“I would rather not, Bianca.”
“Why, are you ashamed of me?”
“You know that’s not true. I was thinking of something a little more upscale, like Chez Jean-Pierre. Cassoulet, fresh Dover sole…”
“Creme caramel,” came her sharp tongue. Then, unable to contain herself she laughed that child’s laugh to let me know it was all a tease. “I am going to the Pelican tonight, Archy.”
“Not with me, you’re not,” I said.
“I know that, silly. I’m going with Binky. He called this morning and invited me.”
“Binky?” I exploded.
“Yes. What’s wrong with that? We’re going to look over his loot and then go to dinner. He’s a very nice guy, Archy, and he likes me.”
“I know he does, Bianca. Don’t trifle with him, please. He hurts easily.”
“So do I, Archy.”
ZAP! I had been put in my place and I didn’t like it but it was where I belonged. In a corner with the dunce cap on my pointed head. I had deluded myself into thinking she had fallen for the McNally charm.
Think again, Archy. She had been the seductress, going only as far as needed to get her way. If she was looking for romance she wanted to find it with someone who didn’t plan each date as if it were a mission impossible.
Could you blame her? If you have lost a boyfriend, both parents, and a magnanimous employer before you’ve hit the quarter-century mark, you build up your defenses and become very suspicious of someone like me and my microwave oven.
“This will not be Jean-Pierre’s lucky night,” I conceded.
“If you take your lady to the Pelican, we could make it a foursome.”
I would rather stick pins in my eyes.
She directed me to the Gilbert residence, which was on the Intercoastal down toward South Palm Beach.
A pink one-story villa, it lacked only matching flamingos on the lawn.
It screamed two million, give or take. The planting was old even if the money was new. The front door looked like the entrance to a harem den in an old Maria Montez movie. No one answered our ring. Good. We could go home.
“He must have fired Louisa,” Bianca said. “Let’s go ‘round back.”
A flagstone path led along the side of the house and to the rear yard.
It was a long walk, but pleasant, thanks to the carefully landscaped shrubbery, palms, and royal poincianas. We heard the splash of a diver, an eerie sound considering why we were there, before we turned the bend and came upon the rear patio and pool. The diver was now swimming, and a man I believed to be Antony Gilbert was seated at a wrought-iron and glass table in a white terry robe, balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was a typical late-morning Palm Beach scene.
At the sight of Bianca and me he put down his coffee, rose, and came toward us. “Bianca, my dear. What a pleasure. It’s been too long.”
The British accent wasn’t bad as far as phony British accents go and Antony Gilbert wasn’t bad if you liked the phony British accent type. I could see him in a third-rate touring company of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. I have identified and studied two types of the male species who inhabit south Florida in packs I call The Fringe Set. You know the type the guys who are perpetually on the outside, hoping to get in.
First we have the Papa Hemingways. They are especially prevalent in the Keys. Bulky, past their prime, with grizzled beards and fishing caps, they drink only rum and sport a single golden earring and a ponytail. They lust after busty women in bikinis and are usually impotent.
Then there are the Gary Grants. Clean-cut, tall, slim, British accent of dubious origin, charming, and witty. They lust after rich women and are usually bisexual. I have already told you what side Tony Gilbert bats for.
“Hello, Tony,” Bianca said, all smiles. “This is my friend Archy McNally. He gave me a ride. You know how I hate to drive.”
Gilbert and I shook. “A pleasure, Archy. If I may?”
“You may, Tony.”
The swimmer did laps and if my eyes didn’t deceive me I would say it was a she in the pool. A long, slim, yet curvaceous she. Tony had certainly settled in since his loss.
In keeping with taking Gilbert by surprise, Bianca blurted, “Is Louisa not here?”
“No,” Gilbert said. “I’m afraid Louisa has left us. She was made an offer she couldn’t refuse and didn’t. I do the best I can, which is not very good, so if you have a dust allergy, Bianca dear, I suggest you keep out of the house.”
“No allergies, Tony, so I’ll just run in and take a peek at my old room. I’m missing a charm bracelet I think I left in the top dresser drawer. Won’t be a minute, Archy.”
It was as painful as listening to amateurs putting on a Passion play.
We watched her until she slid open the glass door and entered the house. Gilbert put out his cigarette in an ashtray and turned to me.
“The drawers in her old room are all empty. She knows that. I know that. And you know that. Correct, Archy?”
I don’t like having people pointing at the egg on my face, but who could blame the guy? “She’s young and foolish,” was the best I could offer by way of an excuse.
“Young, but not foolish and she loves to drive. Would you care to sit?
She may be hours. It’s a big house, full of drawers.”
I sat. “I did try to discourage her from coming,” I said. “But she’s very headstrong as I imagine you know.”
“It isn’t very pleasant being hounded by someone who thinks you’re guilty of murder.” Taking a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his robe he offered me one before lighting up.
“No, thanks. I quit. I think.”
“Bully for you.” He sat and blew smoke in the air. “How did you get involved with little Bianca, may I ask?”
I told him the truth without going into too much detail, like revealing my profession. “And I did try to discourage the visit.”
“I know she’s at that trailer court. Did she tell you I invited her to stay here until she found work elsewhere?” Before I answered, he hurried on. “Let me tell you something, Archy. I’m a man past his prime who’s been to the rodeo and back, as they say. I’ve been an actor, a bartender, a maitre d’, and a hustler, without much success at any of the above. I hooked on to the brass ring a few times, but it always slipped away for one reason or another.
“Then along came Lilian Ashman, the answer to a working boy’s prayer.
Did I love her? You know I didn’t and so does our Bianca, I’m sure.
Did she love me? I’m sure she did. And you know what, mister? I made her happy. She paid the price and I gave value for her money. I’m very good at that. When I learned about her will, did I try to get her to change it? Is the pope catholic? However, I am not as headstrong as dear Bianca, so didn’t push the issue. Finesse is my long suit.
“Lilian wasn’t that old, so I didn’t have to worry. I was a willing captive in a pink Palm Beach villa and thought I was set for life. Then Lilian dove into the pool.”
The present occupant of the pool now climbed out of it like Aphrodite emerging from her shell and walked majestically toward us. She was six feet high, barefoot, remember, and wearing a thong bottom and a bra top that covered only the essentials. Her hair, red and dripping wet, was pulled away from her face and fell down her back almost to her waist.
I rose on unsteady feet. “Please, don’t get up,” she called, extending a wet hand.
“This is Babette.” Gilbert introduced us. “She holds a bronze medal in the backstroke and free-form for the French. Babette was born in Algiers.”
