McNally's Dare (14 page)

Eager to terminate this painful repartee, I was loath to ask Izzy’s literary genre.

“She writes hard-boiled detective fiction,” Binky informed me, right on cue. “Do you want to know what she’s working on how?”

“No, Binky, I do not.”

“We’re collaborating,” he gushed, as if I had not spoken.

My word. Cohabitating and collaborating. Binky went to the disposal dump and fell into a pot of jam.

“Now you see why it’s important that you keep me abreast of the Jeff Rodgers murder,” he said.

“No, Binky. The connection escapes me.”

“Izzy and I are going to annotate your cases, Archy.” He spoke as if he knew the meaning of the word.

Trapped as I was behind my desk, I could fall neither forward nor backward, but did manage to rise and reach for Binky’s throat with intent to do bodily harm. A step backward put him out of reach and, unaware of my approaching apoplexy, he pulled a notebook out of his cart and ranted, “Remember the case that started down at Manalapan, at that big, wild party? The night you took the girl home and I had to drive her car to your place...”

“The night Hobo took a chunk out of your ankle,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t think I would mention that—but listen.” He consulted his notebook and read, “‘It was a dark and blustery night...’”

“Blustery? In Palm Beach?”

“Poetic license. Remember?”

How I longed for a refreshing cup of hemlock.

“If you so much as mention my name I’ll sue you, Izzy and all the Kalamazoo Battles,” I threatened.

“I don’t see what you’re getting so uppity about when you got your name and your picture in the shiny sheet, wrapped in the icky jacket.”

“That icky jacket happens to be a classic,” I told him.

“And so is
The Adventures of Skip McGuire”
he proclaimed, shaking the notebook in my face.

“Who?’ I managed to utter as my blood pressure soared to heights heretofore uncharted by medical science.

“Skip McGuire, Archy. It’s your
nom de plume.”

Did Minerva Barnes hand out a glossary of literary terms to all her new students, or had he learned them at the knee of Isadora Duhane? I reached for the only weapon at hand and ordered, “Put that cart in reverse and get out of here before you feel the wrath of my plume.”

Backing out, my Boswell challenged, “Publish or perish, Archy.”

Oyvey.

“How nice you look, Archy,” my number one fan noted as I entered the den.

For the cocktail hour at the McNally manse I accessorized a pair of black silk faille trousers and a crisply pressed white shirt with a tartan plaid waistcoat in blue, green and red that bore its original onyx buttons. I got this prize at a rummage shop along that stretch of the South Dixie Highway now known as Antiques Row. The area was declared “in vogue” when Jennifer Garrigues of Worth Avenue selected it as the place for her second shop, the Dixie Monkey. Father, at the sideboard mixing our martinis, turned to see the cause of Mother’s compliment, raised one eyebrow, and went back to mixing the world’s wettest blend of gin and vermouth.

I kissed Mother’s cheek, accepted my libation so carefully poured into a crystal stem glass, and took my seat, which is a club chair in worn dark brown leather. Father eschewed his place behind his desk in favor of a wing chair where, given his bearing and attire, he looked regal and, therefore, content. He had already served Mother’s sauterne, the only alcoholic beverage she takes.

As Father and I tried to come up with a suitable subject for Mother’s ears, she opened the conversation with, “I know it’s not supposed to be mentioned in my presence, but I heard that poor boy’s funeral is tomorrow morning at St. Edward’s.”

She no doubt heard it from Ursi, who got it from Maria. Father and I exchanged glances, shrugged and went with the flow. “I intend to be there,” I informed those gathered.

“I’m glad you’re going to church, Archy, even if for such a sad occasion,” she said.

My parents attend church every Sunday morning and I accompany them when I can’t find a virtuous excuse for my Saturday night sins and seek redemption—which is very seldom. Seeing an opening, Father turned the conversation to the floral arrangements at last week’s service and Mother was happily led from murder to marigolds with nary a backward glance. Short-term memory is not all bad.

The marigolds led to the trials and tribulations of Mother’s garden club and the bad feelings created after a bitter discussion of the indiscriminate use of smudge pots. Ordering up another glass of sauterne, Mother went on about the difficulty of recruiting speakers for the Current Affairs Society, of which she is a founder and current Sergeant at Arms. Mother is a born and bred Floridian, which is rare indeed, as most Floridians are native New Yorkers.

“They all want to be paid,” Mother sighed. “I think they should be happy just to be asked.”

“What about Minerva Barnes?” I injected. “She’s right here in Lantana.” This earned me a perplexed stare from she who bore me. “She’s a best-selling author,” I elucidated.

“I’ve never heard of her,” Mother said, “but then my memory is not what it used to be, and authors are so tedious, Archy. They expect you to bring their latest book for autographing, which means you have to buy the book as you can’t return a library copy autographed by the author.”

“Minerva Barnes writes
romans à clef,”
Father lectured from his throne. “Fictionalized accounts of the lives and loves of our more disreputable notables, all rather thinly disguised. Very naughty, I assure you.”

That brought a smile to Mother’s face and a glow to her florid cheeks. “Naughty, you say, Prescott? Then we must have her. The society will think I’m very with-it. Thank you, Archy.”

I was too awed by Father’s revelation to acknowledge Mother’s gratitude. Could the sire have renounced Dickens in favor of Minerva Barnes? This was as likely as the Pope renouncing celibacy. Father appeared so pleased with himself I tried to mask my incredulity when I asked, “You’ve read Minerva Barnes, sir?”

“Heavens no, Archy,” he said, feigning surprise that I should think he had. “She was a client some years back. It seems she didn’t disguise her protagonist sufficiently enough to ward off a libel suit from the real article. We represented the defendant.”

“Did we win?” I questioned, going along with the royal
we.

“In a sense we did,” he said, warming to his favorite topic. “We reminded the aggrieved gentleman that to claim he was the prototype for the dastardly character was in fact a form of self-incrimination.” Father smiled as he recalled this clever maneuver. “He dropped the case.”

Thinking of Skip McGuire (ugh!) I asked, “What is the line between freedom to publish and libel?”

“A very thin one, Archy. A very thin one, indeed. Can you give me an example?”

“Not at the moment, sir.” But it had me thinking. Would Binky dare tell all he knew? Under the influence of Eros in the guise of Isadora Duhane, and abetted by Minerva Barnes, I believe he would. Skip McGuire had to be silenced. What did Binky say? Publish or perish? Well, the choice was clear, but who would perish—me or my clone?

Dinner was announced, ending yet another episode of
Cocktails with the McNallys.
Will the fallout from smudge pots be reconciled? Will Mother get Minerva Barnes to speak before the Current Affairs Society and fool the authoress into signing a library copy of her latest book? Will Archy publish or perish? Time in tomorrow night, when none of the above will be resolved.

If Maria Sanchez did report that I would be dining at home tonight, Ursi feted me as if I were the prodigal son. For starters, fresh crab meat, white as snow, heaped over a bed of cold, crisp iceberg lettuce and garnished with toast points and capers.

The fatted calf was a fatted
poussin
(baby chicken to you), roasted to a golden brown and accompanied with a sauce derived from a mix of minced shallots and onions blended in the bird’s roasting juices and a dash of port wine. The three birds were presented with an X, fashioned by strips of grilled bacon, atop their succulent breasts.

Pommes Anna, baby peas with pearl onions and Ursi’s home-baked petite cheddar biscuits completed the feast.

Father decanted a bottle of Rosso de Montalcino, a pretentious Tuscan delight, for the repast, which ended with a lemon sorbet to clean the palate and a plate of sugar cookies to go with a cup of demitasse derived from Ursi’s original blend of Colombian beans.

Get married? You’ve got to be either kidding or
non compos mentis.

J
EFF RODGERS’S MURDER CONTAINED
all the ingredients of a pulp fiction novella, which made his funeral a media event. The mourners included a mix of Palm Beach society, an incorrigible tennis pro hunk, and a gaggle of winsome boys and girls.

The link between the newly departed and the newly arrived was still the best-kept secret of the drama, but with the number of people hot on Talbot’s trail (or should that be Talbot’s toe?), it was only a matter of time before he would have to make a public statement regarding his connection to the victim. When I entered St. Edward’s church I had no idea the time was at hand.

Many of the young folks who filled the church to say good-bye to their friend and colleague wore the uniform of their trade and, whether because they were on their way to a job or as a tribute to Jeff, the gesture made a poignant statement Well, if the uniformed services buried their own in full dress, why not these gallant boys and girls?

The others, accustomed to running about in shorts, T-shirts and sneakers, looked a tad uncomfortable in their trousers or skirts with a proper shirt or blouse covering their tanned torsos. The sneakers, I noted, made it to church but the surfboards did not. I saw Todd and Monica in the crowd. Todd’s seat in the first row with three other young men, all wearing dark suits and ties, told me Todd was a designated pallbearer. The older man in that pew was no doubt Jeff’s father.

Poor Jeff. If he were looking down on this gathering in search of his former classmates from the Day School I fear he would find that he had been snubbed in death as he had been in life. Seeing those who did come to bid him farewell, I would say Jeff Rodgers traded up when he left the Day School for a seat next to Edward (Todd) Brandt. Poor Jeff just didn’t get it, and the oversight may have cost him his life.

This is not to say the gathering wasn’t impressive. The press, from Miami to Jacksonville and points west, was in attendance, their accompanying photographers having the good sense to limit their photo ops to outside the church.

Representing
Bare Facts
magazine was Dennis Darling, seated next to Lolly Spindrift. Lolly possesses all the sincerity of a mole working both sides of the street. After warning us to steer clear of the man from
Bare Facts,
Lol accepts his invitation to dine, no doubt exchanging titillating gossip over the beef Wellington, and now sits before those he cautioned, and before God I might add, pointing and whispering the names of PB notables into Darling’s ear. For a guy like Denny, extracting the bare facts out of Lolly was like getting a has-been ham to list his credits.

Jackson Barnett, looking like a blond Adonis and dressed like a funeral director, was with a man who exhibited all the signs of a flack. Custom-made suit, black silk tie and nervous tic. I imagine the people in New York, anxious that Jackie’s involvement in Jeff’s death might cost him his lucrative endorsements and their ten percent, sent down this troubleshooter to keep Barnett from doing anything foolish, like skipping the funeral in favor of sleeping late.

Phil Meecham was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well as his presence in a house of worship might well precipitate the onset of Armageddon. The MacNiffs were there, she in a deep purple frock and smart black hat. I also noticed many of the
Tennis Everyone!
participants, including Joe Gallo and Vivian Emerson. He sported flannels and blazer, she a navy Chanel suit. Now aware of Joe’s former involvement with Georgy girl, I scrutinized him as best I could from where I sat, seeking imperfections and finding none. This was depressing, but apropos to the occasion. The Emerson woman, as I recalled from the MacNiff gala, was a stunner.

Al Rogoff and his chief, both in civilian dress, were stationed on opposite sides of the congregation where they could not be mistaken for anything but flatfoots on the prowl.

All were present and accounted for with one glaring exception. This was a rather strange young lady seated in the pew directly across the aisle from me in the rear of the church. A few strands of dark hair fell over her forehead from beneath a kerchief that engulfed much of her face. Dark, horn-rimmed glasses and a shapeless raincoat completed the picture of a member of the royal family shopping incognito along the King’s Road.

Her features, what you could see of them, were attractive, and I imagined so too was the figure the raincoat concealed. In a town where the fair sex strives to enhance their assets, she labored to be the exception to the rule—with a vengeance. Why would an attractive lass come to a funeral disguised as a frump?

Further speculation was nipped in the bud when, just at the start of the service, a young man entered the church and chose to settle into my pew. I moved to make room for Lance Talbot, who nodded politely as he slipped in beside me.

The service was lovely, if somber, and although we were reminded that Jeff Rodgers had left this vale of tears for a more affable location, I doubt if any present were eager to follow him there in the immediate future. Thankfully, no mention was made of the mode of Jeff’s departure.

The four young pallbearers, Todd included, flanked the draped coffin as it was wheeled up the aisle, followed by Mr. Rodgers and, behind him, the mourners filed out of their pews to form a cortege. As the coffin rolled past us, Lance Talbot bowed his head and when he raised it he found himself literally face-to-face with Jeff’s father. Mr. Rodgers paused, rudely staring at the younger man as if wondering if he should greet him. Talbot smiled, nodded and said, “Yes, Rollo, it’s me.”