McNally's Dare (6 page)

For a woman like Holga von Brecht this would be her natural approach to men, especially older men and certainly rich men. Recalling Holga’s blond good looks and what I had discerned as a manner of speech acquired at one of the Seven Sisters colleges, I inquired after Holga’s husband. “She’s a Yankee,” I said, “not a von Brecht from Switzerland.”

“She was introduced to us as Mrs. von Brecht, Archy, so I believe there is a Mr. von Brecht, but I’ll be damned if I know who he is or where he is or, for that matter, what he does to keep Holga in those clothes my wife tells me are all couture.”

And, I added to myself, the MacNiffs are too well bred to ask. As for Holga’s wardrobe, it could very well be the result of Lance’s largesse.

“There was one Vivian Emerson at yesterday’s event. Do you know if she’s a friend of the von Brecht woman?”

Nifty shook his head as another jet threatened to join us for lunch. When it had passed he said, “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask Helen. She does all the inviting. I can’t keep up. The old days when our crowd were all kissin’ kin are long gone. The island is crawling with social climbers, con artists and Guccibaggers. Crying shame, I call it.”

Glancing around the terrace, I noticed several persons I hoped had not heard Nifty trash certain members of our town’s newest club. But I rather liked the play on “carpetbaggers” and filed it for future use.

The lobster salad was succulent and to express my gratitude I began talking like I had a game plan. “I would like the name and fax of Jessica’s Swiss lawyer and, if possible, a picture of Lance Talbot when he was a boy.” “I can give you all the information on the lawyer, but I’ll have to check with Helen to see if we have any pictures. She keeps albums of them, don’t you know. Children, weddings, grandchildren, the lot.”

“Which reminds me, sir, my mother asked me to express her concern for you and Mrs. MacNiff after yesterday’s tragedy.”

“How very kind of Madelaine. How is she, Archy?”

“Hanging in, as they say”

“That’s all we can do these days.”

We finished the last of the wine and ordered coffee and the caramel custard for dessert.

“I almost forgot,” Nifty said holding a spoon full of custard aloft, “Lance’s foot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“His foot,” Nifty repeated. “When he was a boy his foot was injured in some freak accident. I believe the chauffeur accidently slammed the car door on it when the boy was climbing in. A toe had to be amputated. I believe the small toe on his right foot.”

“I take it you haven’t...”

“Asked to see his foot? Good Lord, no. I thought you might have a go at it.”

When I got back to my office, which is about the size of your handkerchief if you don’t go in for bandannas, the little red light on my answering machine was blinking. Yes, I have succumbed and entered the new century, not by choice but on orders of the executive suite, which consists of Father and his secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, the bane of my existence on Royal Palm Way.

She of the gray polyester tresses has been urging me to install voice mail since declaring herself too busy to intercept my calls and take messages for the firm’s most expendable employee. To this end she had Father sign a memo stating that all personnel of McNally & Son would be obliged to install such a device on their desk phones if they hadn’t already done so. As I was the only personnel person who did not possess the odious thing, it was clear whom she meant. Trelawney had won the battle, but not the war.

I pressed the button and heard:

“Archy? It’s Connie. Lady Cynthia is furious because Phil Meecham has snared Jackson Barnett. She wants you to get the athlete out of Phil’s clutches and into hers. Pronto.” Click.

“Archy? Georgy girl. I heard you played tennis with Joey Gallo. Doesn’t he have great legs? What do you know about the murder? I’ll be home tonight. Call me.” Click.

“Mr. McNally? This is Dennis Darling. I am stopping at the GulfStream hotel just over the bridge in Lake Worth. Please call me at your earliest convenience regarding the death of Jeffrey Rodgers. Thank you.” Click.

I pulled the plug on the bloody machine. How much can a healthy American boy take in one afternoon?

T
HE ROUTE 802 BRIDGE
does not separate Palm Beach Island from Lake Worth, but links Lake Worth to the Lake Worth Municipal Beach, which is on Palm Beach Island. The Pier contains several shops that cater to tourists and a coffee shop the hungry queue up in front of every morning for their bacon and eggs fix. The area is a favorite hangout for teen surfers and as I approached it to hang a right onto the bridge I thought of Jeff Rodgers and wondered, as I had been doing since listening to Darling’s urgent message, if his summons would end up shedding light on Jeff’s murder.

The bridge exits on Lucerne Avenue, which is one way, west, and skirts the Lake Worth Municipal Golf Club. The course is popular with Palm Beachers and boasts a new clubhouse. The par-70 spread was a favorite of baseball great Babe Ruth and is now home to the Nine Hole Club, a merry group of golfers who discourage competition with the motto, “Low handicap players need not apply.”

The GulfStream Hotel is at the foot of the bridge on Lake Avenue, which is one way, east, forcing me to go up Lucerne, cross over, and come down Lake to arrive where I had just about started.

The GulfStream is a first-class hostelry that offers guests a great panorama of Lake Worth and the southern end of Palm Beach. Daniel’s Lake Avenue Grill is the hotel’s restaurant, situated just off the lobby and features an outdoor terrace that fronts Lake Worth. It also features an oval-shaped bar that runs almost the entire length of the big room, keeping the two lovely barmaids it engulfed on the run this cocktail hour.

My experienced eye judged the crowd to be a mix of tourists (shirts embossed with palm trees and Bermuda shorts with knee-length stockings, ugh!) and Floridians in more somber attire, making an oasis stop between work and home. Music was being piped in and those in conversation with their neighbor had to shout above it to be heard. The resulting din was more conducive to making whoopee than indulging in a tête-à-tête with the formidable Dennis Darling.

I spotted Darling at a table for two abutting the windows facing the outside terrace and was tempted to go rushing over and shout, “Darling, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” But with a name like Darling, a good Yankee name by the way, he must have grown callous to the approach or, more likely, might respond by getting up and kissing me on the cheek. At Daniel’s on a crowded evening the game was not worth the candle so I approached with caution and said instead, “Mr. Darling? Archy McNally here.”

He rose and extended his hand, and we shook like civilized people. Remember, I had only seen Dennis Darling on the tennis court at Nifty’s so had no idea of what he might be like when clothed and shod for company. I was not disappointed. In fact, I was impressed. The summer grays with a white open-collar dress shirt and a lightweight navy blazer bespoke New York chic and was an outfit I myself have been known to favor. Darling was about my height, six feet, with dark hair and eyes that suggested a dash of the Mediterranean in the woodpile. Had his reputation not preceded him, I knew several PB hostesses who would have made Dennis Darling’s stay more welcome.

Happily, I had gone for Ermenegildo Zegna jeans and a striped polo shirt in soft greens and blues,
sans
circus animal over the left breast, so we didn’t appear to be gazing in a mirror as we appraised each other.

“We meet again, Mr. McNally. You do remember we played a few sets together on MacNiff’s court yesterday.”

“On opposite sides of the net, Mr. Darling.”

“Of course,” he said. “But perhaps we can play on the same team this time around.”

“I’m not much of a team player,” I assured him.

“So I understand,” he answered, eying me as if I were a job applicant. “Let me say how much I appreciate your coming, Mr. McNally” He pointed invitingly to the empty chair opposite his and continued, “I’m a stranger on your tropical island and about as welcome as a blizzard.” Signaling a passing waitress, he asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Before you buy me a drink,” I answered, easing into the chair, “I want you to know that I will discuss neither the flora nor the fauna of Palm Beach only to be misquoted in
Bare Facts
magazine.”

“Relax,” he said. “I didn’t get you here to find out what you know about Palm Beach society, but to tell you what I know about Jeff Rodgers. Interested?”

I looked up at the waitress and ordered a vodka martini with a twist, straight up. Darling told her to bring him another Johnnie Walker Red Label, on the rocks. I have always been wary of men who take their whiskey neat but rationalized that the added ice gave Mr. Darling the benefit of any doubts I might have about him. “I didn’t think you knew anyone in these parts, Mr. Darling.”

“I don’t,” he told me, adding, “with the exception of poor Jeff, and I only met with him once before his untimely death. He was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Darling?”

“My friends call me Denny, and I hope to count you among them.”

The guy was engaging, I will admit, but he seemed intent on cementing our relationship with the speed of a gigolo at a debutante ball. I could see no reason to withhold what little I knew, as the full story of Jeff’s demise would be in tomorrow’s papers and was probably being aired on the evening news as we spoke. Also, as a crack investigative reporter for a national magazine he would know how to wrest information out of a desk sergeant on Palm Beach island.

“Well, my friend, I would like to know why you chose me to impart information—whatever it may be—that would be of more interest to the police than to this disinterested civilian.”

The waitress arrived with our drinks and Darling waited until she had served them and gone before responding. “Prior to coming here, I had my assistant check the bare facts of this Eden and one of the facts she came up with was that Archy McNally is employed with his father’s law firm as a PI, not a lawyer, because Archy was bounced out of Yale for reasons unknown. His job at McNally and Son is to run interference between the swells and any embarrassing problems that might arise, like dead bodies in their swimming pools.” He picked up his glass, “Cheers, Archy.”

A lot of cheek but, again, the glib yet honest delivery was infectious. I would guess Dennis Darling had put together a few facts and was tossing out what he only surmised. I liked this élan and my McNally intuition told me I had found a kindred spirit. I would play it by ear and, if he didn’t disappoint, count him as a friend who could be very helpful now and in the future.

I picked up my martini. “Cheers, Denny.” His smile told me he hadn’t missed the irony in my delivery.

“So, you are working for MacNiff,” he stated.

“Could be,” I said. “It depends.”

“On what?” he wanted to know.

“On what you have to tell me about Jeff Rodgers.”

Darling shrugged. “Give-and-take, you mean?”

“I mean, Denny, you invited me here regarding a most urgent matter, to quote you, and I’m not saying another word until you tell me what it is.”

He sipped his Johnnie Walker Red and pretended to give this some thought. A moment later he was taking me into his confidence. “I didn’t come to Palm Beach to write an exposé on the resort. It’s been done, ad nauseam, as I’m sure you know.”

“So why did you come?”

“I got a call in New York telling me that for the right price I would be told the truth about Lance Talbot.”

I almost started at hearing the name and hoped Darling hadn’t noticed, but I’m sure he had. Noticing such things was how he made his living. First Jeff and now Talbot. I wondered if Dennis Darling had been hanging out in my back pocket since last we met.

“I’m sure you know who Lance Talbot is,” he went on, “but at the time I didn’t. However, my research assistant filled me in. A rags-to-riches story is always good copy as it gives people hope. I called back and said I might be interested. My contact wanted to know how much I would pay and I told him my magazine’s honorarium would be in keeping with the information being bartered.

“I didn’t know if I was on a fool’s errand but things were slow and a few days in Palm Beach in February didn’t seem a bad way to fight ennui. In case it should turn out to be something interesting I put it about that I was here to write a piece on your popular and posh resort to throw other snoops off the scent.”

“And who was your caller?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“Jeffrey Rodgers,” he said, confirming my fear.

Well, that not only made the cheese more binding and the plot more thick, it also made the two cases Nifty had asked me to look into clash like a couple of rams doing battle over a four-legged temptress. Jeff Rodgers and Lance Talbot. The waiter and the playboy. They couldn’t have less in common if they existed on different planets. However, they didn’t exist on different planets but on one tight little island.

What could Jeff have known about Lance Talbot that would interest Dennis Darling? More to the point, what did Jeff know about Lance Talbot that got Jeff dead? That Lance Talbot wasn’t Lance Talbot? How could Jeff have known what Nifty, and perhaps old Mrs. Talbot, only suspected? My medulla oblongata was trying to process too much too soon which, I have always believed, was as dangerous as coping with too little too late. Besides, Denny seemed to be enjoying watching me squirm. It was my turn to give, and not taking any chances I parted with only what would soon be common knowledge.

“Jeff Rodgers was murdered,” I said. “Chloroformed before being shoved into the pool.”

Denny pursed his lips to whistle but if any sound emerged it was lost to the babble as early diners began arriving to join the bar crowd. He was too much of a pro to speculate on how Jeff had been shoved into the pool while Nifty’s party was in full swing, probably because he had already figured it out for himself. Who had done the shoving was the question which Denny now posed.

“You think Jeff was made redundant because of what he had on the Talbot guy?”