Heliotrope slacks. A rugby shirt with mauve stripes. A jacket of inflammatory madras. Pink mocs with vermilion socks. A sight? You wouldn’t believe! I favor jazzy colors in my dress but this dolt was a rainbow on amphetamines.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” he caroled with a disgusting excess of good-fellowship. “Poking about my books, are you?”
“Something like that,” I said dourly. I mean the man was a walking toothache. Now they were “
my
books.” This heir was more than apparent.
He stalked up and down, a preening fop inspecting his domain. I really can’t explain why I held him in such contempt. I guess it was a case of hate at first sight; he was
such
a yuck. And then, of course, there was his hobby of snapping nude photos of his sister and female employees. Even granting their willing cooperation it was not the avocation of a gentleman.
“Listen, Archy,” he said, and I detected a note of anxiety, “that business we talked about—your investigating the thefts. There’s been no further action—right?”
“Right,” I agreed, soothing him with a half-truth. “No further action.”
“Good-oh,” he said, obviously relieved. “As I told you, the matter’s been cleared up. No more thefts, I promise you that.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Oh yes,” he said, “one more thing...” And he snapped his fingers as if it were a matter of little importance he had suddenly recalled. It was the phoniest display of casualness I’ve ever witnessed. “Gerry tells me you’re a member of the Pelican Club.”
“That’s correct.”
His short cough of laughter was pure sham. “How do I go about joining?” he asked. “Naturally I belong to my father’s club. And your father’s too.”
I nodded.
“Nice club,” he said. “But a bit stodgy, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say so.”
“So I’ve been thinking about joining a younger club. Something jazzier, if you catch my meaning. Not so frumpy.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “The Pelican
is
looser. But you realize it has no golf course, pool, or tennis courts. It’s really just an eating and drinking establishment. Emphasis on the latter.”
“Just what I’m looking for!” he cried enthusiastically. “A place to let down one’s hair, so to speak. How do I get a card?”
“I’d be happy to propose your name to the membership committee,” I told him. I refrained from adding that I chaired that committee, there was a long list of would-be Pelicanites ahead of him, and I’d do my damndest to keep his name at the bottom.
“Good man!” he almost shouted. “I knew I could depend on you. I’m looking forward to spending a lot of time there. Let me know when I’m elected.”
He gave me a hand flap and sauntered out, leaving me to reflect on how the death of the papa had wrought such a radical change in the son. But we all know, do we not, that where there’s a will there’s a way. I am, of course, referring to the will of the deceased Griswold Forsythe II.
Feeling I had done enough cataloging for one morning (zilch) and beginning to feel the stirrings of lunchtime hunger, I decided to return home and explore the McNally larder. I was almost at the front door when my escape was interrupted by the bouncy appearance of Sheila Hayworth. She seemed in an even more exuberant mood than Fern Bancroft, and I wondered if the Forsythes’ chef was sprinkling hashish in the squid stew.
“Hi!” she said brightly. “I was hoping to see you so I could say goodbye before I leave.”
“Leave?” I said. “You’re going to Disney World? Say hello to Mickey for me.”
“No, no,” she said, laughing. “I’m leaving the Forsythes.”
“Are you indeed? I’m sorry to hear that, Sheila.”
“I’m not sorry,” she said forthrightly. “I wasn’t cut out to be a maid. I’m just too independent. I don’t like waiting on other people.”
“That’s understandable,” I told her and meant it. What a surly (and oafish) butler I’d make! “What do you plan to do?”
“Well, I’m taking a small condo in West Palm for starters. It’s just a little studio apartment but it’ll be all mine. And I’ve saved up some money, and if I can get a bank loan I want to open a boutique that sells lingerie. Like Victoria’s Secret, you know. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“An excellent idea,” I assured her, forbearing to mention that her chances of getting a bank loan to open a shop that sold thong bikinis ranged from anorexic to impossible.
“Well, that’s what I want to do,” she said determinedly. “Anyway I just wanted to say so long, wish you the best, and hope I see you again sometime.”
She held out her hand. I took it to shake and noticed she was wearing a tennis bracelet. The diamonds weren’t large—quarter- or half-carat I estimated—but it was an attractive trinket.
“That’s a lovely hunk of jewelry,” I said. “New?”
“Brand-new,” she said joyously, holding up her wrist and turning it this way and that, admiring the glitter of the stones.
“A gift from an admirer, no doubt.”
“Yep,” she said and grinned. “Me! I’m so happy about leaving this draggy place I had to buy myself a going-away present.”
“Good for you,” I said, not believing a word she said.
She gave me an air kiss before we parted and I had twinges of regret at never having accepted her earlier come-ons. Whittier wrote: “For all sad words of tongue or pen/The saddest are these: ‘It might have been’!” I don’t think so. To me the saddest words of tongue or pen are these: “Who ate all the turkey bologna?”
On the drive home I had my first epiphanic moment of the day. After reviewing the conversations of that morning with Constance Forsythe, Fern Bancroft, Griswold III, and Sheila Hayworth, I realized the slaying of the senior Griswold had popped the cork from a jeroboam of champagne and everyone in the Forsythe ménage seemed in a giggly mood. It was cruel to impute their good spirits to the old man’s demise but so it appeared.
Which suggested they all had a motive for doing him in. Which also meant yrs. truly was still out in left field, gloved and ready, vainly searching the sky for a ball that might come his way.
My luncheon was delayed and that was a shame because Ursi Olson had prepared a cold seafood salad with endive and watercress bedding chunks of shrimp, crabmeat, and Florida lobster. Ursi likes to add a tablespoonful of Dijon mustard to the dressing.
But there was a message from Sgt. Al Rogoff asking me to call him. So I postponed my noontime banquet, went into my father’s study, and used his phone.
“I’m eating an anchovy pizza,” Al said. “What are you having?”
“A liverwurst sandwich,” I said, not wishing to upstage him.
“Rather you than me,” he said. “You got anything?”
I thought it a propitious time to give him a tidbit. Al and I are competitors, in a sense, but our investigations are also cooperative ventures. If we don’t share
all
the information uncovered by each of us it’s understood we trade salient discoveries.
So I told Rogoff about my recent chat with Sheila Hayworth: she was leaving the Forsythe household to take her own place in West Palm and hoped to open a lingerie boutique if she could secure a bank loan.
“And I am Queen Marie of Romania,” the sergeant said. “How do you figure?”
“Well, she was wearing a diamond-studded tennis bracelet she claims she bought for herself.”
“Ho-ho-ho,” Al said. “Who do you guess was the donor?”
“Griswold the Third,” I said. “He had a thing going with Sheila until his father broke it up. But now that daddy’s gone I think he’s yielding to his baser instincts. I reckon he bought her the bracelet, is picking up the tab on her new apartment, and will probably finance her boutique. It’s all glands, Al.”
“What else?” he said. “Sex and money. If it wasn’t for that cops wouldn’t have a thing to do.”
“What have you got for me?” I asked him.
“Not much,” he admitted. “We found the calfskin wallet that had been lifted from the victim. It was in the bushes behind the building. The cash was gone but everything else was there, including credit cards. So it wasn’t your ordinary, run-of-the-mill creep who offed Forsythe. He’d have taken the plastic.”
“Did you dust the wallet?”
“What do you think?” he said indignantly. “We’re not mutts, you know. The wonks picked up a fuzzy partial that didn’t belong to the owner. It’s not something you can take to court but it’s a teaser.”
“Any ID?”
“No, but they’re working on it. By the way, your pal Timothy Cussack was involved in a barroom brawl last night. The other guy got his nose smashed and wants to bring charges of assault. He hasn’t got a chance; witnesses say he was the one who started it. Anyway, just for the fun of it, I went out to the Forsythe horse farm this morning, picked up Cussack, and brought him in for questioning. Son, that lad is one cool customer. He knew we couldn’t hold him and we didn’t. He waltzed out in a couple of hours. That bum goes bad-assing his way through life and never draws more than a wrist slap.”
I thought about what he had just told me. “Al, when you went out to the stables to pick up Cussack, what time was it?”
“Time? Early. Around nine thirty I’d say. Why?”
“Was Mrs. Constance Forsythe there when you took him in?”
“Sure she was.”
“And she knew why you were taking him—for questioning about the barroom brawl?”
“Of course she knew. And gave us a lot of mouth about it. That’s one tough cookie. But what’s your point?”
“Al, I went out there about an hour or so later, looking for Cussack, and she told me he had left to inspect a horse a client was thinking of buying. I was just wondering why she thought it necessary to lie to me.”
We were both silent a long time. I was the first to speak.
“Toto,” I said, “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Yeah, Dorothy,” Rogoff said. “I think you’re right.”
I
RETURNED TO THE
Forsythe manor after lunch. I assure you I did not anticipate proving or disproving a grand theory that explained all the goings-on in that household. I had no such theory. I was not yet certain of
anything
concerning the Forsythes but I was curious—nay, obsessed!—about the passions that were riving the family. I have mentioned in previous narratives my unquenchable nosiness, and now I found myself plunged into the middle of a living, breathing soap opera. It was heaven!
But perhaps, regarding my lack of a theory, I am being too modest—a fault of which I am rarely accused. I did have some vague notions of what had happened and was happening—and I am certain you do too. Human behavior is endlessly fascinating, is it not? I began this magnum opus with a few well-chosen remarks on the craziness of human primates, and my involvement with the Forsythes had only reinforced that opinion. They were loons! And if you mutter it takes one to know one, you may be correct.
I had no specific program planned for the afternoon. After Ursi Olson’s seafood salad (with a glass of chilled pinot grigio) I was in a benevolent mood and willing to accept whatever fate shoveled my way. I did hope I’d have a chance to exchange a few giggles with Lucy, that lorn child. It seemed to me she was the only true victim in this tragicomedy. The others were riddles.
Mrs. Nora Bledsoe opened the door for me. Unlike the other residents I had met that morning, she seemed subdued. There were two little vertical lines of worry between her heavy brows.
“I trust you are in good health, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said. “I’m sure it’s been a troublesome week.”
“I’m surviving, sir,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m good at that.”
“Of course. I presume you and the rest of the staff will continue as before.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said fretfully. “Things are so mixed up since Mr. Forsythe passed. Sheila Hayworth is leaving and Zeke Grenough threatens to quit because the younger Mr. Forsythe told him the short ribs we had last night weren’t spicy enough. And Miss Gerry is moping and has hardly come out of her room since her father died. I just wish things would settle down and get back to normal.”
“I’m sure they will,” I comforted her.
“I don’t know,” she said gloomily. “Everything seems to be breaking up.” She was silent a moment as if debating a decision. Then: “And I have a personal problem that’s bothering me. I wonder if I might speak to you about it, Mr. McNally, and ask your advice. I trust your judgment, sir.”
That was flattering and completely mistaken. I mean I’m the guy who said rock would never replace bebop and who voted for the loser in every Presidential election since I came of age.
“Of course, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said. “I’ll be happy to offer what help I can. Why don’t we move into the library.”
We did, and the housekeeper sat in the armchair alongside the desk while I occupied the giant swivel, tapped fingertips together, and prepared to listen with solemn mien. Meanwhile I reflected that asking me for advice in a personal problem was akin to requesting Godzilla’s aid on protecting the environment.
“It’s Tony,” Mrs. Bledsoe started. “My son. He’ll be coming into some money soon. Mr. Forsythe’s will, you know. He was very generous. I was hoping Tony would go to college and get a good education, but he wants to open a bar in Palm Beach.”
“A bar?” I said, thinking that was just what we needed: another bar.
“A sort of nightclub,” she said. “Dancing and all. He has a friend named Timothy Cussack. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met,” I said cautiously. “I can’t say I really know him.”
“Well, I think he’s a lowlife. I’ve told my son not to associate with him but Tony won’t listen to me.”
Oh-ho. I wondered if that was the cause of the slap, son to mother, I overheard during my first visit to the Forsythe home.
“Anyway,” she continued, “he’s convinced Tony they could make a lot of money if they opened this—this
saloon
for rich young people. I guess Cussack knows a lot of them. And that’s how my son wants to use the money he’ll get from Mr. Forsythe’s estate. I’ve tried to talk him out of it but he won’t listen to me and it’s keeping me awake nights. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said gently, “there are some things we can’t change no matter how strongly we feel or how right we might be. Tony is an adult and can do whatever he pleases with money that is legally his. If you can’t persuade him to invest it wisely, I don’t believe you have any choice but to let him live his own life, make his own decisions, wish him well, and hope for the best.”