McNally's Dare (18 page)

“I told you his father, Rollo, was our chauffeur. When my mother enrolled me in the Day School, she enrolled Jeff also, paying his fees. Rollo took us to and from school. Poor Jeff made me promise not to tell our classmates Rollo was his father. He had pretentions, Archy. Pretentions far above his station in life. When my mother took me to live in Switzerland, Jeff was left without a benefactress. Tuition at the Day School was beyond Rollo’s means, so Jeff got dumped.”

He paused long enough to sip his gin martini. So far, Lance’s account of his association with Jeff Rodgers corroborated with Todd’s version.

Lance continued: “Dumped is the operative word, Archy. It was a bum thing to do to my best pal. But remember, I had no say in the matter. I was a kid, too. When next I saw Jeff, we were no longer children and I had come into my inheritance prematurely. I found Jeff waiting tables, which did nothing to inhibit his pretentions. I owed him, Archy. I owed him big time. He talked about buying a restaurant or bar in New York. The Hamptons, I believe, where he worked summers when things were slow here.

“As I will always be a rich bastard in Palm Beach, so Jeff would always be someone the rich tipped. The Hamptons was his escape. I told him I would act as his silent partner, putting up all the cash necessary for his enterprise, give him an allowance until the business began to pay, and even throw in a house to sweeten the deal.

“And there’s the answer to Jeff’s newly acquired wealth, compliments of Lance Talbot.” Still holding his Gauloises, he opened his arms wide and finished with, “Case closed.”

It’s closed only because a rebuttal from Jeff Rodgers was impossible, due to circumstances beyond my control. Talbot didn’t know if Jeff had actually talked to Denny, but he was betting the farm that Jeff had not. I would apprise Denny of Talbot’s account of Jeff’s windfall and watch the fur fly when the two faced off at the MacNiffs’ tomorrow afternoon. Would Denny bare what he knew, which wasn’t much? Or hint that Jeff had sold his story? That, to be sure, was up to Denny. My sage father had said that if Jeff had been murdered for what he knew, the murderer wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone seeking to learn Jeff’s secret. Beware, Dennis Darling—
et tu,
Archy McNally.

After a moment’s contemplative thought, I offered, “How very altruistic of you.”

He nodded as if in agreement. “Thank you, Archy. Are you satisfied now that you know the facts?”

“Me?” I said. “It’s the police you’ll have to satisfy.”

“Do they know about Jeff’s boasting?”

No, but they soon will. After listening to Talbot’s story, I had decided it was time to bring Al Rogoff into the picture. The stakes were high and getting more dangerous by the moment. I enjoy going with the flow, but after sparring with Lance Talbot I saw a tidal wave on the horizon.

“If the police don’t know about Jeff’s claim, they will when they finish questioning his friends. As I said, he bragged about his expectations.”

“Then perhaps I should tell them the truth before they jump to the wrong conclusion. You think, yes?”

His English seemed to deteriorate under stress. “I think, yes, Lance. The sooner, the better.”

“The Baron arrives tomorrow” he said. “Holga and I must meet him at the airport. He comes here from Zurich via New York. In the afternoon is the MacNiff gathering. After that I will go to the police. I see no reason to alter my plans over this misunderstanding. It has nothing to do with Jeff’s murder.”

The statement left me nonplussed. If the Baron was who I thought it was, the ladies who lunch would be queuing up for his services, led by Lady Cynthia Horowitz. “The Baron?” I tried to raise one eyebrow and failed.

“Holga’s husband,” he said with nary a blush. I guess they had never heard that two’s company and three’s a crowd in the snowy Alps, but perhaps, over there, husbands don’t count. The tongue waggers would grow hoarse over this trio.

“The title is a little joke between Holga and me,” he elucidated. “Uncle Claus is not from a noble family, although he likes to play the part. He is a renowned doctor of surgery, specializing in reconstruction. He operated on my mother some years ago and during her convalescence at his clinic they became good friends and remained so. He and Holga became our extended family.”

So the late Jessica Talbot had had a face-lift and got tight with her Svengali and his spouse. “The von Brechts have no children?” I ventured.

“No. I’m their surrogate son,” he said, seemingly proud of the fact.

How much of this should I believe? I wondered. The guy’s imagination was as rich as his wallet. And was he taking some kind of warped pleasure in the fact that his supposed mistress’s husband was coming to live with them? This was beginning to make the British colonization of Kenya look like a church picnic.

“I had the pleasure of drawing Ms. von Brecht as a partner at the MacNiffs’ benefit,” I told him. “From her speech I gathered she was American.”

“By birth only,” Lance informed me. “True, she was born in America. Maine? Vermont? It’s never discussed. After college she took the tour, as it was called, met and married Uncle Claus in Switzerland and never returned here. She is as Swiss as the Alps, believe me.”

Then I asked something that I would later regret. “We played opposite Vivian Emerson and her escort, Joe Gallo. I got the impression that Ms. von Brecht and Ms. Emerson were friends.”

With an emphatic shake of the head he denied this. “Holga knows no one here. If she did, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me. What made you think Holga knew this woman?”

I wasn’t about to give him any more than I already had, but even at that point it was too late to undo the damage. “Nothing, really,” I said with an uncaring shrug. “Just an impression which was obviously false.” Quickly changing lanes, I told him I would be at the MacNiff shindig on the morrow.

“Then you will meet the Baron, if he chooses to come. You don’t think a social gathering so soon after the tragedy is a bit macabre?” he asked.

“Mr. MacNiff is using the occasion to announce that in the future his scholarship fund will become a memorial to Jeff Rodgers.”

“Again Mr. MacNiff outmaneuvers me. I was going to establish something like that in Jeff’s memory.”

“Perhaps you can make an annual donation to the MacNiff charity on Jeff’s behalf.”

“I’ll do just that,” he said. “Would you care for another drink?”

“No, thank you. I have dinner plans.”

“And do you accept my commission?”

“At double my fee, I would be crazy to refuse.”

He extended his hand. “The name Archibald is derived from the German. It means ‘distinguished and bold.’ I enjoy researching the origin of names to see if they are an apt description of the bearer. Lance comes from the Arthurian legend of Lance-of-Lot or Lancelot. The knight who gained the Holy Grail.”

I took his hand and shook it with gusto. “Afraid not, kid. Galahad gained the Holy Grail. Lancelot was caught in bed with Guinevere.”

“T
HE KING IS DEAD.”
The rambling of an old lady, or the solution to this case? Which was the answer? More to the point, what was the question? Was I looking for the true identity of the man calling himself Lance Talbot, or for the secret that got Jeff Rodgers killed? It didn’t take an Einstein to conclude that the two might very well be opposite sides of the same coin.

Denny believed that Jeff knew who sired Lance and the absentee daddy preferred to remain anonymous. Denny wanted to believe this because it would make the most sensational story, especially if Lance’s dad was a household name who was as pure as a babe in arms. The purer the better, because such falls from grace are the meat and potatoes of the tabloid press.

Denny’s zeal for a kinky headline had clouded his otherwise clear vision. If Jeff knew who the man was, and if the man did not want the fact known, Jeff would have blackmailed the father, not the son. And Jeff would have done it years ago, not now, as if Lance’s return spurred his memory. But suppose the man’s position made him incommunicado to lesser mortals, making it necessary for Jeff to bargain via Lance?

Then again, could Lance’s father have also recently returned to Palm Beach? Or would, shortly? Lance wouldn’t pay to protect a father who had abandoned him. Did Jessica Talbot go to Switzerland, taking her son, because her lover was there? The Baron? Why would the doctor wish to remain anonymous, and where did that leave poor Holga?

Sorry, Denny, all of the above are possible, but surely not plausible. However, I’m sure that if Denny knew about the grandmother’s doubts as to her heir’s identity, he would give up the search for Lance’s father and pick up, with me, the search for Lance himself.

The two people who knew Lance Talbot for the first ten years of his life were both dead. One by natural causes, after she may have expressed doubts as to his legitimacy. The other murdered, after he had allegedly leaned on Talbot for hush money. With Mrs. Talbot gone, Jeff was the only other person who could spot Lance Talbot for a phony—if that were the case.

Some secret shared by the two boys the returning Lance failed to remember? A word, or phrase, tossed at him by Jeff that required a response Lance had not tossed back? Ten toes, when there should be only nine? It could be any or all of those things. Or, if one believed Lance, none of them.

I had just come from hearing Lance’s side of the story and could find no concrete reason why I should not believe him, while believing what Jeff had told Denny. Todd had labeled Jeff a wiseguy and a malcontent. Certainly not the kind of recommendation that inspired confidence in the boy’s integrity. Was Jeff getting a generous handout from Lance while using the celebrated Talbot name to lure Dennis Darling to Palm Beach with the hope of selling a story to Denny that was either trumped-up or fatuous?

After our chat in the Leopard Lounge only one thing was now certain. Lance Talbot had something to hide and he was afraid Dennis Darling knew that, or might even know the secret itself. My money was on old Mrs. Talbot. “The king”—meaning her grandson—“is dead.” So who had stood me two bourbons at the Leopard Lounge this evening, and who wanted me to find Jeff Rodgers’s murderer? The killer himself? But Lance had close to a hundred reliable witnesses, including Denny and Archy, to swear he was nowhere near the scene of the crime. I have looked upon many a well-turned ankle in my time but I never thought I would live to see the day I lusted after the sight of a guy’s foot.

Thus was my mind occupied as I drove to the Pelican. I took the Royal Palm Way Bridge on this balmy winter night with the temperature in the seventies and a breeze off the Atlantic making a cashmere wrap appropriate for the ladies and jackets more serviceable than show for Madame’s escort. The lit windows of the new steel and glass office buildings in West Palm reflected playfully on the dark waters of Lake Worth, and I imagined I could hear music coming from the Governor’s Club in the penthouse suite atop the opulent tower it called home.

My red Miata raced through an animated picture, postcard of Palm Beach in season, in all its flamboyant splendor—and how I loved it. Also, I was very hungry.

Georgy girl was seated at the Pelican bar. So too were Binky Watrous and Isadora Duhane. They were chatting like old friends and drinking what I thought to be champagne cocktails. The dining room was hopping and I spotted Todd working the floor along with our Priscilla.

Georgy looked gorgeous in one of those sack dresses she favored. This one in white, with a silk paisley scarf cinching her waist. White flats adorned a pair of gams that did not need the classic high heel to show off their allure. Her emerald eyes lit up at my approach and my silent admiration was rewarded with a kiss.

“You’re not late,” Georgy said, “I was early and Binky and Isadora were good enough to keep me company before going off to dinner.” Turning to Isadora, she went on, “This is the famous Archy McNally. Archy, this is Binky’s friend, Isadora Duhane.”

“Our paths have crossed three times today, Mr. McNally. It was inevitable that we finally meet,” Isadora said, eyeing my safari jacket as if memorizing the tiniest detail for reproduction in prose.

Unlike Georgy, Isadora was not the girl next door most likely to be voted Homecoming Queen or the sweetheart of Sigma Chi. Far from it. I would classify Isadora Duhane as striking. Good skin, not yet tinted by our tropical sun. The dark hair I had seen under the babushka was cut as short as a man’s and fringed with bangs. The eyes behind the no-nonsense specs were as dark as the frames. In the makeup department, Ms. Duhane believed that less was better. Lipstick and perhaps a dusting of face powder proved her right.

Her figure, sans the shapeless raincoat, was impressive, if a bit on the lean side for my taste. Tonight she wore a straight gray skirt in Ultrasuede with a black jersey mock turtleneck. Her only jewelry appeared to be a single strand of pearls that looked ultrareal and probably were.

“Do you usually go to morning services at St. Edward’s, Ms. Duhane?”

“You may call me Izzy,” she said, as if I should be grateful for the honor.

“And you may call me anything
but
Skip McGuire,” I retaliated.

“Oh.” She smiled. “Binky told you about our little project?”

Glaring at my friend, I told her he had. “And I’m not thrilled at the prospect of being parodied in a murder mystery.”

“Lighten up, Archy,” Georgy said. “They told me about it and it sounds like fun.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you were in it,” I answered.

“But she is,” Izzy cried. “We’re calling her Sam. Short for Samantha. Get it?”

I got it all right. Was there no end to Izzy’s cleverness? And what did she see in Binky? I mean, he’s okay, if you like your men average height, blond and bland. Poor Binky just didn’t have the wherewithal to please the opposite sex—if you get my drift. Looking at him now, as he tried to avoid my irate gaze, I hardly recognized my old friend. Besides the manicured hair, he was decked out in a double-breasted Armani suit and a white-on-white shirt with French cuffs and pearl links. Who did he think he was, me? And were the links from a matching set to the strand hanging from Izzy’s neck? What next? A diamond-studded yoke?