McNally's Dare (23 page)

“I did. I also told him you thought he might be here because of Jeff’s murder, which we agreed was impossible given the murder took place after Mr. Darling’s arrival.”

“Then why did you mention it at all?” Lance snapped.

“In hopes of learning if Mr. Darling is here to write about Palm Beach in general or one of our citizens in particular,” I goaded. “You seemed to think his arrival had something to do with Jeff Rodgers and I’m looking into Jeff’s murder. Does that answer your question?”

Before we came to blows, Denny held up his hands like a teacher intervening in a schoolyard brawl. “Gentlemen, please. Why don’t one of you simply ask me what I’m doing here?”

“Thank you, Mr. Darling,” Lance said. “What are you doing here?”

Dropping the other shoe, but not the right one, Denny disclosed, “Jeff Rodgers invited me to come to Palm Beach with a promise of giving me information concerning Lance Talbot for which he expected a gratuity. A very large gratuity.

Lance Talbot actually looked relieved. “Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Darling. I wish you had come to me sooner.” To me he said, “Would you excuse us, Archy.” It was a command, not a question.

With pleasure I left the vain Lance Talbot in Denny’s shrewd clutches and made myself scarce. Was Denny going to learn Jeff’s secret, or a version thereof? Right now it looked as if I wasn’t going to learn how many toes Talbot had nestled inside his sneakers. Seeing me straying from Talbot and Darling, Helen MacNiff intercepted me to ask, “Is he going to swim, Archy?”

“I fear not,” I told her. “He didn’t bring his trunks.”

“I thought not when I saw he wasn’t carrying a tote or duffel bag,” she said, trying to mask her disappointment with a careless shrug. “Everyone else did.” She nodded toward the pile of carryalls scattered around the changing rooms, then asked, “Did you bring trunks, Archy?”

“My tote’s there,” I said.

“I did tell Lance it was a pool party. Do you think he forgot his trunks on purpose?” she suggested.

The thought had occurred to me. “I have no idea. Dennis Darling is grilling him, as you can see, and we may learn something from him.”

“Dennis Darling is the person Jeff tried to sell his story to, isn’t he, Archy?”

It was now so obvious, it would have been foolish to deny it. “He is, and we may soon know what Jeff was trying to sell.”

“Did you tell Mr. Darling we had doubts as to Lance Talbot’s true identity?”

“No, ma’am, I did not.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. It would be terrible to put that idea into the hands of a man in Darling’s position. What Jeff had on Lance Talbot and who killed the poor boy is a matter for the police. Malcolm’s chief concern as Aunt Margaret’s executor is to establish Lance’s identity. I wish he had never heard the old lady mumbling nonsense about dead kings.”

But he did hear it and it impressed him enough to think Mrs. Talbot was trying to tell him something. I told Mrs. MacNiff as much. “Mr. MacNiff might just have to ask Lance to show him his right foot.”

“I hope not, Archy. If he is truly Lance Talbot, it would create such an atmosphere of distrust between Malcolm and the boy, and they must work together as they begin probate.”

I was hired to settle the question of Lance Talbot’s identity, and I had put together this party as a means to that end. Now, by God, I was going to do it. How, I wasn’t sure, but I would get those sneakers off Talbot’s feet if I had to take them off myself.

“Which is your tote?” Mrs. MacNiff suddenly asked.

“The monogrammed leather Coach bag. Why?”

“Excuse me, Archy.” And off she ran to help her husband cope with a group of ladies surrounding the now barechested Jackson Barnett like he was dessert on the hoof.

The crowd around the von Brechts was dispersing and I thought it was time to renew my acquaintance with Holga.

“I hope you remember me, Mrs. von Brecht,” I presented myself.

She extended her hand in queenly fashion (it must run in the family) and answered, “But of course I do, Mr. McNally. You were my partner on the court and I think we took all three sets.”

“Two out of the three,” I reminded her. “We were up against Vivian Emerson and Joe Gallo.”

“Yes. A charming couple,” was all I got out of her before she introduced me to Claus. “This is my husband, Dr. Claus von Brecht.”

I got a handshake and a bow from von Brecht. “I have heard much about you, Mr. McNally.” His English was perfect, if heavily accented.

He looked as sharp as the crease in his trousers, and she was bewitching. What a trio. The handsome doctor, his beautiful wife and their rich, adopted son. Characters out of a Minerva Barnes novel. Were they too good to be true, or too true to be good?

“I told Claus that you are helping Lance with his inquiry into Jeff Rodgers’s murder.” Holga explained her husband’s familiarity with the McNally name.

“Yes,” von Brecht said. “I understand this boy and Lance were friends many years ago. I can empathize with Lance’s concern but I do not wish him to get involved in this affair. This boy, Jeff, has been abusive...”

“Claus, please,” Holga interrupted.

“No,” he stated. “If Mr. McNally is in Lance’s employ, he should know the truth,
ja?”

Resigned, Holga took off her glasses to confront me and, as she did this, glanced down the length of my body in a manner so blatant I felt myself redden like a schoolboy. The gesture was so swift that when her gaze returned to my face I thought I had imagined it.

Well!

“Lance told you he had offered to finance Jeff Rodgers in a business venture,” she stated. When I nodded, she continued. “Jeff also called this Dennis Darling reporter and tried to sell him information regarding the Talbot family.”

“Why would Jeff do such a thing if Lance had offered to back Jeff?” I asked.

“Because the boy was a bastard, Mr. McNally,” von Brecht cried. His wife again tried to silence him but this time it didn’t work. “He wanted Lance to not only finance this absurd restaurant but to endorse it. That is, lend his name to the venture in order to attract a smart clientele, socialites, to ensure its success. He talked of a similar adventure here in Palm Beach. The name was to be Talbot’s, of all things.”

“Lance was appalled,” Holga picked up the story. “He refused. That’s when Jeff called this reporter person and threatened Lance with a scandal if he didn’t comply.”

“What was the threat, Mrs. von Brecht?” I asked.

She raised her hand to let her husband know the ball was in her court. “If Lance wants you to know, he will tell you. It’s not our place to speak of private, family matters when we are not blood kin.

“I believe Lance is now opening up to Mr. Darling. Claus and I suggested that he do so. After talking to you, Lance realized this business has festered long enough to become malignant. We discussed it on our way here from the airport and were very pleased to see Mr. Darling present. It saved Lance the trouble of contacting him. The truth should clear the air and we count on Mr. Darling’s discretion. Perhaps you can have a word with him, Mr. McNally.”

When the rich put you on their payroll they expect value for their money. “I will try,” I said, making no promises. “I also advised Lance to tell the police of his relationship to Jeff Rodgers. This was before I knew about the blackmail threat. Now it’s most urgent that Lance talk to the police.”

“It puts Lance in a very awkward position,” von Brecht cried.

“That’s the understatement of the new millennium,” I assured him.

“Nonsense,” Holga broke in. “Lance was with me when the murder occurred, in full view of everyone at the party.”

“Then he has nothing to worry about, Mrs. von Brecht.
Ja?”

She touched my bare arm with the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers and I felt a pleasant tingling creep across the nape of my neck. “I trust you will be with us throughout this disturbing ordeal, Mr. McNally. If Claus must go back to Switzerland, it would be comforting to have a man to lean on.”

Well!

Nifty came over to introduce more of the curious to the von Brechts and I headed straight for Izzy Duhane. “Just how did you manage to get here, young lady?”

“Hello to you, too, Skip. I’m a guest of Mrs. Cavendish and she brung me.”

“How do you know Mrs. Cavendish?”

“She’s a second cousin,” Izzy said.

“The one who married the actor Minerva Barnes trashed?”

“No, that’s another one.”

“How many second cousins do you have?” I questioned.

“I never counted,” she rebutted, with attitude. “I came to get a look at the scene of the crime and I have some ideas”...

“Izzy,” I cut in, “I think you should know...”

“That Binky is not your partner and not undercover,” she cut in. “I know that, Archy.”

“Then why are you stringing him along?”

“Because I think he’s cute. Because his ego needs boosting. And because he’s a tiger in the bedroom,” she ticked off.

“I believe two out of the three.”

“Okay, so he’s not so cute,” she grinned.

A young man joined us whom she introduced as Max Sterling. “He’s with the Hollywood crew.” Izzy said. “Max and I met when I did time in L.A.”

“Izzy broke my heart,” Max told me.

“But not your spirit,” she teased. “Max is an assistant director waiting for a break.”

Todd Brandt is also waiting for a break, I thought, and then a thousand-watter lit up in the balloon over my head. “Would you do me a favor, Max?”

“If I can, Archy:’

“The kid working the bar wants to get into films. Would you introduce yourself to him and say a few encouraging words? Maybe give him your card. You can say I told you he was an actor. His name is Todd Brandt.”

Max looked amused. “Brandt is not bad, but the Todd has to go. Sure, why not? I used to tend bar and still do between jobs.”

“You’re a bleeding heart,” Izzy needled when Max sauntered off toward the bar.

America’s philosopher laureate, Dorothy Parker, said, “The do-gooders of the world are the louses of the world.” Pray she wasn’t always right.

“As I was saying,” Izzy rattled on, “I have some ideas...”

Next time I looked, Lance and Denny had parted and Lance was reporting to the von Brechts. I saw Helen MacNiff enter the scene and take Lance’s arm. In a jovial manner, she began leading him toward one of the pavilions. I do believe she located my tote and was opening it. I left Izzy talking to herself and, trying not to run, got to Mrs. MacNiff just as Lance went into the pavilion carrying a pair of black-and-white-striped trunks.

“How?” was all I could say.

Arms folded in triumph, she gloated, “I told him I wanted a picture of him and Jackson Harriett cavorting happily in the pool to attract support for our cause in the local gazette. Lolly’s photographer agreed to do the honors.

“When he said he didn’t have trunks, I told him where he could find a pair and dragged him away from the von Brechts. They weren’t too pleased,” she giggled.

“I could kiss you,” I cooed.

“Go right ahead.”

I did, just as Nifty came to join us. “She did it,” he bragged, obviously knowing the game plan. “Let’s try to keep our eyes above his waist when he comes out.”

“You’re kidding, my dear,” his wife said.

The surrounding banter seemed to abate, as if someone had lowered a radio. I saw Max talking to Todd. Denny chatting with the Hollywood boys. Jackson Barnett laughing at something Izzy was saying. The von Brechts, isolated from the other guests, staring at the pavilion that now hid Lance.

The MacNiffs and I waited in rigid silence, as if a false move would alert our quarry. When the tent flap parted, Mrs. MacNiff grabbed my hand. A smiling Lance walked toward us. Three pairs of eyes focused on his advancing feet.

I counted. One, two, three...

“F
OUR, SIR.”

“Are you sure, Archy?”

“Positive. And remember, I wasn’t the only one counting toes this afternoon. The MacNiffs confirmed my addition.”

Father and I were in the den nursing our ports, he with his cigar and me with my much-needed, and deserved, English Oval. I related the events of the day, from my visit with Ronald Rodgers to Lance Talbot emerging from the changing tent, the elastic waistband of my trunks clinging to his hips for dear life. After counting, I vowed to give up eating.

“And Malcolm is satisfied that the boy is Lance Talbot, heir to the late Mrs. Talbot’s fortune?” Thus spoke my father, the lawyer.

“He is,” I answered, “and I believe Mr. MacNiff is relieved.”

It took the three of us seconds to see that the small toe on the right foot walking toward us was missing. Did Lance see us looking? Did he suspect that this was the reason Helen MacNiff had forced him into a pair of trunks that were dangerously too large? I really can’t say. He made a joke of the baggy boxers, saying if they went any lower, the resulting photo might exceed Mrs. MacNiff’s promotional expectations.

After that the party took off in a most indecorous manner, or as indecorous as this crowd ever gets. It was as if a weight had been lifted from the shoulders of our host and hostess, who joined in the fun, determined to accentuate the positive and eliminate the aura of doom and gloom that Jeff Rodgers’s murder had cast over their domain. Their exhilaration appeared to be infectious. The guests began to line up for the eats and Todd, elated after his chat with Max Sterling, was happily filling requests for beverages. Nifty’s words, “We’re here not to mourn,” became the order of the day, not mere rhetoric.

Even Lance Talbot went meshugah. He romped in the pool with Jackson Barnett to the joy of Lolly’s photographer. The obnoxiously pompous Talbot was now the clown, clutching his trunks as if fearing they would fall, and at one point swimming to the far end of the pool where he could be seen waving the swim suit over his head. The crowd loved it.

Holga and Claus von Brecht now mixed and mingled with the common folk, the ladies buttering up to Claus and the gentlemen attending Holga.

Observing the Swiss trio I was reminded of the old saw,
People don’t change, only the roles they choose to play change.