little woman who walked with a rolling gait. And there was no mistaking that dyed hair.
I started up again and drove homeward. I never doubted for a moment that she had been summoned by Sgt. Rogoff. Their meeting was prearranged, but for what purpose I couldn't even guess. Obviously Al wasn't telling me everything about his investigation. But then I wasn't telling him everything about mine: e.g., the relationship between Laverne Willigan and the Glorianas.
There was something else I hadn't told him, something I hadn't really told myself, for it wasn't a fact or even an idea; it was just a vague notion. And I have no intention of telling you what it was at this juncture. You'd only laugh.
The family cocktail hour and dinner went off with no untoward incidents that evening. After coffee, mother went to her television in the second-floor sitting room, father retired to Dickens in his study, and I trotted upstairs and got to work on my journal.
I was interrupted that night by two phone calls. The first was from Connie Garcia.
'You swine,' she started. 'Why haven't you called?'
'Busy, busy, busy,' I said. 'I do have a job, you know, and I work hard at it. I'm not just another pretty face.'
She giggled. 'I'll testify to that. Have you been seeing Meg Trumble lately?'
'Haven't seen her in days,' I said, feeling virtuous because I could be honest. 'She may have gone back up north.'
'I hope she stays there,' Connie said. 'Listen, I have a family thing for tomorrow night-a bridal shower for one of my cousins-but I'm available for lunch. Make me an offer.'
'Connie, would you care to have lunch with me tomorrow?'
'What a splendid idea! I'd love to. Pick me up around noon-okay?'
'You betcha. I have a new hat to show you-a puce beret.'
'Oh God,' she said.
I went back to my journal, scribbling along at a lively clip until I started on an account of my meeting with Irma Gloriana. Then I paused to lean back and stare at the stained ceiling, trying to bring her into sharper focus.
I had thought Frank Gloriana functioned as Her-tha's business manager. But Irma's role in setting up the seance and her authoritative manner led me to believe that perhaps she was the CEO of the Gloriana menage.
If the Glorianas were engaged in hanky-panky, as I was beginning to think they were, then Irma was the Ma Barker of the gang, a very robust and attractive chieftain. That would make son Frank her foppish henchman. But what part was Hertha playing? I could not believe that sweet, limpid innocent could be guilty of any wrongdoing. Her lips were too soft and warm for a criminal. (I know that is a ridiculous non sequitur; you don't have to tell me.)
My musings were interrupted by the second phone call, this one from Roderick Gillsworth in Rhode Island.
'How are you getting along, Rod?' I asked.
'As well as can be expected,' he said. 'Isn't that what doctors say when the patient is in extremis? The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow after a church service at noon. Then I am expected to attend a buffet dinner at the home of an elderly aunt. I fear she may serve dandelion wine or chamomile tea so I shall be well fortified beforehand, I assure you. I'll get through it somehow.'
'Of course you will. When are you returning?'
'I have a flight on Wednesday morning. Tell me, Archy, is there anything new on the investigation?'
I hesitated, long enough for him to say, 'Well?'
'Nothing definite, no,' I said. 'But I spoke to Sergeant Rogoff today and he was rather mystifying. He seemed quite pleased with himself, as if he had uncovered something important. But when I asked questions, all he'd do was wink.'
'Dreadful man,' Gillsworth said. 'If I can't get any satisfaction from him when I return on Wednesday, I intend to go directly to his superior and demand to be told what's going on.'
I made no reply to that. 'I stopped by your home early this evening, Rod,' I said. 'Just to make certain it was locked up. Everything is fine.'
'Thank you, Archy,' he said. 'I may call you again tomorrow to ask if you have learned anything new.'
'Of course.'
'I appreciate all that you and your father have done for me. You might tell him that I've been thinking about my new will. I'll probably have the terms roughed out by the time I return.'
'Good,' I said. 'He'll be happy to hear that.'
I hung up, having lied as requested by Al Rogoff and wondering what the sergeant really wanted to accomplish by giving Gillsworth false hopes that the murder of his wife was nearing solution. Sometimes Al moves in mysterious ways.
It was almost midnight before I finished my journal entries. I decided I didn't want to smoke, drink, or listen to Robert Johnson singing 'Kindhearted Woman Blues.' So I went to bed and thought happily of Meg Trumble arriving on the morrow. I hoped she would be kindhearted and I would have no cause to sing the blues.
I was awakened early Tuesday morning by the growling of what sounded like a brigade of power mowers. I stumbled to the window and looked down to see our landscape gardener's crew hard at work. They showed up periodically to mow the lawn, trim shrubbery, and spray everything in sight.
They were making such a racket that I knew it would be futile to try resuming my dreamless slumber-which explains why I was showered, shaved, and dressed in time to breakfast with my parents m the dining room. It was such a rare occurrence that they looked at me in astonishment and mother asked anxiously, 'Are you ill, Archy?'
I proved to her I was in fine fettle by consuming a herculean portion of eggs scrambled with onions and smoked salmon. Over coffee, I told my father about Gillsworth's call the previous evening, and that the poet would be returning on Wednesday ready to draw up a new will.
He looked up from The Wall Street Journal long enough to nod. I then informed him I expected a hectic day so I would drive to the office in my own car rather than accompany him in the Lexus. That earned me a second nod before he went back to his paper. The master doesn't like to be interrupted while he's checking the current value of his treasury bonds.
I ran upstairs to collect a fresh box of English Ovals, my reading glasses, and the puce beret, which I rolled up and tucked into a jacket pocket. I wore my madras that day, a nifty number gaudy enough to enrage any passing bull.
I arrived at my miniature office just in time to receive a phone call from Mrs. Irma Gloriana.
'Good morning, Mr. McNally,' she said crisply and didn't wait for a return greeting. 'I have arranged a private seance for you and your companion tomorrow evening at nine o'clock. Will that be satisfactory?'
'Completely,' I said. 'Shall we-'
'It will be held here in the apartment,' she continued. 'We have found that an informal, homey setting is more likely to result in a successful session than a meeting held in a commercial office.'
'I can-'
'Please be prompt,' she went on, and I despaired of contributing to the conversation. 'As you can imagine, these sittings are quite a strain on Hertha, and if they are delayed it only adds to her spiritual tension.'
'We'll be on time,' I said hurriedly and just did get it out before she hung up.
What a peremptory woman she was! I wondered what had happened to her husband. Had he died of frustration because he couldn't get a word in edgewise? Or had he divorced her for a more docile woman who welcomed small talk and could schmooze for hours about his gastritis and her bunions? My own guess was that Irma's husband went out to buy a loaf of bread, vamoosed, and was now employed as a tobacco auctioneer.
I worked fitfully on my expense account that morning, a monthly task that challenged my creativity. My labors were interrupted by three phone calls from informants I had queried about the Glorianas' financial status and credit rating.
By the time I had to leave for my luncheon date with Connie Garcia, I was convinced Al Rogoff had been right: the Glorianas were on their uppers. They weren't candidates for welfare-far from it- but their bank balances were distressingly low, and they had an unenviable reputation for bouncing checks. They always made good,
