'It does have a certain decrepit appeal,' I admitted. 'How come no hamburger? Are you a vegetarian?'
'No, but I don't eat red meat.'
'I know you don't smoke. What about alcohol?'
'No.'
'Then you must have a secret vice,' I said lightly. 'Do you collect cookie jars or plastic handbags?'
Suddenly she began weeping. It was one of the most astonishing things I've ever seen. One moment she was sitting there quite composed, and the next moment tears were streaming down her cheeks, a perfect freshet. Then she hid her face in her palms.
I can't cope with crying women. I just don't know what to do. I sat there helplessly while she quietly sobbed. Priscilla brought our drinks, stared at Meg, then glared at me. I knew she thought I had been the cause of the flood: Priscilla believed breaking hearts was my hobby. Ridiculous, of course. I may be a philanderer, but if there is one thing I have inherited from my grandfather (a burlesque comic) it is this inflexible commandment: Always leave 'em laughing when you say goodbye.
'Look, Meg,' I said awkwardly, 'did I say the wrong thing?'
She shook her head and blotted her face with a paper napkin. 'Sorry about that,' she said huskily. 'A silly thing to do.'
'What was it?' I asked. 'A bad memory?'
She nodded and tried to smile. A nice try but it didn't work. 'I thought I was all cried out,' she said. 'I guess I'm not.'
'Want to talk about it?' I asked.
'It's so banal,' she said. 'You'll laugh.'
'I won't laugh,' I said. 'I promise.'
Priscilla brought our food, glanced at Meg, gave me a scowl, then left us again. While we ate our lunch, Meg told me the story of her demolished romance. She had been right: it was banal.
It had been a high-voltage affair with a handsome rogue. He had vowed undying love and proposed marriage, but continually postponed the date: he wanted to build up his bank account, his mother was ill, his business was being reorganized, etc. The excuses went on for almost two years.
Then a girlfriend brought Meg a newspaper from her swain's town. He had won a hefty prize in the state lottery. The front-page photograph showed him grinning at the camera, his arm about the waist of a woman identified as his wife. That was that.
'I was a fool,' Meg said mournfully. 'I don't blame him as much as I blame myself-for being such an idiot. I think that's what hurts the most, that I could have been tricked so easily.'
'Did you enjoy the relationship?' I asked.
She toyed with her salad a moment, head lowered. 'Oh yes,' she said finally, 'I did. I really liked him, and we had some wonderful times together.'
'So it's really a bruised ego that makes you weep.'
She sighed. 'I guess I always had a high opinion of my intelligence. I know better now.'
'Nonsense,' I said. 'Intelligence had nothing to do with it. It's your emotions that were involved, and you were too trusting, and so you were vulnerable and-got hurt: a constant risk for the hopeful. But would you rather be a crusty cynic who denies all possibility of hopes coming true?'
'No,' she said, 'I don't want to be like that.'
'Of course you don't,' I said. 'Meg, when one is thrown from a horse, the accepted wisdom is to mount and ride again as soon as possible.'
'I don't think I'm ready for that.'
'You will be,' I assured her. 'You're too young, too attractive to be grounded.'
Then we finished our lunch in silence. I was happy to note that despite her sorrow she had a good appetite: she emptied the really enormous salad bowl.
'Basil,' she said.
'I beg your pardon,' I said. 'The name is Archy.'
She laughed. 'In the salad, silly. It was delicious. Archy, are you really one of Laverne's dearest friends?'
I tried to raise one eyebrow (my father's shtick) and failed miserably. 'Not quite,' I said. 'Your sister has a penchant for hyperbole.'
'You mean she lies?'
'Of course not. She just exaggerates occasionally to add a little spice to life. Nothing wrong with that. No, my relationship with your sister and brother-in-law is more professional than personal.'
I handed over my business card and explained that I had been assigned by McNally amp; Son to locate the missing feline-the reason for my visit to Casa Blanco. I asked Meg when she had last seen Peaches, and she corroborated what Laverne had told me: she had been apartment hunting on the day the cat disappeared.
'Meg, do you think anyone on the staff might have had a hand in the catnapping?'
'I really don't know,' she said. 'None of them liked Peaches. And I didn't either.'
'Glad to hear it,' I said, and told her the story of how the beast had regurgitated on my lavender suede loafers.
She laughed again and leaned forward to put a hand lightly on my arm. 'Thank you for making me laugh, Archy,' she said. 'I was afraid I had forgotten how.'
'Laughter is medicine,' I pontificated. 'Even better than chicken soup. You must promise to have at least one good giggle a day, preferably just before bedtime.'
'I'll try, doctor,' she vowed.
Coffee was another of her no-no's and neither of us wanted dessert, so I signed the tab and we went out to the Miata. I drove Meg to the garage and just before she got out of the car she thanked me for lunch.
'And for being such a sympathetic listener,' she said. 'I feel better. I hope I see you again.'
'You shall indeed,' I said, meaning that I would probably be nosing about Casa Blanco frequently in my search for Peaches.
But she looked intently into my eyes and repeated, 'I do want to see you again,' and then whisked away.
There was no misinterpreting that; it seemed evident Ms. Trumble was ready to ride a horse again, and I was the nag selected. I didn't know whether to be delighted or frightened. But I was certain I would not act wisely. Like most men, my life is often a contest between brains and glands. And you would do well to bet Gray Matter to place.
I returned to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, parked in our underground garage, and waved to Herb, the security guard. I took the elevator up to my tiny office and lo! on my desk was a telephone message: I was requested to call Consuela Garcia as soon as possible. I did.
'Hi, Connie,' I said. 'What's up?'
'Who was that baldy you had lunch with at the Pelican?' she demanded.
I believe it was Mr. Einstein who stated that nothing can move faster than the speed of light. It's obvious Albert had no knowledge of the Palm Beach grapevine.
2
I spent at least fifteen minutes trying to placate Connie. I explained that the luncheon had been professional business, part of an investigation into a catnapping. I said that Margaret Trumble, sister of Mrs. Laverne Willigan, had valuable testimony to offer, and I needed to question her away from the scene of the crime.
'Is she living with the Willigans?' Connie asked.
'Visiting.'
'For how long?'
'I have no idea.'
'Are you going to see her again?'
'If my investigation requires it,' I said. 'Connie, I am shocked-shocked! — by your suspicious tone. I only met
