McNally's Dare (28 page)

A fountain erupted from the center of the pool, the sparkling water cascading in a rainbow of hues. Dozens of tables for four were covered in white linen and decorated with glass urns bursting with nosegays of yellow tea roses. Portable bars surrounded the area, the caterer’s staff of comely youths passed around the finger food that included the bourgeois pigs in a blanket, and the palm trees swayed to the beat of a foxtrot emanating from a six-piece combo. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness had no idea what they were talking about.

The hostess was in a shimmering knee-length red cocktail dress that showed off her remarkable figure and distracted the looker from a pedestrian, to put it kindly, face. She greeted me warmly with, “Who invited you, lad?”

“Not you or your emissary of printed trivia,” I confessed. “I am Dennis Darling’s date.”

Looking me up and down, she concluded, “If that’s his preference, he could have done better.”

“Your kindness, Madame, is heartwarming.”

A pretty young thing offered us a tray of miniature crab cakes pierced with toothpicks. I helped myself as Lady C petitioned me to exert my influence on Denny to give her and her party major coverage in his
Palm Beach Story
article.

“Only if they discover a body in your pool at the end of the evening,” I said.

“Careful, lad, or it may be yours.”

I had spent most of the weekend with Georgy and Joe Gallo. He went home after dinner on Saturday, but was back bright and early Sunday morning. There was still no word from Vivian Emerson, and the Palm Beach police had no more luck than Georgy in locating her. I talked Gallo into going home Sunday afternoon to man his phone in case the police or Vivian tried to contact him.

When I got back to my digs, I called Denny to see what he had been up to, which turned out to be nothing very much. He told me Lady C’s party was this evening and asked if I were going.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“I was,” he said. “Remember? And I was told to bring a guest. Consider yourself my date.”

“I have nothing to wear,” I moaned.

“Coming to sunny Florida, I packed a proper dinner jacket. Get into yours and come by at seven with the top down. We’ll ride through town like two headwaiters with attitude.”

A week in Palm Beach and he’s talking like a native.

I picked him up at the hotel and as we drove to Lady Cynthia’s I filled him in on Vivian’s disappearance, giving him a précis on Vivian’s encounter with Holga. I also told him that Lance Talbot was left-handed and expounded on the tunnel theory—taking credit for both. And why not?

“Someone at the Talbot house called this Vivian Emerson,” he said thoughtfully. “Given the circumstances, I think there’s a connection, but proving it is something else. If I were writing the story I wouldn’t even hint that the call led to Emerson’s disappearance because it would leave me wide open for a slander suit.”

Down but not out, I said, “The Lance Talbot we know is a righty. Could he be ambidextrous?”

Denny thought it was possible, but, “People who are ambidextrous usually use their right hand for certain chores and the left for others. If they write with their right, for instance, they may play sports with their left.”

“If it’s consistent,” I reasoned, “Lance used his left hand for sports as a kid, so he would do so as an adult. But he plays tennis with his right hand.”

“His feet check out but his hands don’t,” Denny joked. “Unless he was born a lefty and switched later on.”

“I doubt that’s possible,” I offered. “Wasn’t the last King George, the Queen’s father, a lefty they tried to turn into a righty?”

“I don’t think it worked,” Denny said.

Denny was impressed with Lady C’s digs as well as her startling figure. She was so pleased when he kissed her hand, she didn’t notice me until Denny wiggled out of her clutches and made for one of the bars. When she left me to chase after Denny, I took in the scene. Jackson Barnett, the von Brechts and Dennis Darling were the suns around which the party orbited. The doc paraded around like he was leading a brass band, and wore a red carnation in his white lapel. Holga was in a black strapless affair that went to her ankles but was strategically ventilated to show a lovely leg from ankle to thigh. Connie, no doubt out with her beau, was not present.

Lance was the center of a younger group who had congregated near the pool, where they were passing around a joint. Lance used his right hand to hold his drink and put it into his left to take and pass the offered cannabis. He was as ambidextrous as a one-armed paperhanger.

Lady Cynthia didn’t allow smoking anyplace on her turf, in or outdoors, but was too crazed running between Jackson, the doc, and Denny to notice the kiddies. Before the night was over she had to get Jackson in bed, von Brecht to invite her to his clinic, and Denny to feature her on the cover of
Bare Facts.
Whoever coined the expression “idle rich” had never met our Lady Cynthia.

Did I mention that Barnett looked gorgeous? No? Sorry.

I got myself a bourbon on the rocks with a splash and met Lance Talbot at the oasis. “Are you here on business or pleasure, Archy?” he asked.

“A little bit of both. How did you get along with our police?”

“I told them my story and they told me not to leave town. Having no intentions of leaving before I have settled my claim, I promptly agreed. I think I am now their prime suspect and may have to call on your father sooner than I expected. If they dare harass me without valid cause, I’ll sue them.”

And wasn’t that a mouthful. The guy was all P & V and hell-bent on election. Was it the funny cigarettes? I hardly think so. I had once called him feisty. I now upgraded Lance Talbot to an aggressive, pugnacious punk. There and then I knew he was as guilty of Jeff’s murder as if he had shoved Jeff into that pool himself. I also knew I couldn’t prove it. And who was he? As Denny had summed up, his right foot said he was Lance Talbot, but his right hand said he wasn’t.

I moved off before I slugged the guy, lost a client and caused my father to serve me papers.

Lolly floated by, spotted me and stopped floating. “I don’t remember inviting you,” he warmly greeted me.

“I’m Dennis Darling’s date.”

“Well, if your dance card isn’t filled; save the last waltz for me.”

“You’re on, Lol. Some party you and Madame put together in record time, even for this party town.”

“Isn’t it thrilling,” he cooed. “The creme de la creme of Palm Beach society. Lady Cynthia has got a firm invitation from Dr. Claus to visit him in Switzerland. I’m going with her, naturally. I can’t wait to get poked in the rear with... well, I won’t spoil your appetite. And Jackson has just about decided to leave Meecham’s yacht and move in here for the duration of his stay. He suffers from
mal de mer,
don’t you know”

“Meecham’s boat is docked,” I said.

“Really? Promise not to tell anyone, dear heart. Ta-ta. And don’t forget our waltz.” With that he floated away.

“Amusing, isn’t he?”

Startled, I turned to see Holga von Brecht. “He’s a barrel of monkeys,” I said. “Good evening, Mrs. von Brecht”

“So formal? The name is Holga.”

“Or Olga, perhaps?”

The friendly smile turned into a frown. “I left Olga when I married Claus and made his country my home.”

Clever, clever, clever. She knew I was wise to something, but not how wise. Rather than deny her true given name and get trapped in a lie, she quickly made up a perfectly natural reason for having altered it to suit her new environment. If Jeff Rodgers was matching wits with this group he was outclassed and outdistanced by a few light-years.

“I ran into Joe Gallo. He was the man who played opposite us with Vivian Emerson. Do you recall?”

“I recall that this is the second time you’ve questioned me regarding Vivian Emerson.” The frown turned into a menacing glare.

“Gallo told me that Vivian remembered you from your college days at Smith, but you didn’t remember her.”

The glare relaxed into a smile as ingratiating as an icy wind. “That tiresome woman,” she said. “No, I didn’t remember her immediately. She hasn’t aged well, poor thing. I’m afraid I was rude, but I did find her name in the directory and called to apologize.”

Clever? She was the Einstein of the instant retort. “Did you speak to her?”

“What is your interest, Mr. McNally?”

“Vivian Emerson is missing. She left her home Thursday night and has not been seen since.”

“I know nothing of this. Yes, I spoke to her, briefly. She was still miffed by my rebuff and grudgingly accepted my apology.”

“You made no date to meet her?” I asked.

“Meet who?” Dr. von Brecht suddenly joined in the conversation, having gotten away from Lady Cynthia, who was now clinging to Jackson Barnett’s elbow and Denny’s hand.

“That woman I was telling you about the other day,” Holga brought her husband up to speed. “The one who knew me from Smith. It seems she’s disappeared and Mr. McNally seems to think I might know where she’s hiding.”

“You are supposed to be working for Lance, Mr. McNally, but I get the distinct impression that it’s us you are investigating, not the death of that waiter. I find it intrusive and ask you to desist.”

His wife put out her arm to restrain him, as if he had threatened to belt me. “Really, Claus, there’s no need to make a scene. Mr. McNally is merely doing his job, I’m sure. It seems Vivian Emerson is missing.” To me she said, “No, I made no date to meet her, I don’t know where she is and, quite frankly, couldn’t care less.”

I wondered if she gave Lance lessons in deportment.

“Lance has been to the police,” Claus put in, “and explained that the waiter was blackmailing him. Lance also told them the reason why. It was most embarrassing for the boy. He is a victim being treated like the culprit. I find it outrageous.”

What I found outrageous was the way he constantly referred to Jeff as the waiter, as if this somehow made Jeff inferior to the present company. I wanted to nab these poseurs so bad I could taste it.

Swallowing my pride, I said, “I’m sure the police appreciate Lance’s honesty, and will keep what he told them in the strictest of confidence—unless it has a bearing on Jeff Rodgers’s murder.”

“Whose side are you on, Mr. McNally?” Dr. von Brecht inquired, as if he were offering me a choice between his patronage or his wrath. He was the most hubristic bastard I have ever had the misfortune to cross paths with.

“The side of justice, sir.”

“That is ridiculous, sir. If you would render your statement, I will forward your check. You are no longer in my employ.”

“I was never in your employ.”

“Then don’t submit your bill.”

With a bow, he took his wife’s arm and walked off to join the crowd. Well!

“I think I’ll throw in the towel and go back to New York.”

“Take me with you.”

Denny and I were sitting at the Four Seasons bar, getting sloshed. After being given the gate by Dr. and Frau von Brecht, I saw no reason to hang around and watch the rich folks having fun. When I told Denny I was going, he chose to leave with me. Lady Cynthia had Jackson Barnett sleeping over and an invitation from the miracle worker to check out his Alpine youth factory. She let Denny go without a whimper because two out of three isn’t bad for a lady of her age.

“They’re guilty as sin, Denny,” I said, not for the first time since we left Lady C’s gala. “And they’re going to get away with it.”

Denny twirled the ice cubes in his scotch and nodded. “The world is full of guilty people who will never be brought to justice. In my business I see it all the time. For every murderer, or con artist, or embezzler I expose, a hundred get away and a hundred more pop up to fill the gap. Don’t take it personally, chum.”

But I did take it personally. It wasn’t so much losing, as having it shoved in my face by von Brecht. Three clients and the only one I had satisfied was Nifty, and now I wasn’t even sure of that. Should I tell him that the foot checks out, but the hand doesn’t? It was too ludicrous to even contemplate. The kid in the photograph could be wearing someone else’s glove. Kids do things like that. Or Lance Talbot could be ambidextrous. People are.

“So before you got a chance to accuse Holga of calling the Emerson woman, she tells you she made the call, and why. I could use her in my business,” Denny noted.

“And she’d have your job in six months. What do you think of the tunnel theory?”

He shrugged, uncaring. “There’s a tunnel and anyone on the beach that day could have strolled onto the MacNiff property, chloroformed Jeff Rodgers and pushed him into the pool. Who and why is the question—and one that’ll never be answered.

“You have a murder that’s never going to be solved, Archy, and a woman that’s never going to reappear. Do you know how many people vanish in this country every year and are never seen or heard of again? “You would be astounded, believe me. There’s nothing for me here.”

Slumped over the bar in our white dinner jackets we must have looked like two also-rans who had lost their dates to better prospects. There was a group of Brits drinking not too far from us. We get a lot of visitors from England and Canada in season, seeking refuge from the harsh winter climate of their home base. One of them was talking about a run-in he had with the clerk, pronounced
clark,
at his hotel. Funny how you could usually tell where people were from by the way they talked.

But how does a king talk? If he’s an English king he says
clark
for
clerk
—and I sat bolt upright on my padded stool. I got it. Just like that, I got it. I didn’t get the tunnel and I didn’t get the southpaw, but I got how a king talks.

Fearing I would again fall off my bar stool in Denny’s presence, I grabbed his shoulder for support and mumbled, “He stutters. He stutters.”

“You okay, Archy?”

“King George,” I exclaimed. “We talked about him on the way to the party. Old Mrs. Talbot was a young lady when he took the throne. He was a southpaw and they forced him to use his right hand because maybe royals aren’t supposed to be left-handed.”

“That’s right,” Denny said. “He was a stutterer and it was thought that forcing him to change hands caused it.”