics in summer, football games in fall, sleigh rides in winter, and chasing around the Maypole in apple blossom time.
“Mr. McNally. I am so sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Inviting me in would help my cause.” My knees were beginning to buckle, but if I put the damn thing down I feared I would never be able to lift it off the floor.
She opened the door and backed away. “Please, please come in. I am so sorry. I didn’t recognize you, Mr. McNally.”
I looked for a corner to unload my burden. Then, remembering where I was, I lowered it to the floor of Bianca’s kitchen moments before I would be in need of a truss. Pretending I wasn’t about to expire, I smiled at her
