I stared at him in astonishment. 'Prevented? Homicides? How so?'
'Hasn't it occurred to you that if Chauncey had signed the prenuptial agreement and married the young woman he might have suffered an early demise, perhaps in an accident craftily planned by this gang of miscreants. Or, in lieu of that, they might have plotted to arrange the death of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth first. Chauncey would inherit, and
I sucked in my breath. 'Leaving Theodosia Johnson with the Smythe-Hersforth millions.'
'Exactly.'
'Do you really believe they planned that scenario, father?'
'I do,' he said decisively. 'From what you have told me, I am convinced these people are sociopaths. They are totally devoid of any moral sense. Nothing is good-except money-and nothing is bad. Things just
I finished my wine and rose. 'I think I better go up,' I said. 'It's been a long, tiring night.'
'Of course,' he said, looking at me sympathetically. 'Get a good sleep.'
But it was not a good sleep; it was fitful and troubled, thronged with visions I could not identify except that I knew they were dark and menacing. My bed became a battleground on which I fought demons and constantly looked about for hidden assassins.
It was no wonder that when I finally slept I did not awake until almost noon on Tuesday morning. I staggered to the window and saw the sky had cleared, the sun shone and, I presumed, somewhere birds were chirping.
I took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed with special care. Not because I had important social engagements that afternoon but I needed the lift that nifty duds always give me. I went downstairs to a deserted kitchen, inspected the larder, and settled on a brunch of a garlic salami and cheddar sandwich (on pump) and a frosty bottle of Heineken. The old double helix began twisting in the wind.
I went first to my father's study, sat at his desk, used his phone, and called Sgt. Rogoff.
'What's happening?' I asked him.
He laughed. 'It's finger-pointing time,' he said. 'Hagler, Johnson, and the bimbo are-'
'She's not a bimbo,' I protested.
'Whatever,' he said. 'Anyway, the three of them are all trying to cut deals. Johnson says Hagler shot Shirley Feebling. Hagler says Johnson strangled Marcia Hawkin. These are real stand-up guys. Not!'
'What do you think they'll draw?'
'You want my guess? I don't think they'll get the chair. The evidence isn't all that conclusive. But they'll plea- bargain down to hard time.'
'And Theodosia?'
'She'll walk,' he admitted. 'She's being very cooperative. And she agrees that she'll get out of Florida and never come back. Good riddance.'
'Yes,' I said.
I wanted to tell him that I thought Madam X was a self-willed, undisciplined woman who just didn't give a damn. But she was smart, sensitive, and fully aware of her excesses and how they doomed her. I didn't say it, of course; Rogoff would have hooted with laughter.
'Al,' I said, 'thank you for your help and keep me up to speed on this magillah. Okay?'
'Sure,' he said.
I hung up and sat a few moments in the guv's chair, reflecting. I shall not claim I was wading barefoot through the slough of despond. It wasn't true and you wouldn't believe me anyway. Instead, I found myself in a remarkably serene mood. Which made me wonder if I had truly been in love with an associate of killers, a woman soon to be banished from the sovereign State of Florida.
I had been enthralled by her and still was. If she had used me, where was the harm? I had enjoyed it. I knew I did have and still had a strong affection for her. Was that romantic love? I didn't know.
I went outside into a brilliant noonday. I decided to drive down the coast and let the sun shrivel and the wind blow away all complexities. I wanted my life to be simple, clear, easy to understand. I really enjoy a broiled lobster more than paella. And that jaunt did rejuvenate me. Except that I found myself touring past the Ocean Grand and through Mizner Park, places where Theo and I had memorable luncheons. But I didn't stop.
I drove directly back to Palm Beach and arrived in time to visit the Pristine Gallery before it closed for the day. Silas Hawkin's portrait of Madam X was no longer displayed in the front window nor was it displayed within. The proprietor was wandering about disconsolately.
'Mr. Duvalnik,' I said, 'what happened to that beautiful painting by Hawkin?'
'Haven't you heard?' he said. 'Theodosia Johnson has been arrested, the marriage is off, and now Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth refuses to pay. He commissioned it and I suppose I could sue, but I don't want the hassle.'
'So it becomes the property of Mrs. Louise Hawkin?'
'I suppose so,' he said glumly. 'I talked to the widow and she really doesn't want it. Told me to sell it for whatever I could get. One of the tabloids offered a thousand dollars but that's ridiculous. I end up with three hundred? No thanks. I spent more than that on Hawkin's exhibition.'
'I'd be willing to pay ten thousand for the portrait,' I told him, 'if you'd sell it to me on time, perhaps ten or twelve monthly payments.'
'You're serious?'
'I am.'
He brightened. 'I'll speak to Mrs. Hawkin. I'll tell her of your offer and urge her to accept.'
'Thank you, Mr. Duvalnik,' I said. 'I admire the painting and would be proud to own it.'
'And why not?' he cried. 'It's a masterpiece!'
'It is indeed,' I agreed.
I tooled homeward, convinced that eventually I would become the legal owner of Silas Hawkin's painting of Madam X. Not the nude. I knew that wood panel would remain in police custody as evidence during a criminal investigation. I had no interest in its final disposition. I didn't want it. Too many bad vibes.
But I wanted the formal pose: Theo seated regally in an armchair framed by crimson drapes, her lips caught in an expression so mystifying that it made Mona Lisa's smile look like a smirk.
I would not hang the portrait on the wall of my bedroom, of course. That would be a bit much. I would hide it in a closet, and occasionally I would take it out, prop it up, and look at it fondly while remembering and perhaps listening to a tape of Leon Redbone singing 'Extra Blues.'
I had time for a curtailed ocean swim, then returned home to shower and dress in a slapdash fashion for Lady Cynthia Horowitz's informal seafood buffet. We skipped the family cocktail hour that evening, and at seven o'clock the McNallys set out. My parents led the way in father's black Lexus. I followed in my flaming Miata, feeling more chipper than I had any right to be.
The Horowitz estate was all aglitter with ropes of Chinese lanterns, and a goodly crowd had already assembled by the time we arrived. Tables had been set up around the pool and the buffet was being arranged by caterers, pyramiding seafood onto wooden trenchers lined with cracked ice. A small outdoor bar was already busy, and in the background a tuxedoed trio played Irving Berlin.
I sought out our hostess. Lady Cynthia was an old friendly enemy and she gave me a warm welcoming kiss on the lips.
'My favorite rogue,' she said, tapping my cheek. 'Have you been behaving yourself, lad?'
'No,' I said, 'have you?'
'Of course not,' she said. 'At my age naughtiness is a necessity-like Fiberall.'
'At my age, too,' I said, and we both laughed as she drifted away to greet newly arriving guests.
I looked about for Consuela Garcia but couldn't immediately spot her. So I ordered a kir royale at the bar and joined the gossiping throng of friends and acquaintances. You must understand that you are required to pass a Gossip Aptitude Test before you are allowed to live in the Town of Palm Beach.
That evening the only topic being bandied about was the Chauncey-Theodosia affair. There were many reports, rumors, hints, insinuations, and much ribald laughter. I listened but contributed nothing.
Finally I espied Connie. Zounds but she looked a winner! She was wearing a mannish suit of white linen, fashionably wrinkled, and a choker of black pearls I had given her. With her bronzy tan and long ebony hair she made the other women at that soiree look like Barbies. I hastened to her side.
