'As a matter of fact I have eaten,' I confessed. 'But that doesn't mean we can't keep our dinner date.'
'You don't have to do that,' she protested. 'I'll just run out for a snack and we can make it another time. Perhaps tomorrow night, if you're free.'
'That's what I want to talk to you about,' I said. 'Listen, suppose we do this: I'll pick up a pizza and something to drink and hustle it over to your place while the pie is still warm. Or you can heat it up in your oven. How does that sound?'
'Marvelous-if you're sure you want to do it.'
'I do,' I said. 'Be there within the hour.'
Recently a new pizzeria had opened on Federal Highway south of the Port of Palm Beach. It offered 'designer pizzas' to be consumed on the premises or taken out in insulated boxes. I had tried it a few times and found the fare rather exotic. But then I'm strictly a pepperoni addict.
I drove to the pizza boutique to purchase a pie for Meg. I selected one consisting of eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes, and Gorgonzola on a thin crust. I was reminded of the time Peaches had barfed on my lavender loafers, but I was certain the vegetarian Ms. Trumble would love it. I also bought a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, my dream of a frozen daiquiri vanishing.
Meg opened the door for me with a broad smile and a cheek kiss, on the same spot favored by Connie Garcia not too many hours previously. As Willy Loman pointed out, it's important to be well-liked.
Meg looked smashing. She had obviously just showered; her spiky hair was still damp and her face was shiny. She was wearing white duck short-shorts and a skimpy knitted top that left her midriff bare. I swear that rib cage was designed by Brancusi.
Also, she smelled good.
Her apartment was crowded with unpacked suitcases, cartons, and bulging shopping bags. She cleared a space on a clunky cocktail table for the pizza box and brought us both iced Pepsis. She didn't bother heating up the pie but immediately began wolfing it down, occasionally rolling her eyes and uttering, 'Yum!'
'Good lord,' I said, 'didn't you have anything to eat today?'
'A country breakfast at seven this morning,' she said. 'I'm really famished.'
'I should think so. Meg, did you call me from your phone here?'
She shook her head. 'From a gas station. But my phone will be connected in the morning. They promised.'
'Fine,' I said. 'I may need to call. About tomorrow night, Meg-how would you like to go to a seance with me?'
I was afraid she might refuse or think the whole idea so hysterically off-the-wall that I wouldn't be able to introduce her to the Glorianas as a serious student of spiritualism. But she surprised me.
'Love to,' she said promptly. 'Laverne and I used to go to them all the time. I didn't know you were interested in New Age things.'
'Oh yes,' I lied brazenly. 'I'm deep into crystals, ESP, telepathy, and all that. I've arranged a private seance with a local medium, her husband, and mother-in-law for tomorrow evening. The psychic is supposed to be very gifted. I've never attended a seance before, so I'm looking forward to it. You'll go with me then?'
'Of course. What time?'
'Nine o'clock. I thought we'd have dinner first. Suppose I pick you up at seven.'
'I'll be ready,' she said. She licked her fingers, crossed her sleek legs, settled back with her drink. She had demolished the entire pizza. But of course it was only the eight-inch size.
'That was delicious,' she proclaimed. 'Thank you, Archy; you saved my life. I wish I had something stronger than Pepsi to offer you. I'm going to load up the fridge tomorrow, get this place organized, and then start looking for clients.'
'I'm glad you mentioned that,' I said and handed her the list of potential customers I had prepared.
'Wonderful,' she said, scanning the names. 'I'm so glad you didn't forget. How can I ever thank you?'
I gave her my Groucho Marx leer. 'I'll think of something,' I said.
She laughed. 'Oh, Archy,' she said, 'what a clown you are. Would you mind awfully if we skipped tonight? Right now I want to get unpacked and catch a million Zs.'
'Of course,' I said, upper lip stiffening. 'You must be exhausted after all that driving.' I stood up to leave. 'I'll see you at seven tomorrow night, Meg.'
She came close and hugged me tightly. I was breathlessly aware of her muscled arms. 'Tomorrow will be different,' she whispered. 'I promise.'
'Sleep well,' I said as lightly as I could. I drove home thinking there really should be an over-the-counter remedy that cures habitual hoping.
Roderick Gillsworth didn't call that night-for which I was grateful.
10
Why do men's jackets and shirts button left over right while women's button right over left? I have asked this question of people at cocktail parties, and they invariably give me a frozen smile and move away.
But I'm sure there is an explanation for this buttoning conundrum that is at once profound and simple. I felt the same way about the disappearance of Peaches and the murder of Lydia Gillsworth. Those twin mysteries had a logical and satisfying solution if I could but find it.
I spent Wednesday morning slowly going over my journal, reading every entry twice. I found nothing that even hinted at some devilish plot that would account for a missing Felis domestica and the death of a poet's wife. All my diary contained was a jumble of facts and impressions. I could only pray that the seance that evening would yield a spectral suggestion that might inspire me.
I drove to the office and found on my desk, sealed in an envelope, a memo from Tim Hogan, temporary chief of our real estate section. It concerned the Glorianas' office and condo.
The commercial suite on Clematis Street had been leased for a year. The Glorianas had put up two months' rent as security but were currently a month behind in their payments. Similarly, their apartment had not been purchased but was rented on a month-to-month basis. At the moment, the Glorianas were current on their rent.
In both cases the references given were a bank and individuals in Atlanta. Hogan had thoughtfully provided names and addresses, but mentioned he could find no record of the references ever having been checked. That was unusual but not unheard of in the freewheeling world of South Florida real estate.
I called Sgt. Rogoff and told him what I had.
'Why don't you check them out, Al?' I suggested. 'Just for the fun of it.'
'Yeah,' he said, 'I will. But first I think I'll contact the Atlanta cops. Just in case.'
'Do that,' I urged. 'It's the first real lead we've had on where the Glorianas operated before they arrived here.'
I gave him the names and addresses of the Glorianas' references, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he had something. At that point I had no idea of where I might turn next in my discreet inquiries, so I decided to drive over to Worth Avenue and see if I could buy a tennis bracelet for Connie at a price that wouldn't land me in debtors' prison.
Then fate took a beneficent hand in the investigation-which proves that if you are pure of heart and eat your Wheaties, good things can happen to you.
I went down to the garage to board the Miata for the short drive over to Worth. Herb, our lumbering security guard, had come out of his glass cubicle and was leaning down to stroke the head of a cat rubbing against his shins. I strolled over.
'Got a new friend, Herb?' I asked.
He looked up at me. 'A stray, Mr. McNally,' he said. 'He just came wandering down the ramp.'
That had to be the longest, skinniest cat I had ever seen. It was a dusty black with a dirty-white blaze on its chest. One ear was hanging limply and looked bloodied. And the poor animal obviously hadn't had a decent table d'hote in weeks; its ribs and pelvic bones were poking.
