McNally's Dare (21 page)

“I’ll show you when we get home.”

I love to see Georgy girl blush...

“I
HAVE MY OWN
taxi now,” Mr. Rodgers said. “Been working for myself since Ms. Talbot went off to Switzerland, taking the boy with her. She gave me the money to set up in business. Severance pay, she called it. Very generous lady, she was.”

We were sitting in Rodgers’s kitchen in a neat bungalow located just off Lake Worth Road in Greenacres. The neighborhood was similar in look and affordability to Palm Springs, Lake Clarke Shores and Glen Ridge. A bedroom community far enough west of Palm Beach and Lake Worth to be affordable and close enough to the Gold Coast to keep its inhabitants employed.

Ronald Rodgers was a thin, bespectacled man who was approaching or just past the half-century mark. He had kindly offered to brew a pot of coffee, which he served in mugs that now sat before us at the breakfast table. As he spoke, he clasped his mug between the palms of his hands as if trying to warm them.

I had had my usual breakfast on the run after leaving Georgy’s cottage this morning, stopping at home only long enough to change my clothes and visit with Mother in the greenhouse to assure her that I was still alive. She reported, thanks to Ursi to be sure, that the MacNiff pool party was the talk of Ocean Boulevard, coming so soon after the tragedy. I told her it was for a good cause but did not mention that her favorite son was the catalyst of the shocking affair.

I had called Mr. Rodgers from home, telling him that I was looking into his son’s death on behalf of Malcolm MacNiff and would like to see him at his convenience. He said this morning was as good a time as any. I got into a pair of smart, white bell-bottoms with a buttoned fly and a madras shirt in anticipation of the afternoon gathering. Shoving a pair of black-and-white-striped trunks in a leather tote bag, I drove the Miata to Lake Worth, thinking of Denny as I sped past the GulfStream, hoping he had remembered to pack his bathing togs.

I apologized to Rodgers for disturbing him so soon after his son’s funeral. He told me he had gone back to work directly after the interment because “working keeps my mind off thinking on what happened to Jeff. He wasn’t perfect, Mr. McNally. Don’t know anyone that is. But he didn’t deserve what they done to him.”

Ronald Rodgers had a midwest accent with a slight drawl that made me think of supporting actors in old Western flicks. He was in black trousers and a black tie, a uniform he was unwilling to give up when he stopped driving for others and bought his own cab. I pegged him as a hard working, sincere, kindly man who had spawned a rebel and didn’t know quite what to make of it.

“Have you any idea who murdered your son, Mr. Rodgers?”

He shook his head. “The police have asked me that over and over and I’m telling you what I told them—I don’t know. Like I said, he was no angel. Discontent with his lot and always looking over the fence for greener pastures. I figure he got in with a crowd of punks who made him believe they could make big bucks with some half-ass scam that blew up in their faces, and my Jeff took the fall. Either they turned on him and put him in that pool or the people they were stinging done it.”

“What makes you think that, Mr. Rodgers?”

“My boy was a braggart,” he admitted. “He was always talking about some get-rich-quick scheme that was in the works and almost ready to pay off. But these last few weeks he sounded as if he really did have something in the fire. I mean he was walking around like his ship had come in and it was loaded with ready cash. He even promised to buy me another cab, although I don’t know who he expected would drive it. Not him, that’s for sure.”

Jeff had something in the fire, all right, but he was working alone and his patsy was Lance Talbot or Dennis Darling, or maybe both of them.

“I wanted him to come in with me,” his father said. “We could work two shifts, I told him. Days he covers the airport, train depot and hotels. Nights, I work the bars and restaurants. In no time we could have had that other taxi and...”

He shrugged his thin shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

“Jeff had other ideas,” I prompted.

“Fancy ideas,” he said. “And maybe I was to blame.”

“You mean introducing him to Lance Talbot?”

“You know about that?” he asked.

“I talked to Lance,” I said. “Do you mind telling me how the boys came to be such good friends?”

Rodgers got up to pour himself another cup, bringing the Mr. Coffee carafe to the table. I refused seconds. He took out a pack of unfiltered Camels and asked me if I minded. I had puffed one English Oval while dressing and making notes in my journal this morning and vowed not to have another until after dinner when I reported to Father over a glass of port.

I told Rodgers to light up, resigned to inhaling what he exhaled, which I understand is just as harmful as going all the way. (Thinking of Georgy girl, I suppressed a foolish grin.)

His story was similar to what I had heard from Todd and Lance Talbot, except that now I was given more pertinent details. Rodgers was chauffeur to old Mrs. Talbot. Her daughter, Jessica, and her boy, Lance, lived in the house on Ocean Boulevard. Rodgers was a widower who employed a sitter for his boy, Jeff, who was four at the time. On a day when his sitter was unable to take Jeff, Rodgers brought the boy to the Talbots’ and asked if the child could sit up front with him as he had no place to leave him.

Mrs. Talbot insisted that the child would be happier spending the day in her home, in the company of her grandson. “And that was the start of it,” Rodgers said.

Like many an only child growing up in a house full of adults, Lance was lonely and bored. He was delighted to make a friend and begged to have Jeff visit daily. His request was granted and a year later, when Lance went off to the Day School, Jessica Talbot sent Jeff along and picked up the tab.

“Lance called me Rollo, and so did Jeff. Never
Dad
or
Father.
You see, Mr. McNally, my son was ashamed of me. I should have taken a belt to his behind but I didn’t because I loved him. We do some terrible things in the name of love.”

Having been down that road I could empathize with poor Rollo. My romantic adventures, to date, had not got me chloroformed and dropped into a pool to drown but I wasn’t counting my chickens.

“Do you know why Jessica Talbot decided to live abroad, Mr. Rodgers?”

He puffed on the Camel and I noticed his fingers were stained yellow from the weed. “Young Ms. Talbot was a rebel with a cause,” he said with a smile. “She wanted a child but she didn’t want a husband. She moved to New York, the Village I think, where it wasn’t hard to find someone willing to accommodate her. Old Mrs. Talbot blamed it all on women’s liberation.

“When Lance was born she came back home but not with her tail between her legs, believe me. She refused to name the father, and old Mrs. Talbot, who was a proper Victorian lady, never got off her case. I know all this because Ms. Talbot used to talk to me about the old days and how unhappy she was then and how miserable she was now. She used to smoke dope in the back seat of the Rolls while I drove her around town. She couldn’t do it in the house, you see.”

“Why do you think she came back to Palm Beach?” I asked.

“Because of the boy. She was a Talbot and he was a Talbot and she was going to see that he was raised proper, not in some fleabag apartment full of junkies. She was wild, Mr. McNally, but no fool.”

“Did she tell you who fathered Lance?”

“No, sir. She did not. Meaning no disrespect, I would guess she didn’t know herself, if you get what I mean.”

I got it and, I expect, so did grandma. “Why did she suddenly decide to live abroad?” I ask again.

“It wasn’t sudden,” Rodgers said. “She talked about it often. Then, one day, she couldn’t take her mother’s lip no more and off she went, taking the boy. The old lady was mad as hell because she loved Lance, regardless of where he came from, and when they were gone she was alone. I believe Ms. Talbot was independent financially, having been left a trust fund by her father.”

“Did old Mrs. Talbot dismiss you?”

“No, sir. I quit, thanks to Jessica Talbot’s generosity, and got my own cab.”

And poor Jeff got kicked out of his ivory tower and landed in a seat in the Lake Worth elementary school next to Edward (Todd) Brandt. If life was a crapshoot, Jeff had rolled snake eyes at the ripe old age of ten.

“Mr. Rodgers, I know you liked Jessica Talbot.” These words are always the precursor to something the listener would rather not talk about and from the look on Rodgers’s face he guessed what was coming. “However, I must ask a delicate question. Mr. MacNiff is eager to help the police find the person who killed Jeff. Because the crime took place in his home, he feels he owes it to Jeff, and you, to learn just why this happened.”

“Mr. MacNiff has been very kind,” Rodgers said. “He paid all the funeral expenses. Do you know how much it costs to get buried in style, Mr. McNally?”

I nodded, knowing it cost more than Mr. Rodgers was currently worth. “Was Jessica Talbot a drug addict?” I finally got out.

He stubbed out his own addiction in an ashtray and, without looking up, answered in the affirmative. This explained Mrs. Talbot’s concern, which probably led to her harping on Jessica to seek help. It also told me why Jessica fled to Europe.

I showed the photo Mrs. MacNiff had given me to Ronald Rodgers. He removed his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a paper napkin. “Jeff and Lance,” he mumbled, his voice cracking. “I took that after a ball game. They were on the team at the Day School. I think I have the same picture someplace around here.”

The nostalgic reverie was just the lead-in I needed to comment, “I guess his missing toe didn’t prevent Lance from participating in sports.”

“You know about that? It happened before I started working for the family. I heard one of the help accidentally shut the Rolls door on the boy’s foot. They had to amputate the little toe on his right foot. No, it never slowed Lance in any way.”

Moving right along, and before he started to wonder about my mission, I said, “Was Jeff in contact with Lance Talbot since Lance returned to Palm Beach?”

“He was. Jeff said they had met and talked, and it was Jeff who told me about Ms. Talbot’s being killed in a ski accident.”

“Did Jeff’s talk about coming into money coincide with Lance’s return?”

He pondered that a moment and then, as if suddenly realizing what it implied, cried, “Are you saying Lance Talbot was going to give my Jeff money? A lot of money?”

“Lance told me he was going to bankroll Jeff in a bar and restaurant business up north, in the Hamptons.”

Rodgers looked stunned. “I know that was one of Jeff’s pipe dreams. He talked about it often. But he never said anything about Lance Talbot giving him money. No, Mr. McNally, he never said that. Is that why Lance has been so generous? Because he couldn’t give it to Jeff, he gave it to me?”

“Lance has been generous,” I remarked.

“Yes, sir. He called after the funeral. He said he wanted to pay all the expenses but Mr. MacNiff had already taken care of things. He asked me where I banked and said he was going to transfer money to my account in memory of Jeff.”

“And did he, Mr. Rodgers?”

“I called the bank this morning and learned I was ten thousand dollars richer. Everyone is being so kind, Mr. McNally.”

Speaking of altruism, I thought it the right moment to mention Nifty’s grand gesture. “I’m at liberty to tell you that Mr. MacNiff is going to dedicate his scholarship charity to the memory of Jeffrey Rodgers.”

The man was truly awed. “How can I ever thank him?” he asked.

“You’ve been very helpful, and that’s thanks enough,

I’m sure.” Affecting a blasé air I asked, as if it were a trivial detail, “Was the man you spoke to in church yesterday, calling you Rollo, Lance Talbot?”

Rodgers looked puzzled. He was a bit slow on the uptake but sooner or later he could put two and two together and come up with something resembling four. “You’re asking me more questions about Lance Talbot than about Jeff. The police never asked me about Lance or my time working for the Talbots. What’s this about, Mr. McNally?”

“It’s about finding your son’s murderer. The police are questioning all of Jeff’s friends but haven’t as yet made the connection between Jeff and Lance. However, they soon will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m going to tell them. Please answer my question, Mr. Rodgers. Was that Lance Talbot who spoke to you in the church yesterday?”

“Was it Lance? Sure it was. Who else could it be?”

The group gathered around the MacNiff pool acted more like they were there for a memorial service than a party. Thankfully, the area was no longer surrounded by a yellow ribbon emblazoned with the words
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
, but the memory lingered on. There were about two dozen people milling about in clusters of two, four or more, speaking in hushed tones and avoiding eye contact with the watery centerpiece.

I recognized many faces from the
Tennis Everyone!
affair, which was unfortunate as well as unavoidable. They were the MacNiffs’ social set and, like most social groups, limited in number. People like Lady Cynthia Horowitz, who were more glitter than substance, did not bend elbows with this crowd, who were all substance and rather lackluster.

The MacNiffs had done it up in style because I doubt if they knew how not to put on a good show. There were “His” and “Hers” pavilions for changing, their colorful red and white satiny facades billowing in the breeze coming off the ocean under a cloudless sky and radiant sun. It was a perfect afternoon for a swim but the pool, which had been drained, scrubbed and refilled, was conspicuously empty.

The caterer had set up a buffet table presided over by two waitresses, and there was the obligatory portable bar being manned by our Todd. Lolly Spindrift, in his Panama hat, was scurrying like a mouse in a maze between Dennis Darling and Isadora Duhane. “Yes, you heard right—Isadora Duhane. I knew why she was here, but had yet to learn how she got here, and was too busy trying to get this show on the road to care at the moment. If we didn’t get people into the pool this would all be for naught and the MacNiffs would have my scalp for saddling them with a Stella Dallas flop so soon after having hosted a murder.