“That’s the second or third time you’ve said that,” I observed. “You keep repeating, ‘Who cares?’ Don’t you really care?”
“Nope,” she said, “I really don’t. And if you’re trying to lay a guilt trip on me, forget it. I’m immune.”
“Not me,” I protested. “It’s your life.”
“You bet your sweet patootie it is. Now can we stop this chatter and get down to business?”
She took me by the hand and led me into one of the bedrooms. Perhaps boudoir would be a better word. Lace, chintz, and ruffles everywhere. No mirrors on the ceiling but definitely an intimate chamber designed for lovemaking. The coverlet on the kingsized bed had been turned down and I could see the fresh sheets were peach-colored satin.
“I guess I better take off my shoes,” I said.
She laughed, punched my arm, and began to undress.
“Matinees turn me on,” she said.
How can I describe that charged afternoon and stay within the bounds of decorousness? I’ll try.
She was a sprite, a mindless sprite, and absolutely delightful. Her long hair was the color of butterscotch, her skin ivory and untouched by Ol’ Sol. There was a wispiness in all her gestures. In all her caresses. More fey than feh! I feared I might break her but she was too pliant for that. And compliant.
I was convinced it wasn’t the two glasses of wine and sip of applejack, but she seemed inebriated on—what? On her passions, I reckoned, and her dreams. She was dwelling on her own planet, wherever that was, and I was merely a visiting astronaut.
“More,” she kept breathing. “More.”
I must admit that for one brief moment during our vigorous session I had the most awful feeling that I was abusing a child.
I was freed from that notion when, depleted and apart, she sighed, smiled at me, and said, “That was a smasheroo!” Then I definitely knew I was dealing with a willful and experienced woman. I wondered how many sets of horns Griswold III was wearing.
Our parting was totally without the awkwardness that usually attends first affairs. We finished our applejack, dressed, exchanged a chaste kiss and parted, all in great good humor with no vows, promises, or entreaties. Two civilized people sharing their jollies. Quite bloodless.
I suppose I should have been in a triumphant mood when I drove home, or at least plumped with peace and satisfaction. Instead I found myself in a melancholic mood. Sylvia Forsythe’s unhappiness had been palpable that afternoon. And although she had seduced me, I had the nags that rather than help alleviate her miseries I had contributed to them. It bothered me. I make no claim to nobility, you understand, but neither do I delight in jostling the blind. All actions involve moral choice, do they not?
When I arrived at the McNally spread I sought out my mother and found her in our little greenhouse, chatting up her begonias. She lifted her cheek for my kiss.
“Mrs. McN.,” I said, “you are a very wise woman.
“Oh Archy,” she said, “are you broke again? I can’t lend you very much.”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “Nothing like that. I just need a word of advice. When a wife cheats on her husband, what might her motive be?”
“Unhappiness,” she said promptly.
“I know that, dear. I’m asking the reason for the woman’s unhappiness. Lack of affection from her spouse? Silly dreams that can never be realized? Or finding another, more attractive mate?”
Momsy went on watering her plants for a moment before she replied.
“It could be any of those things, Archy,” she said finally. “A wife can become unhappy for so many reasons. Those you mentioned and more. But do you know what I think it is in many cases?”
I waited.
“Boredom,” she said firmly. “They can’t find enough to keep them occupied. Oh, they may have clubs and charities and hobbies and sports, but those are just surface things. In their personal lives, their deep emotional lives, they are just bored. ‘Is this all there is?’ they keep asking.”
I thought about that awhile. “Yes, mother,” I said, “I believe you are right. As usual. Thank you for your help.”
“That’s what mothers are for,” she said brightly.
It was a reflective swimmer who braved the ocean’s wimpy ripples that afternoon. As I plowed along I thought of what mother had said of wives who stray from the fold. She was right, you know. Sylvia’s flapdoodle about seeking someplace open and airy and free was simply a cloak for her basic motive: the woman was bored out of her skull.
During the cocktail hour and dinner my parents and I were unable to avoid discussing the brutal murder of Griswold Forsythe II, for it had become a cause célèbre in the Town of Palm Beach and was featured in all our local newspapers and TV newscasts. Many theories as to the identity of the killer had been suggested, but scanty information had been released. “Several promising leads are being investigated” usually means the police are stymied.
I retired to my cupola to record in my journal the events of that day. As I scribbled a brief (and discreet) account of my tumble with Sylvia Forsythe I fell to wondering how many other men she had granted a “smasheroo” and who they might be.
Timothy Cussack? Anthony Bledsoe? Rufino Diaz? Zeke Grenough? Groucho Marx? Ben Turpin? I stopped, fearing I was verging on madness.
I welcomed the interruption of a phone call, hoping it would bring me back to reality. It did—with a jolt.
“Who was she?” Consuela Garcia demanded.
“Who was who?” I asked. “Or who was whom—whichever is grammatically correct.”
“Screw grammar,” she said wrathfully. “That dolly you had lunch with today at the Pelican Club. Who was she?”
“The lady happened to be Mrs. Griswold Forsythe the Third,” I replied stiffly. “I was merely attempting to console her on the death of her father-in-law.”
“I’ll bet you consoled her right into bed.”
“Connie, I am aghast, utterly aghast. What a frightful accusation.”
“Keep talking, buster; you’re just making it worse.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Constantly,” she said bitterly. “And sometimes when you don’t have to—just to keep in practice.”
“It’s the absolute truth. If you don’t believe me, ask Simon Pettibone. I introduced Mrs. Forsythe to him.”
“Why did you have lunch with her?”
“Because the Forsythes are valued clients of McNally and Son, and it was the first opportunity I had to express our sympathy.”
“And what did you do after lunch?”
“Why, we each returned to our respective homes. She had her car.”
“I can just see your nose getting longer and longer.”
“Connie,” I said earnestly, “do you really think me the sort of bloke who would take advantage of a young woman devastated by the murder of her beloved father-in-law and consumed by sorrow?”
“Yes,” she said and hung up.
It hadn’t been as bad as I had feared. I was confident I could eventually smooth things over, nurture that shrunken belief she had in my devotion. I
want
to be faithful to Connie, really I do, but fate conspires against me; I am constantly offered opportunities to betray her trust and I did not have a resolve strong enough to resist.
It is positively amazing that Connie has endured my infidelities as long as she has. What is even more amazing is that her forbearance increases my affection for her.
Diversity makes the heart grow fonder—ask any philanderer.
D
URING THAT WEEKEND I
played the blade-about-town. Tennis. Golf. A poker game with a quartet of felonious cronies. And a riotous bachelor party for one pal who had decided to desert his wild, dissolute life and seek marital somnolence. I must admit I felt a wee twinge of envy.
The only happening during those two days that concerned the Forsythe case occurred on Saturday afternoon when I met with Sgt. Al Rogoff, at his request. He came to our home in his pickup and we sat in the cab while he smoked a cigar and, in self-defense, I inhaled more cigarettes than I should have.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Nothing of any consequence,” I said. “You?”
“I’ve practically been living at the Forsythe place,” he complained, “and it gets nuttier by the hour. You know Rufino Diaz?”
“The gardener? The chap with the jungly mustache?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Yes, I’ve met him.”
“I checked him out. He used to be a cop in Havana. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said. “But what does it mean?”
“Not much,” Al admitted. “But he lives in a swanky motel in West Palm. And meanwhile he’s mowing lawns. I can’t figure that, can you?”
“Nope,” I said.
He turned to look at me. “Why do I have this itchy feeling that you’re holding out on me?”
“Al, would I do that?”
“Sure you would.”
“Nothing that would impede a homicide investigation and you know it.”
“Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “I’m going to keep digging at Rufino. And also on Fern Bancroft.”
“The maid? The one who found Mrs. Sylvia half-strangled?”
“Yep. She’s got a ticket. An old sheet with no convictions. But she was racked up twice for committing a public nuisance.”
“Such as?”
“Archy, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“For taking her clothes off in public places. Once in a supermarket, once in a movie theater.”
“You were right,” I said. “I don’t believe it. You think the Forsythes were aware of her record when they hired her?”
“That I doubt.”
“Al, did it ever occur to you that craziness is engulfing the world?”
“Occasionally I have that thought at three in the morning when I can’t sleep.”
“Tell me something,” I said. “Did you check the whereabouts of the Forsythe clan at the time Griswold the Two shuffled off this mortal coil?”
“I love the way you talk,” Rogoff said. “You mean when the old guy got iced? Of course I checked their alibis. What do you think I am—a potted palm? They all claim they were at home, with two exceptions. Sylvia Forsythe says she was out at the family’s horse farm in Wellington. Anthony Bledsoe—the butler or houseman or whatever—says he had driven the Rolls into town to fill the tank and get the car washed. I’m still trying to pin down their statements.”
We were silent awhile. The sergeant relighted his cold cigar and I started another English Oval. The atmosphere in that truck cab was so noisome I suspected both of us might soon require CPR.
“Al,” I said, “I know your investigation has hardly started, but if you had to choose the villain right now who would you select?”
“John Dillinger,” he said.
I laughed. “He died sixty years ago.”
“I know,” Al said gloomily. “But maybe he came back from the grave. That makes as much sense as everything else in this mishmash. Have you talked to the kid?”
“Lucy? Yes, we’ve spoken.”
“I can’t get a thing out of her,” he fretted. “She just clams up. I have a feeling she knows something but just won’t spill. And I can’t lean on her because she’s practically an infant.”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Well, see what you can do with her, will you, Archy? Maybe she saw something or heard something.”
“I’ll try,” I promised. “You still figure it was someone in the family or one of the servants?”
“What the hell else can I figure?” he demanded. “It wasn’t a coked-up intruder who throttled the old man. I’m practically certain of that. You agree?”
“Yes, I think that’s a reasonable assumption.”
“Thanks a bunch,” he said bitterly. “And a Happy New Year to you.”
We were both grumpy when we parted. Neither of us enjoyed insoluble puzzles. They were an affront to our talent and intelligence. Which implies we shared a healthy dose of chutzpah: as if all the problems of the world can be solved by talent and intelligence. Rubbish, of course. Still, we were being challenged—by the killer—and no one likes to be snookered.
I wasn’t in the greatest good humor when I arose Monday morning. To tell the truth (a rarity) I felt totally unraveled. I simply could not concentrate and feared I might be a victim of premature senescence. But then I realized my befuddlement was caused by the Forsythe investigation: all those unconnected and unnumbered dots.
The weather didn’t help: unseasonably warm, humid, overcast. Definitely not the sort of day to inspire one to shout a hosanna or dance a flamenco. But with gritted bicuspids I pulled myself together, showered, shaved, dressed, breakfasted, and drove to the Forsythe abode.
Mrs. Nora Bledsoe opened the door for me. I was startled; the woman looked destroyed: drawn features, soiled bags under the orbs, slumped shoulders, a general air of hopelessness and despair. I had an immediate and probably base impression that her grief was excessive. I mean she had served the deceased for many years, and sorrow for her employer’s death was understandable. But she seemed totally overwhelmed.
“A sad time, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said.
“It is that, Mr. McNally,” she said in a choked voice, and I feared she might begin weeping.
“Mr. Forsythe,” I began and then added hastily, “—the younger—has asked that I continue cataloging the books.”
She nodded and led the way down that crepuscular corridor to the library. I noted that all the strength had disappeared from her formerly stalwart figure; she seemed shrunken and defeated.
“Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said, “is Lucy at school?”
“Not today,” she said dully. “Because of what’s happened—the funeral and all—her parents thought it best to keep her home for a few days. I think she’s out back somewhere.”
That library was even gloomier than before. I suppose it’s a fanciful notion but the death of the owner made all the leather-bound volumes seem equally defunct, fit for no place but an auction house. A nutty feeling, I admit, but I thought the books had died when the owner expired and could only regain a second life from the love and respect of a new owner.
I shuffled listlessly through my cataloging notes and then tossed them aside. When I thought Mrs. Bledsoe and the others might be safely out of sight I went looking for Lucy. I knew where to find her—in the Secret Place, and I now capitalize it because I was certain she did in her own mind.
Sure enough, I found her seated on the greensward in her minuscule amphitheater. She was not reading a book, there was no pad or pencil in evidence. Clad in a wrinkled romper, she was simply staring into space with a wooden expression that alarmed me. Her eyes were reddened and puffy. But when she became aware of my presence she looked up with a timid smile that warmed the old cockles.