I must admit she wore this bizarre hairdo with panache, as if other people's opinions were not worth a fig. But I found her coiffure charming, perhaps because her face was strong enough to carry it. Good cheekbones there, and a chin that was assertive without being aggressive.
Laverne introduced us, lauding me as 'one of my dearest friends'-which was news to me. Meg Trumble's handclasp was firm but brief. She coolly nodded her acknowledgment of my presence-obviously an exquisite joy to her-and began toweling her bare arms and legs.
'How do you like South Florida, Miss Trumble?' I inquired politely.
She paused to look about at the azure sky, green lawn, palms, and a sumptuous royal poinciana.
'Right now it's beautiful,' she said. Her voice was deep and resonant, totally unlike Laverne's girlish piping.
'Oh yes,' I said. ' 'What is so rare as a day in June?' '
She looked directly at me for the first time. 'Keats?' she asked.
'Lowell,' I said, reflecting that though she might not know poetry, her pectorals were magnificent. 'You're an excellent swimmer,' I told her. 'Do you compete?'
'No,' she said shortly. 'There's no money in it. Do you swim?'
'Wallow is more like it,' I confessed.
She nodded again, as if wallowing was to be expected from a chap who wore a teal polo shirt and madras slacks.
'Laverne,' she said, 'I'd like to use the Porsche this afternoon. Can Leon drive me in?'
Her sister pouted. 'I want Leon to get busy on the silver; it's getting so tarnished.' She turned to me. 'Archy, the Porsche is at the garage in West Palm for a tune-up. They phoned that it's ready. Could you drive Meg in to pick it up?'
'Of course,' I said. 'Delighted.'
'That's a good boy,' she said. 'Meg, Archy will drive you to the garage and you can use the Porsche all afternoon. How does that sound?'
'Fine,' the other woman said, expressing no gratitude to me. 'I'll get dressed. I won't be long, Mr. McNally.'
'Listen, you two,' Laverne said. 'Enough of that 'Miss Trumble' and 'Mr. McNally' crap. Be nice. Make it Meg and Archy. Okay?'
'Brilliant suggestion,' I said.
The sister gave me a frosty smile and headed for the house.
'Don't mind her,' Laverne advised me. 'She's coming down off a heavy love affair that went sour.'
'Oh? What happened?'
'It turned out the guy was married. Now she's in an 'All men should drop dead' mood. Treat her gently, Archy.'
'That's the way I always treat women who lift weights,' I said. 'Thank you for the drink, Laverne. Please call me at my office or home if you hear from the catnappers. And I'll let you know if I learn anything about Peaches.'
'I don't much care,' she said, 'but when Harry is miserable he makes sure everyone is miserable, if you know what I mean. So find that lousy cat, will you.'
I bid her adieu and was standing next to the Miata puffing my first English Oval of the day when Meg Trumble came striding from the house. She was wearing a tank dress of saffron linen, and I saw again how slender and muscled she was. Her bare arms and legs were lightly tanned, and she had the carriage of a duchess-a nubile duchess.
I gave her the 100-watt smile I call my Super-charmer. My Jumbocharmer hits 150, but I didn't want to unnerve her. 'You look absolutely lovely,' I said.
'I would prefer you didn't smoke,' she said.
I could have made a bitingly witty riposte and withered this haughty woman, but I did not lose the famed McNally cool. 'Of course,' I said, flicked my fag at a dwarf palm, and wondered why I had agreed to chauffeur Ms. Cactus.
We headed north on Ocean Boulevard, and when we passed the McNally home, I jerked my thumb. 'My digs,' I said.
She turned to stare. 'Big,' she said.
'I live with my parents,' I explained, 'with room enough for my sister and her brood when they come to visit. Laverne tells me you're thinking of moving down here.'
'Possibly,' she said.
And that was the extent of our conversation. Ordinarily I am a talkative chap, enjoying the give-and-take of lively repartee, especially with a companion of the female persuasion. But Meg Trumble seemed in an uncommunicative mood. Perhaps she believed still waters run deep. Pshaw! Still waters run stupid.
Then we were in West Palm Beach, nearing our destination when, staring straight ahead, she suddenly spoke. 'I'm sorry,' she said.
What a shock that was! Not only was she making a two-word speech, but she was actually apologizing. The Ice Maiden had begun to melt.
'Sorry about what?' I asked.
'I'm in such a grumpy mood,' she said. 'But that's no reason to make you suffer. Please pardon me.'
If I had accepted that with a nod of forgiveness and said no more, I would have saved a number of people (including your humble servant) a great deal of tsores. But her sudden thaw intrigued me, and I reacted like Adam being offered the apple: 'Oh boy, a Golden Delicious!'
'Listen, Meg,' I said, 'after I leave you I planned to have a spot of lunch and then go back to my office. But why don't you have lunch with me first, and then I'll drive you to the garage.'
She hesitated, but not for long. 'All right,' she said.
We went to the Pelican Club. This is mainly an eating and drinking establishment, although it is organized as a private social club. I am one of the founding members, and it is my favorite watering hole in South Florida. The drinks are formidable and the food, while not haute cuisine, is tasty and chockablock with calories and cholesterol.
The place was crowded, and I waved to several friends and acquaintances. All of them eyeballed Meg; the men her legs, the women her hairdo. Such is the way of the world.
I introduced her to Simon Pettibone, a gentleman of color who doubles as club manager and bartender. His wife, Jas (for Jasmine), was housekeeper and den mother; his son, Leroy, was our chef, and daughter Priscilla worked as waitress. The Pelican could easily be called The Pettibone Club, for that talented family was the main reason for our success. We had a waiting list of singles and married couples eager to become full-fledged members, entitled to wear the club's blazer patch: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet.
Priscilla found us a corner table in the rear of the dining room. 'Love your hair,' she said.
'Thank you,' I said.
'Not you, dummy,' Priscilla said, laughing. 'I'm talking to the lady. Maybe I'll get me a cut like that. You folks want hamburgers?'
'Meg?' I asked.
'Could I get something lighter? A salad perhaps?'
'Sure, honey,' Priscilla said. 'Shrimp or sardine?'
'Shrimp, please.'
'Archy?'
'Hamburger with a slice of onion. French fries.'
'Drinks?'
'Meg?'
'Do you have diet cola?' 'With your bod?' Priscilla said. 'You should be drinking stout. Yeah, we got no-cal. Archy?'
'Frozen daiquiri, please.'
'Uh-huh,' she said. 'Now I know it's summer.'
She left with our order. Meg looked around the dining room. 'Funky place,' she observed.
