McNally's Dare (2 page)

While I hadn’t yet been paired with or against Jackie Barnett, I did get called for the mixed doubles and found myself with a very attractive lady introduced as Holga von Brecht. The von made me wonder if she was a titled lady of German descent, though her accent was strictly New England Yankee. I guessed her age at forty, give or take, but these days she could have been a decade older and either well preserved or well connected to a surgeon with hands of gold.

We were opposite a young man named Joe Gallo and his partner, Vivian Emerson, who was a good deal older than Joe but, like Holga, a looker with a figure to match. Why the name Joe Gallo struck a chord I had no idea and, chosen to serve, didn’t have time to ponder the mystery. We played the allotted three sets and Holga and I took two of them. When we shook hands across the net I believe Vivian shot daggers at Holga. This being Palm Beach I immediately jumped to the conclusion that Joey belonged to Vivian and Holga was trying to make some points that had nothing to do with tennis. Ho-hum and pardon my lack of interest.

Later I drew an all-male foursome and was paired with Lance Talbot, a young man of sudden great wealth, due to his maternal grandmother’s demise. Grandmama was the daughter of a Detroit pioneer who had been on a first-name basis with the Fords, Chryslers, Dodges and Fishers. I recalled that Lance and his grandmother were estranged for years but it seems they kissed and made up just in time to keep Lance a member in good standing of the jet set. Palm Beach is chock-full of such heartwrenching tales.

We were opposite Nifty himself and, if I had heard correctly, a man Nifty introduced as Darling. This I believe was the gentleman’s surname unless, of course, Nifty was taking liberties with the guy, which I doubted. Nifty and Darling took all three sets.

“I liked your interview in ‘Jacket Required,’” Lance complimented me when we parted company.

Dark crew cut, blue eyes and a physique that bespoke a personal trainer, Lance Talbot was the answer to a working maiden’s prayer. I was also amazed that he took notice of the likes of me. “Thanks. I assume you’ll be tapped for the honor in the near future,” I told him.

“I would refuse,” he said. “I’m not as clever as you, Mr. McNally.”

With that he pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of his tennis shorts and proceeded to make a call. Really!

Not sure if I had been praised or panned by young Talbot I beckoned to Todd, who proffered his tray of goodies. “Juice?” he asked.

“No, thanks, I hear it can rust your pipes,” I answered, reaching for a gin and tonic. “How goes it, Todd?”

“Working my tail off, Mr. McNally. Jeff is supposed to be bussing this station with me but he went for a smoke a half hour ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

An ex-smoker myself, I imagined Jeff had most likely escaped via the tunnel and was now on the beach, happily puffing away. “When he gets back, take a break,” I advised the aspiring thespian. “You certainly deserve it.”

I saw a familiar figure at the dessert table and ambled over to Lolly Spindrift to hear all the news that’s not fit to print. Our resident gossip columnist is a small guy with the appetite of a giant. Today Lol was clad in his trademark white suit, hand-painted silk tie and Panama hat, resembling a guy who had just caught the last train out of a banana republic in a state of flux. Lol’s column is titled “Hither and Yon” which the locals call, affectionately I’m sure, “Dither and Yawn.”

“Good afternoon, Lol,” I opened.

Without taking his eyes off the array of sweets he declaimed, with attitude, “Saw your interview.”

My, my. That bit of fluff was certainly proving to be provocative. “What did you think?”

Still paying more attention to the stuffed pastries, chocolate delights and puffed creams than to his visitor, he recited, “Fools’ names, like fools’ faces, often appear in public places.” This told me Lolly had not been asked to don the Lilly Pulitzer blazer and was miffed over the slight.

“I could say the same about most of the people whose names fill your column, Lol.”

He reached for something wrapped in a mocha colored shell and topped with a cherry but withdrew before his hand made contact with the item. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score,” he said, “but at least I provide a service for my foolish readers.”

“Really? Pray tell, Lol.”

“They read me to learn where they were last night and where they might be headed this evening. Without me they wouldn’t know how much fun they were having. You might say I am as indispensable to the community as sun and surf.” Now he went for a strawberry mousse, hesitated, then once again aborted the mission.

“Why are you so cryptic about your job at McNally and Son?” he probed, still dishing my little interview. “Everyone in this town that matters knows you’re a PI despite the fancy Discreet Inquirer label printed on your card.”

“What about the people in this town that don’t matter?” I quickly responded.

“Well,” he laughed, “obviously it doesn’t matter what they think, does it?”

He continued to scrutinize the goodies like a health inspector at a salad bar with a faulty sneeze guard, still unable to make up his mind. Poor Lolly. I was certain he had gone through the other tables with all the restraint of swarming locusts but had thoughtfully left room in his seemingly bottomless pit for just one
dolce;
hence it had to be the most exquisite of all bon-bons.

Examining the
petits fours
he rambled on, “I get invited to these benefits so I can tell those who didn’t attend what they missed, thereby raising the attendance and the ante for next year’s clambake.” Again he reached and retreated.

“What do you think of Jackson Barnett?” I teased.

“I hear he swings both ways,” Lolly answered. Knowing Lolly’s propensities I knew he didn’t mean fore- and backhand.

“Wishful thinking, Lolly,” I said. “How is your bartender pal, Ramón?”

“He’s gone to work on Phil Meecham’s yacht.”

“That’s nice. What’s he doing for Meecham?”

Finished counting
the petits fours,
he sighed, “Trust me, Archy, you don’t want to know.”

Well, Ramón was no longer a mixologist, that’s for sure. Whether he had traded up was questionable.

“I saw you on the court with the latest addition to Palm Beach’s most eligible bachelor list,” Lolly was saying. “Anything to report?”

“You mean the Talbot kid? I think he sassed me.”

“Poor Archy. I’m sure he meant no offense. Do you think he’ll hire you to find his father?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know he had lost him.”

“Surely you know he bears the same name as his late grandmother, Mrs. Ronald Talbot. His maternal grandmother, that is.”

“You mean...”

Lolly gave up his quest for a sweet and indulged himself in his next favorite pastime—rumormongering. “Twenty years ago, Mrs. Talbot’s daughter, Jessica, had Lance but refused to tell her mama where he came from. The two fought for a decade over the matter until Jessie packed herself and young Lance off to Switzerland and stayed there until poor Jessie was hit by a humongous snowball, leaving Lance an orphan. Grandma, who was on her deathbed, immediately sent for the boy and presto, we have a new rich kid on the block and you get sassed on the tennis court.”

“Do you mean Jessica Talbot was killed in an avalanche?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I believe it was on the slopes at Winterthur.”

Looking across the crowded lawn I could see Lance and Holga in conversation with our tennis pro. “Is he a friend of the von Brecht woman?” I asked Lolly.

“Friend? I wouldn’t hire you to find a starlet in Jolly-wood. Lance and Holga are an item, dear boy”

Amazed, I foolishly blurted, “But she’s old enough to be his mother.”

“She’s even older than that, or so it’s rumored. She followed the boy here from Switzerland, where she was a friend of his mother’s, or so they say, and please don’t ask me who
they
are. I don’t make up the hearsay, I just repeat it.
They
also say she’s the finished product of a Swiss doctor who runs an Alpine rejuvenation clinic where he injects his rich patrons with a serum derived from—well, I won’t spoil your appetite.

“Of course, all our lovely Palm Beach ladies, including your pal, Lady Cynthia Horowitz, are dying to know the name of the clinic and who they have to bribe to get in. Holga is the season’s most sought-after enigma.”

Ask Lolly a question and get someone’s biography in return.
“I
think the boy could do better,” I offered.

“Mine not to reason why,” he said. “Mine but to do and spy. Speaking of which, I see you also met Dennis Darling, the predator in our midst. I hope you kept your mouth shut.”

“I didn’t have a chance to open it. Should I know who he is?”

“My dear boy, what you don’t know could fill volumes. How do you survive a day in this sun-drenched abyss of egocentric consumption? Promise me you’ll never wander out alone at night without Lolly by your side.” He paused, briefly, to breathe. “Dennis Darling is the so-called investigative reporter for
Bare Facts
magazine and is here researching his next expose which is said to be called ‘The Palm Beach Story.’”

If true, the title wasn’t original. The late, great Preston Sturges wrote and directed
The Palm Beach Story,
which had Rudy Vallee, of all people, playing a Palm Beach playboy with all the panache of a department store mannequin.

“How did he get invited to Nifty’s?” I wondered aloud.

“No doubt a donation by his employers that Nifty couldn’t refuse in good conscience. Money not only talks, Archy, it shouts, intimidates and coerces, never failing to get its way.” Evoking the royal
we,
Lolly expounded,
“We
have decided to give Mr. Darling the PBCS. And remember, you heard it here first.”

For the uninitiated, the PBCS translates to the Palm Beach Cold Shoulder, which is the kiss of death to anyone in this town with social aspirations. “Why such drastic measures, Lol?”

“Remember what Edna Ferber did to Texans? They took her into their confidence and she repaid them with
Giant”

Not a bad opus, I thought, and Palm Beach should be so lucky, but I kept it to myself. If I were earmarked for the PBCS, I would be out of business and possibly a home. “Is everyone with a skeleton in their closet fleeing Palm Beach?”

“If so, dear boy, you and I will be the only people left in town, and I’m not so sure about you. Which reminds me, I hear Connie Garcia is practically engaged to that gorgeous Alejandro Gomez y Zapata. I assume you and Connie are history.”

“Assume nothing,” I told him.

“Can I quote you?”

“Be my guest.”

Undaunted, he asked, “Are you still dating the policeman?”

That was too much. “Officer O’Hara is a policewoman. There’s a difference.”

With a sly wink, he posed, “Does Archy protest too much?” Then he swooped down on a seven-layer extravaganza topped with mocha buttercream.

“Why did you pick that?” I wanted to know.

“Mae West,” he said.

“Mae West?”

“That’s right. Mae said, ‘Between two evils I always choose the one I never tried before.’”

Pondering that I left Lolly Spindrift to his just desserts and went forth to mix and mingle. As I returned my empty glass to the bar I ran into Nifty. “Lolly tells me the Darling guy is a mole for
Bare Facts
magazine. Do you think he’ll tell the world about our tennis match?”

“Only if he caught us cheating,” Nifty surmised. “By the by, Archy, could you spare the time to lunch with me tomorrow?”

As Nifty belongs to the set more in keeping with my parents’ generation than mine, I took it the invitation was more a summons than a social event. “I would be delighted, sir.”

“I’m at Mar-a-Lago these days. Would noon suit you?”

“Perfectly. I...”

The cry was as shrill and foreboding as a bobby’s whistle on a foggy London street. Everything and everyone came to a halt, like a motion picture suddenly frozen on a single frame. One of the waitresses was at the north end of the property beside the MacNiffs’ pool, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Nifty and I led the stampede and were first to reach the hysterical girl who pointed to the body of a young man clad in black trousers, white shirt and black bow tie, lying still at the bottom of the pool’s shallow end. He was barefoot and the butt of a cigarette floated above the body.

Young Jeff had smoked his last cigarette before dying with his boots off.

“P
OOR MALCOLM,” FATHER SAID
, snipping the end off an expensive cigar. “This unfortunate incident will cast a pall over his popular fund-raiser for years to come.”

We were in the den of the McNally abode on Ocean Boulevard (west side but, alas, no tunnel), where a cardinal rule is never to discuss business of an unsavory nature at the dinner table. We do not wish to upset Mother; she suffers from hypertension and is experiencing what is politely now termed “senior moments” with a bit more frequency. Mother usually retires early, which allows my father and me to indulge in the manly pursuit of after-dinner port and tobacco.

If this sounds vaguely nineteenth-century, let me assure you that it is. If my father, Prescott McNally, had his druthers, he would have been born into the London of Charles Dickens’s era, rather than Palm Beach in the twentieth century. Having arrived too late, he compensates by reading only Dickens, nightly, to keep in touch with a past that had so cruelly eluded him. And though I said I had given up smoking, I must confess: I lied. However, I am down to one English Oval (the only brand I smoke) after dinner and, perhaps, one before bed. Not bad for a former two-pack-a-day addict.

The early evening television news had reported what Father had just termed “the unfortunate incident,” stating only that the cause of Jeffrey Rodgers’s apparent drowning was as yet undetermined, pending the medical examiner’s postmortem. The poor boy was just twenty years old. The story of Rodgers’s demise quickly took a backseat to a detailed description of Nifty’s spread on Ocean Boulevard and the socialites gathered therein.