They stopped speaking as we approached. Diaz tipped his baseball cap respectfully to Sylvia but I earned a dark glower from Tony, as if my presence offended him. After what I had learned about his antecedents I could sympathize with his perpetual ill-will. It must be awful to be in a constant state of biliousness that no antacid can cure.
The joint on Dixie Highway turned out to be a paradigm of diners, and the owner’s efforts to duplicate the glories of yore even included an antique Wurlitzer jukebox with those glorious neon tubes. It was loaded with music of the Diner Dynasty: e.g., “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and “Sam’s Song.” Surely you’re not too young to recall those monumental melodies.
The meat loaf turned out to be just as I remembered it: wonderful and completely tasteless. The gluey gravy was ladled on abundantly and, sure enough, we both received two slices of spongy white bread with one small square of melting butter. That lunch was a time warp and I must admit I enjoyed every morsel of it.
“Dessert?” I asked.
“Of course,” Sylvia said, giving me a tender glance. “But not here.”
“If not here,” I said, “then where?”
“You know,” she said, and so I did, much encouraged that the scenario I had planned was progressing so smoothly.
Of course we ended up in Suite 309 of the Michelangelo Motel. I refuse to apologize further for my actions.
Our second sexual rapprochement exceeded the pleasure of the first. She was, as she had claimed, a free spirit seeking only to satisfy her whims. I would never claim she found me impossible to resist. Let’s just say I was handy, and I wondered how many other men had played the same role of temporary consort.
We concluded our barbaric coupling and lay depleted, panting like greyhounds that had caught the rabbit. It was time, I reflected muzzily, to engineer the second part of my caper: I had to separate myself from my companion long enough to search the second bedroom, used by the apartment’s residents.
I hadn’t envisioned how it might easily be accomplished but had consoled myself with the thought that if I failed on the first attempt, a second or even third try might be necessary. I assure you it was not a prospect that daunted me.
But fate sometimes favors the undeserving, as it did in this case.
“I’ve got to go to the John,” Sylvia said.
“I also,” I said immediately.
“Use the one in the other bedroom,” she advised, the darling, and whisked out of bed.
And as soon as she was out of sight I whisked into the adjoining bedroom. Twin beds in there with matching chests of drawers, two lamps on two bedside tables. There was enough careless masculine disarray to convince me it was the sleeping chamber of Timothy Cussack and Rufino Diaz.
The first dresser I opened obviously belonged to the latter, for the top drawer contained a baseball cap, several copies of Spanish language newspapers, and three folded denim coveralls. I switched to the second chest and found a jumbled collection of memorabilia of the former polo player: programs of games, reviews, photos, invitations to parties of years past. I searched as swiftly as I could, anxious to finish before Sylvia began to wonder at my absence.
The bottom three drawers of the bureau were jammed with a tangle of shirts, socks, bikini briefs, and the oddments of a horseman. I delved into this disorder frantically but found none of the jewelry Geraldine Forsythe claimed had been stolen from her. But in the bottom drawer, far in the back, I discovered a tissue-wrapped package. I drew it out carefully.
It was a worn and stained first edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tamerlane.” Staring at it, stunned, I realized it was one of the items the murdered Griswold Forsythe II had listed as having been looted from his home.
Zounds!
W
E DROVE SLOWLY BACK
to the beach sorry that our meat loaf matinee had ended. At least I was and, glancing sideways at Sylvia, I hoped she felt as radiant as she appeared. Her cornsilk hair flickered in the breeze and I had never seen her look so vibrant, so zestful. I knew she was a woman who lived for excess, who welcomed it, and I admired her foolish courage.
“Thank you for a marvelous afternoon,” I said politely.
“And will you love me always?” she asked with mischievous solemnity.
I smiled, not so much at her mockery as at the recollection of what my buddy Binkie Watrous had once said. He insisted the Irving Berlin lyric should be sung, “I’ll be loving you all ways.” Good, but not as good as George S. Kaufman’s comment that it should be “I’ll be loving you Thursdays.”
“Sylvia,” I said, “I’ve never asked you who inhabits that motel suite we use. It’s none of my business but I
am
curious.”
“I thought you knew,” she said. “Timmy Cussack and Rufino Diaz, our gardener, live there. They’re very good about letting friends use it. For an occasional tenner or a bottle of booze, of course.”
“And you have a key?”
“I borrowed it from Rufino this morning when I left you alone in the music room.”
Then I understood why Tony Bledsoe had shot me such a venomous glance on the Forsythe driveway before we departed. He knew very well we were planning fun and games in Suite 309. But why should that infuriate him? Unless...
“Tell me something else, Sylvia: does Cussack have a steady?”
She laughed immoderately. “Half a hundred steadies. Our Timmy is quite a playboy.”
“I can imagine; he has the charm. Where does he hang out—do you know? I’d like to look him up and slip him something for the use of his digs.”
“You don’t have to do that, Archy. Tim is very well taken care of, I assure you.”
“It wouldn’t do any harm to buy him a drink or two.”
She laughed again. “He’d like that. Tim is not an alcoholic, mind you, but he’s never learned how to say ‘When!’ Connie told me he favors the Sea Turtle off Worth Avenue. Do you know the place?”
I had a brief instant of cardiac arrest because I thought she was referring to Consuela Garcia, my one-and-almost-only.
“Connie?” I said hoarsely.
“Constance,” Sylvia said, puzzled by the terror in my voice. “My mother-in-law.”
“Oh,” I said, much relieved. “Yes, I know the Sea Turtle. Not exactly my cup of oolong. In fact, I consider it somewhat unsavory.”
“It is,” she agreed. “Hopeful young chicks and old men with fat wallets and skinny buns. But Timothy seems to like it.”
“I’ll look him up one of these days,” I said casually and let it go at that.
I delivered her to the portal of the Forsythe fortress and we exchanged a firm handclasp and a complicit grin. Sylvia ran inside and I drove home through the waning afternoon sunlight thinking I should be ecstatic because my caper had succeeded beyond expectations. But I was definitely not gruntled. My guileful plot had resulted in more questions than answers.
I had returned the first edition Poe to its original place in the bottom drawer of Timothy Cussack’s bureau. But his possession of that valuable volume was a puzzlement. How on earth had he managed to filch it? There was one obvious explanation, of course. Geraldine Forsythe had been correct and Cussack was having a lunatic affair with Sylvia. To keep him supplied with walking-around money she was swiping her sister-in-law’s jewelry. But in addition she was also stealing those items the late Griswold Forsythe II had said were disappearing.
It was a neat solution to all the thefts but I could not buy it. Too simple. Sgt. Al Rogoff is continually complaining that I have a taste for complexity and he may be right. But in this case I thought my doubts were justified. Geraldine’s accusations, if verified, could account for the thefts. But they provided no solution to the cruel murder of the senior Forsythe.
We had a splendid skirt steak for dinner that evening. Father was in an uncharacteristically jolly mood and contributed an excellent bottle of a vintage merlot from his sequestered stock. The reason for his good humor became apparent when he remarked that McNally & Son had just signed on a new client: a chain of prestigious funeral homes in the South Florida area. I drank to that.
I retired to my upstairs sweatshop in a mellow mood. I made entries in my journal, pondered the events of the day and what significance they might have, if any, and then exchanged my duds for a costume more suitable for a foray to the Sea Turtle, Timothy Cussack’s hangout. I wore a shrieking plaid sport jacket, mauve Izod, and slacks that looked as if they had been dipped in Welch’s grape juice.
I must tell you now that the name “Sea Turtle” is fraudulent. If I used the actual name of the nightclub I might find myself a defendant in a libel action. The place has been the scene of several mini and a few gross Palm Beach scandals. It is a popular pickup joint for the in-season crowd but most year-round residents shun it. It really is awfully infra dig. I mean how can you, with a clear conscience, patronize a bar willing to serve drinks topped with little paper parasols?
It was late September but the snowbirds had already started to flutter down and the Sea Turtle was cranking when I arrived. The scene was as expected: women in tight leather miniskirts; men with gold medallions; the air swirling with smoke smelling of pot; and laughter too loud and too harsh.
Most of the roisterers were seated at tables or squirming on the dance floor and I had no trouble finding a place at the bar. I was waited upon by a lissome maid wearing black net hose, short shorts, and a Spandex halter top refuting the notion that Less is More. The young lady was living proof that More is More.
“What’s your pleasure, sir?” she asked.
“If I told you,” I said, “you’d be shocked. But right now I’d like a Sterling on the rocks.”
“Fruit?” she said, and for a half sec I feared it was an accusation.
“No, no,” I said hastily. “Just the vodka with a splash of water.”
She built my drink swiftly and expertly, placed it before me and, leaning elbows on the bar, cupped her face in her palms.
“I’ll bet you’re visiting from up north,” she said.
“Not me,” I protested. “I live here.”
“In Palm Beach?” she said, astonished.
I nodded.
“Then how come I’ve never seen you before?” she demanded. “Everyone in Palm Beach comes here.”
“I dropped by—oh, it must have been a year ago. You weren’t here then.”
“I started about six months ago. I love it. It’s a real fun place. My name is Gladdie. For Gladys, you know. What’s yours?”
“Archy. For Archy, you know.” We both laughed and shook hands.
“Looking for someone special, Archy?” she asked, giving me a knowing grin.
“Right,” I said. “But not the girl of my dreams. I’m looking for Timothy Cussack so I can buy him a drink. You know him?”
Her expression changed. “Sure,” she said. “Everyone knows Timmy.”
“And likes him?”
“Mostly,” she said cautiously. “He’s sure to come in tonight. He practically lives here. You just hang around and he’ll show up.”
She moved away to serve another customer. I sipped my drink slowly, observing the frenzy on the dance floor. Few of the gyrating couples had any talent. They were trying but it was all ersatz boogie. I rarely attempt to dance to rock, but if you ever saw me glide about to “Ole Buttermilk Sky” you’d swoon with delight.
I beckoned Gladdie, pointing at my empty glass. She brought me a refill.
“Thank you, nurse,” I said.
She laughed. “You’re cute,” she said.
“Not as cute as you,” I told her.
“I get off at two,” she said in a low voice.
“I’ll be unconscious by then. Another time. If you get a chance, slip me your phone number.”
“No problem,” she said happily. “Oh—hey! There’s Tim Cussack. He just came in.”
I turned to look. He was standing in the doorway surveying the action. He was clad totally in black: leather jacket, turtleneck pullover, denim jeans, mocs. I think he meant his half-smile to be sardonic; I thought it smarmy. But I could not deny he was lean, self-assured, and mucho macho—three things I am not. And so, naturally, I detested him.
I left the bar and approached him before he found other companions.
“Hello, Cussack,” I said genially. “Buy you a drink?”
It took him a mo to recognize me. “McNally,” he said finally. “The lawyer fella.”
“You’ve got it,” I said. “How about that belt?”
“Sure,” he said. “First of the night. And if you believe that, I’ve got a rhinestone mine I’d like to sell you.”
We moved back to the bar. He was drinking Jack Daniel’s Black Label, a potent potable. He took it straight with a water chaser he never touched. If I tried that I’d have to change my address to Intensive Care.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked idly. Very bored, very affected.
“I just wanted to thank you for the use of your dorm.”
“Yeah,” he said indifferently, “Rufino told me we had guests this afternoon. Had a few laughs, did you?”
“A few,” I acknowledged.
“That’s the name of the game, isn’t it?” he said. But even as he spoke his head was on a swivel, gaze floating everywhere. It was obvious he was casing the joint looking for—what? Opportunities, I supposed. Female opportunities.
It had been my intention to ask him about his work at the Trojan Stables and gradually, ever so subtly, inquire about his relations with the Forsythe women: Constance, Geraldine, and Sylvia. But it was not to be; this stud simply wasn’t much interested in my company. I wasn’t wearing a skirt.
He slugged his sour mash, slid off the barstool, and squared his shoulders. “Thanks for the refreshment,” he said. “I see someone I want to—”
At that moment a bulky chap stalked up and confronted him. The guy was in his middle forties, I guessed, but well put-together: barrel chest, no paunch, aggressive thrust of head. There was no doubt he was steaming.
“I told you to keep away from her,” he said to Cussack in a gritty voice. “Don’t you listen to me?”
Timmy looked at him coldly. “No, I don’t listen to you,” he said. “I listen to the lady. Why don’t you?”
Their voices had become louder during this taut exchange and I stood and prudently moved out of the range of a flying fist. There was a sudden quiet at our end of the bar. Gladdie started toward us but a beefy bartender shouldered her aside and leaned toward the two antagonists.