Gillian, who was nearing thirty. That would mean
Sabrina Wright was nearing fifty. Sofia had told me that Sabrina’s first novel came out about a dozen years ago when Robert Silvester was fresh out of college. Unless he was a dolt, which I doubted, that would make him closer in age to Gillian than to his wife.
Interesting.
“Robert made a reservation at the Chesterfield,” she went on, ‘and checked in four days ago. He called me the night he arrived. The following evening he called to say he had found them and was dining with them that evening. He said he would call when he got back to the hotel, but he never did.”
“Did he say where he found them?”
“I’m afraid not. There was really no reason to ask.”
“Did you try calling him?”
“Yes. When I was connected to his room, it just rang and rang. I left a message for him to call me when he got in, but he never called. I hoped he was still with Gillian, trying to talk some sense into her.
When he didn’t call the next day I again called the Chesterfield. They told me Mr. Silvester had checked out that morning. I couldn’t imagine what had happened but hoped he might be on his way back to New York, although that didn’t seem possible. I mean he would have called me before leaving. When I didn’t hear from him that day I flew down here the next day, yesterday. So now I’m at the Chesterfield.”
“Have you questioned them about your husband?”
“Not directly. I’m sure they don’t know Robert is my husband. I just asked them if Mr. Silvester was still registered. I told them he was a friend and that I knew he was going to be in Palm Beach this week.
They said he had been there but had left. I asked if he had left a forwarding address and they told me he had not. I didn’t want to seem too interested.
“I’m sitting on a time bomb, Mr. McNally. My daughter is here with that awful Zack, looking for her father, and now my husband, who was here looking for my daughter, has disappeared into thin air. If any of this gets out it will create a cause celebre that will be heard around the world.”
And sell a lot of books. I hated to start the clock ticking on that time bomb, but I thought the lady should know that Lolly Spindrift had not only announced her arrival but had also alluded to Robert’s disappearance. This had her reaching for another cigarette without benefit of holder. She was so quick on the draw she had it lit before Chauncey could strike a match. “I don’t see how…”
“I do. Lolly must have a shill at the Chesterfield who happened to be at the desk when you arrived and heard you inquire about Mr. Silvester.
Maybe no one at the hotel knows Robert is your husband, but I’m sure Lolly does, dot, dot, dot.”
“The man that got away,” she moaned. “Do you realize that if Gillian’s father sees that item he will think I’m in Palm Beach in search of him?”
She had a point. Not knowing Sabrina’s husband was missing, Gillian’s sire would surely think he was the man that got away especially since he was.
Sabrina’s concern also confirmed that Gillian’s father was alive and well and living in Palm Beach.
She put her hand on mine. It was ice-cold. The lady was truly frightened. “Will you help me, Mr. McNally?”
Sabrina took one look at my fire-engine-red Miata and opted to take a cab back to her hotel. Smart move. While she was not exactly traveling incognito, neither was she here on a book-signing tour, and my car, unlike my professional methods, is more Palm Beach kitsch than discreet, but it does keep me amused. In this world of card- carrying terrorists, West Nile virus-carrying mosquitos, and E.coli-carrying cows, I zip happily along in my Miata like there’s no tomorrow, because there’s a good chance there won’t be one.
I told Sabrina to sit tight and I would be in touch. I didn’t know when, or what I would have to offer when I did, but that is, after all, the standard line when parting with a distressed client. It gives them hope and me a chance to ruminate over the facts and a bite of lunch. I decided to take the case, that is, try to locate Robert Silvester, for two reasons.
The first one was because I liked the lady. She had what show folks call pizzazz. It’s a word, like pornography, that’s hard to define but you know it when you see it. Having been handed a golden parachute and tossed out of the family Cessna, she refused to sink, meekly, into the abyss. Against all odds, she had defied gravity and soared. Instead of disappearing, she had literally lit up the sky with her talent and a zillion book covers with her startled gaze. What’s not to like?
Reason numero two? Greed or did you think I was about to O.D. on altruism? My father takes great pride in the abundance of moneyed names, both old and new moola, on McNally amp; Son’s client roster. Were I to be responsible for adding Sabrina Wright to that list it would go a long way in mitigating my trespasses at Yale, lo, those twenty years ago, as I have long forgiven those who trespassed against me. Now, like the message inscribed on a sundial, I number only the sunny hours.
I crossed from West Palm into the land of conspicuous consumption via the Flagler Memorial Bridge and then along Royal Poinciana Way, passing golfers on The Breakers Ocean Golf Course, all consuming conspicuously, before heading up Ocean Boulevard, alias the A1A. I believe everything Sabrina Wright told me was true. What wasn’t said was what she didn’t want me to know, such as who had introduced her to Discreet Inquiries.
If it was a former client, that person could or could not still be living in Palm Beach. Was it this former client who also recommended that we rendezvous at a pub where we were least likely to be seen by those who matter in the Town of Palm Beach, or had Sabrina programmed a list of such joints into her computer for when the need arose, be it for the writing business or monkey business?
The idea that her Palm Beach confidant might be Gillian’s father also crossed my mind. If Sabrina had broken her part of the bargain and contacted him, perhaps to warn him of Gillian’s arrival, he may have given her my name should the need arise. She had said that she would go to any length to honor his anonymity. To what length would he go to make sure she did?
Next we had Robert Silvester, the subject of my nascent investigation.
My first impression was that he might have joined forces with Gillian to escape Sabrina, but that was before I knew why, and with whom, the girl had fled. Mr. Right was acting on his wife’s behalf, but, and I forgot to ask, did he know Sabrina’s secret? He must, or she would not have sent him in search of Gillian, who would tell him when he caught up with her.
Then why did Robert come to Palm Beach alone? Why didn’t Sabrina accompany him? Why did he check out of the Chesterfield after he found Gillian and where had he gone to?
Was Gillian a plain Jane forever in the shadow of her charismatic mother? Did her attractive suitor talk her into going in search of her roots, or had it occurred to her that being acknowledged by a father whose blood was blue and bank account green would legitimatize her in more ways than one?
And let’s not forget Zack Ward, a tabloid reporter hot on the trail. To what length would he go to expose Gillian’s father?
Finally, we had Lolly Spindrift, who had inadvertently opened this can of worms. He would make every sacrifice, including canceling his subscription to Playgirl, in return for the real scoop on Sabrina Wright’s presence in Palm Beach.
In retrospect, there was more to the case than Sabrina’s plot outline, and the cast of characters alone promised a page-turner. As the old drinking song had it, “This is number one and the fun has just begun …”
I turned off the Al A and onto the graveled driveway of my favorite restaurant the Chez McNally on Ocean Boulevard.
Three
For those who wonder why a charismatic bachelor in possession of a functioning medulla oblongata one who is approaching his fourth decade chooses to live at home, the answer is Dollars amp; Sense. I occupy my own snug garret in our faux Tudor palace, tucked beneath a charming but leaky copper roof. The drip, drip, drip of the raindrops makes my three-room suite sitting room, bedroom, and bath tres bohemian, an ambiance difficult to come upon in south Florida where postmodern is all the rage.
