McNally's Dare (31 page)

Water ran down the back of my neck and over my face. I held my breath as the patio light came on. A second later it went out. I heard the sliding door close and the unmistakable click of the lock falling into place. I was paralyzed with fear. We were locked out and Todd was in there with two killers. There was a flash of lightning and the distant sound of thunder bringing with it my father’s warning,
A man who would chloroform a boy and shove him into a pool to drown is deranged...

I made a dash for the sliding door when I heard the first shot. What had I done? Oh, God, what had I done? I stumbled, and Denny collided into my back. A second shot. A third. When I gained my footing and wiped the water out of my eyes I saw Al Rogoff firing at the lock. In seconds he had the door open and was in the room, followed by Eberhart. The men stationed outside entered from the opposite direction.

Al was pulling Claus Brecht off Todd, who was reeling from the pad Brecht had pressed against Todd’s mouth. Eberhart went for Hans who was kneeling, his arms in a brace around Todd’s struggling legs.

“Get an ambulance for the kid,” one of the men shouted.

Denny and I were beside Todd, holding him steady.

He looked at me, panting, and gasped, “My performance made you cry, Mr. McNally.”

“It’s the rain, you conceited ham. It’s the rain.”

There was a crack of light coming from under the door of my father’s den. I tapped lightly and looked in. Father was seated behind his desk and I was even more surprised to see Mother in her nightgown and robe, her hair in a long braid, nodding in a chair.

“Archy?” Father called when he saw me.

“It’s me, sir.”

“Was it a good show, Archy?”

“It was a splendid show, sir.”

Mother opened her eyes. “Oh, Archy” she said. “Your father was so late coming to bed, I came down to see what he was up to and I must have fallen asleep in my chair. How silly of me.”

“Yes,” Father said, “we were both a bit silly, it seems, staying up till all hours.”

A simple thank-you seemed so inadequate; anything more, unnecessary.

“Now let’s all go to bed,” Mother said. “And if we get up late enough, we can have breakfast with Archy.”

B
RECHT WAS INDICTED ON
two counts of murder one. Holga, née Olga, and Hans were charged with aiding and abetting, and the boy was also charged with carrying a counterfeit passport with intent to commit fraud. Being Swiss citizens, there were complications, but nothing insurmountable in giving the three their due.

Talbot and Reynolds relations, however distant, are lining up to petition for their share of Mrs. Talbot’s fortune. I’m keeping my distance from the beleaguered executor. Iago is with child and Othello is suspected. More reason to keep clear of the MacNiff abode.

Since bringing the Brechts to justice, Izzy Duhane has lost interest in Skip McGuire and, I fear, Binky Watrous. She spends more time at her mother’s apartment in The Breakers and less in her trailer love nest. The mousse has gone from Binky’s locks but his brush with a Kalamazoo Battle has left him a tad haughty. Like a spirited colt, he will have to be broken.

Joe Gallo is back caddying at the club where he met the late Vivian Emerson, and living in a motel until he can find affordable digs. He’s in line for Izzy’s trailer should she give it up. Al Rogoff is not thrilled.

Denny called from New York to ask permission to use “The King Is Dead” as the title for his story, which will be
Bare Facts’
lead next month, with a photo of Lieutenant Eberhart and Edward Todd Rick Brandt on the cover. Eberhart has taken to applying a cream called Erase to the stubble on his chin and Edward Todd Rick received rave reviews for his portrayal of Biff in
Death of a Salesman.

Joe hangs around Georgy girl a lot and I feel that we’ve acquired a child. Or at least, I have. Is the honeymoon over? Connie finds it all very amusing. We took Joe, at Georgy’s insistence, to the Pelican and ended up at a table for five with Connie and Alex. My dream of mating Joe with Alex and leaving Archy in charge of the harem came to naught as the two charming young men took an instant dislike to each other. God got me for that one.

I look over this final entry in my journal, enjoying my first, and last, English Oval of the day before retiring. As I close the book on “The King Is Dead,” the phone rings. It is midnight. I could crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and pretend I never heard it, or...

“Archy McNally here.”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

T
HE LADIES SHRIEKED IN
despair; the gentlemen moaned in frustration. Couples, chosen by the luck of the draw, gasped as they turned a corner and collided with the friends they believed they had lost at the last cul-de-sac.

Wives cast furtive glances at passing twosomes to see if their husbands were hot on the trail of or suspiciously detained in a leafy nook with some mysterious young beauty. Shouts, giggles, expletives, raucous laughter and sighs were the order of the night, presided over by a crescent moon and a sky full of tropical twinklers.

A bacchanalian orgy? The Shriners’ annual scavenger hunt to benefit gout-suffering millionaires? An out-of-hand church bazaar? Not at all, folks. The huffing and puffing, snorting and shouting, guffaws and wails were nothing more than the Palm Beach Smart Set traversing the Amazin’ Maze of Matthew Hayes.

As a native of this island where, according to our chamber of commerce, the tropics begin, I thought I had seen it all—from Arabian princes with blond bimbos on each arm to zillionaire computer moguls who are publicly bicoastal and privately bisexual.

Now any of the above, and their ilk, who can afford the price of a luxury villa on Ocean Boulevard usually settle for the swimming pool, tennis court and nine-hole golf course that comes with the house. Be that as it may, self-proclaimed impresario Matthew Hayes chose to scuttle his backyard playground and erect a garden hedge maze which, so the Amazin’ Hayes boasted, was designed by no less a person than a student of the renowned maze designer Adrian Fisher.

The scuttlebutt (created and perpetuated by Hayes’s publicity factory, of which he is the sole employee) had it that the maze, one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, was fashioned after the hedge maze at Hampton Court Palace where Sir Walter Raleigh gallantly covered a muddy patch with his cloak so the first Elizabeth would not have to soil the soles of her royal boots as she and her court searched for the center of the maze—or the goal, as it is known to maze aficionados.

This doubting Thomas, otherwise known as Archy McNally, Discreet Inquirer for the family firm of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law, is paid, when requested, to deflect the indiscreet foibles of the Palm Beach rich before they become fodder for the tabloid press. As one whose livelihood depends on keeping a finger on the pulse of the community, I thought it prudent to delve into the life and times of Matthew Hayes. This Johnny-come-lately would not be the first upstart to descend upon our Elysian Fields preceded by his reputation and a pocket full of ready cash, hell-bent on becoming one of
us
without waiting the required half century to prove himself worthy of the honor.

Going to the delightful Lake Worth library, I perused
Labyrinth
—
Solving the Riddle of the Maze
by the maestro himself, Adrian Fisher. I learned that there was indeed a noted hedge maze at Hampton Court Palace; however, it was planted at the behest of William of Orange in 1690, or approximately eighty-seven years after the demise of Elizabeth Tudor. So much for the amazin’ facts of Matthew Hayes.

Frankly, it’s what I expected from the man who likes to bill himself on par with the brothers Ringling who, as the world knows, put Sarasota on the map; it is now home to the Ringling Museum, which pays tribute to the circus and the creators of the Greatest Show on Earth. If Hayes hoped to erect his own memorial to the less than reputable—some would say sleazy—world of traveling carnivals in Palm Beach, he has to be stopped at all costs.

I brushed up on Matthew Hayes via our resident gossip columnist, Lolly Spindrift. Lolly can be coaxed into telling what he knows over an expensive dinner, provided the seeker of salacious prattle picks up the bill. Lolly tattles in direct proportion to the cost of the meal, the quality of the wine, and the popularity of the beanery.

I chose Acquario on the Esplanade, a favorite of Lolly’s and, I will admit, mine. We started with the cold seafood sampler of Maine lobster, stone crab, shrimp, cured gravlax (a boned salmon marinated in dill) and smoked trout before continuing with the five-course tasting menu. As the evening was strictly business, I had no reservations about charging it to my expense account under Business

Dinners—as opposed to Miscellaneous Expenses, which accounts for an alarming ninety-nine percent of my day-today expenditures.

The only thing Lolly enjoys more than a posh restaurant is a love affair with one of the working class. Blue, it’s been said, is the color of distance and royalty. In Lolly’s case, it’s the color of his latest boyfriend’s collar.

“Did you get me here to pick my brain or compromise my virtue?” Lolly asked as a gorgeously garnished yellow-tail snapper was placed before him.

“I thought you lost your virtue to the mixologist from Bar Anticipation in West Palm.”

“He’s history,” Lolly informed me. “I gave the ingrate a taste of society and, tit for tat, society got a taste of him. He left me for a woman, of all things.”

“You’re a soft touch for a pretty face, Lol,” I sympathized. “What you need is willpower.”

“I had a Will Power once and would have him again if I knew where I could reach him. Are you still seeing that policeman?”

I put down my fork. Camping with Lolly Spindrift in the line of duty has its limitations. “Georgia O’Hara is a
policewoman,
how many times do I have to remind you of that fact?”

Lolly shrugged as if gender differences were too trivial to take seriously. “And where does this leave Connie Garcia, with whom you were this close to marrying not too long ago, may I ask?” “Thisclose” was about a half inch between Lolly’s thumb and forefinger. With that, he spooned up a dollop of Bali risotto. It seems other people’s love affairs are a tonic to the man’s appetite. Lolly is a smallish fellow who can eat twice his own weight without an ounce of it turning to fat. Go figure.

“One more question and you’ll pay for the dinner, Lol,” I cautioned.

“As you wish, but before we leave the subject of our respective, however diverse, love lives, may I impart a word to the wise?”

“Let’s have it,” I answered, knowing I had no choice.

Like a cat about to lap up a dish of cream, Lolly meowed, “The widow Taylor has been seen in Miami on two occasions in the company of the hunk, Alejandro Gomez y Zapata.”

It riled me that no one was able to utter Alex’s name without preceding it with a descriptor—like hunk, gorgeous, dreamy or handsome. It riled me further because it was true. Last, and certainly not least, it riled me because Connie had taken up with Alex at about the time I had taken up with Georgia, thereby closing an open relationship Connie and I had more or less enjoyed for years.

By the widow Taylor, Lolly was referring to Carolyn Taylor. She is the second wife of the late Linton Taylor, a man who came into millions upon the death of his first wife, the daughter of a Texas oil baron and Chicago meatpacking heiress. Talk about being well connected.

In addition to the money, Carolyn also inherited a bungalow on the Boulevard that compares in style and scope to its neighbor, Mar-a-Lago. She is also an archenemy of Lady Cynthia Horowitz, a septuagenarian with more money than sense whose interest in young men is on par with that of Lolly Spindrift. In fact the two share during the lean summer months, when the pickins are slim. Connie toils as social secretary to Lady C, which brings us full circle to Lolly’s “word to the wise.” My ex’s
au courant
might be getting matey with a rich, recently widowed PB socialite who is also a rival of my ex’s lady boss. It had all the ingredients of a
crime passionnel,
causing Lolly to devour all five courses with unprecedented speed.

Connie is a beautiful Latina with a temper to match. Were I Alejandro Gomez y Zapata, I would safeguard my fountain of testosterone. I speak from experience.

“Your source?” I inquired.

“Sorry, my informant spoke under a guarantee of anonymity.”

Lolly reports the local gossip in the manner of a Washington correspondent for
the New York Times
reporting the next Watergate. “They were seen,” he hinted as he scooped up a taste of the osso buco, “at a marina in Miami.”

Lolly’s pal Phil Meecham operates off his yacht which is berthed here in PB, but is known to make excursions to South Beach in search of grist for his indiscriminate libido. Confiding in Lolly Spindrift is tantamount to giving a press conference. While Carolyn Taylor is a familiar personage on our tight little island, Alex is a Miami boy who has appeared in our midst only since he’s taken up with the lovely Consuela Garcia. While Meecham would certainly notice Alex, it was a wonder he knew his name.