McNally's Folly (13 page)

“It’s my kind of music,” Kate informed me. And I was beginning to believe Kate was my kind of girl.

“If I had the necessary components I would invite you in for a drink,” she said, as we entered West Palm.

“I could pick up a bottle of brandy if you could supply the snifters.”

“I think brandy snifters are some of the few items I salvaged from my trousseau. But I never heard of a P.I. who drank brandy. Isn’t two fingers of bourbon their drink of choice?”

“You’re thinking of Sam Spade. I’m Archy McNally.”

“I know. And isn’t that nice.”

The snifters were real crystal and I lit my first English Oval of the day to celebrate the fact. “You don’t mind?” I asked Kate.

“No, go right ahead. I gave them up years ago.”

“So did I.”

She put Frank Sinatra on the CD player and we danced cheek to cheek until Kate kicked off her pumps and rested her head against my chest. I removed my jacket—Frank’s lyrics encourage this sort of behavior—and when we had removed all our inhibitions Frank told us that music leads the way to romance. And he was right.

I
TORE MYSELF AWAY FROM
Kate after midnight but before dawn. Hobo elected not to leave his canine abode when I pulled into our driveway. Our sentry was a heavy sleeper. All was dark in the Olsons’ apartment over the garage and ditto our house. Archy had to find his way to his third-floor aerie by touch, a feat I had performed too many times to count.

Mark Twain wrote of man’s inhumanity to man. As I lay sleepless in the eerie predawn light, guilt had me contemplating man’s inhumanity to women. Namely, Consuela Garcia. To soothe my febrile brow I fingered my worry beads to the mantra that I had made no promises to Connie and was true to her in my fashion. Unfortunately, it was not a fashion that suited Connie. This seemed to prove, to me at least, that open relationships work only when the liberated couples are endowed with an abundance of forgiveness and a paucity of guilt.

Connie, I fear, had exhausted her supply of forgiveness, while the older I got the less I dallied. This should have fostered a period of détente between us but all it had me doing was counting the years instead of sheep. Number forty was on the horizon along with the new day and I still subscribed to Cole Porter’s certainty that “raising an heir could never compare with raising a little cain.”

I gather my rosebuds while I may and when I feel the sting of a thorn I remind myself that the trick of life is learning to live with our ills, not trying to cure them. (Thank you, A. Gide.) And if I’m a bit of a fop, well—Archy, the Scarlet Pimpernel of Palm Beach. With that I fell into a dreamless sleep and awoke bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about the time the nine-to-fivers were taking their first coffee break.

Ursi asked me if I would be agreeable to a scrambled omelette and I told her there was very little in the way of food to which I was not agreeable and especially so to a
l’omelette brouillée,
as the French call this manner of preparing eggs. I inquired as to whether a Brie filling was possible. It was, praise be.

My father had left for the office and as Ursi broke eggs into a bowl she told me Jamie was off with Mother and Kate Mulligan in search of the perfect begonia. In lieu of orange juice I was presented with half a grapefruit which I literally dug into, feeling a bit of relief at not having to face Kate in the bright light of day. I knew there had to be a morning after, but it didn’t have to be the very next morning.

“Late night,” Ursi stated rather than asked.

“Sometime after midnight,” I said. “Rye toast please, Ursi. I feel a health binge coming on.”

“Three hours after midnight,” she proclaimed, scrambling the eggs to a perfect consistency before folding them over the Brie.

“How do you know?”

“I heard you.”

“Not even Hobo heard me,” I said.

“I think Hobo is deaf,” Ursi proclaimed, moving the omelette from pan to plate.

Great. We now had a former chorus girl and magician’s assistant tending our garden and a deaf watchdog guarding our home. I would speak to Father about increasing our insurance coverage. As Ursi poured my coffee I sampled the omelette. The dear woman had added bits of diced ham to the Brie. Superb.

When I arrived at the garage beneath the McNally Building, Herb returned my wave with his forefinger pointing at the ceiling. This did not mean that he was mimicking the Statue of Liberty but that he had been alerted by Mrs. Trelawney to tell me to report directly to our president and CEO upon my arrival. In Monopoly-speak it meant go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

Before ascending I asked Herb if he had ever done any acting.

“You mean like Marlon Brando, Archy?”

“Yes. Or even Raymond Navarro.”

“As a matter of fact, I did, once.”

Well. This was interesting. I may have found our Mr. Gibbs, as I believe the old potential victim of the Brewster sisters is called. “When was that?”

“In the sixth grade, I think it was. I had one line to recite in the class play.”

“And how did you do, Herb?”

“I was so scared, I upchucked all over the stage. Why do you want to know?”

“No particular reason, Herb. No particular reason.”

Upstairs, Mrs. Trelawney warned me that Mr. Richard Holmes was with Father and had been with him since nine o’clock—waiting for me. This did not bode well. When I entered Father’s office I found Mr. Holmes pacing the floor and Father tugging at his mustache.

“Finally!” Mr. Holmes exploded. “Where the hell have you been?”

Where I had been was none of his business, so I had no qualms in answering, “Keeping Ouspenskaya’s office under surveillance. I want to know what time he arrives, when he leaves and where he goes when he leaves. Also, I’m interested in learning if any familiar faces visit him on a regular basis. Informants, if you know what I mean.”

This stopped Holmes’s pacing and Father’s tugging. Did I even detect a trace of a smile on the master’s lips?

“It’s worse than ever, Archy,” Holmes complained. “DeeDee is convinced that Ouspenskaya is for real, thanks to you.”

“I can hardly be held accountable for one of Ouspenskaya’s predictions, sir. In fact I attended the séance on your behalf. The man said some remarkable things, all directed at me, which makes me believe he knows you put me on his tail.”

“How is that possible?” Holmes demanded.

“That’s what I’m trying to learn, sir.”

“And now you’ve got yourself involved in this damn show. I hope you’re not doing it on my time, young man.”

I glanced at Father. The smile had been replaced by a frown. Thanks to his roots and his pomposity Father had an aversion to show business as either a career or avocation. As much for him as for my client, I carefully explained why I had accepted the position of director for the community theater, fulfilling Ouspenskaya’s prophecy. “I will be working with your wife, sir, and in a position to gain her confidence without showing our hand. Through her I can become a member of Ouspenskaya’s inner circle and what better place to learn where the guy is coming from?”

“But you think he’s on to you,” Holmes insisted.

“I know he is.”

“He’ll be on his guard.”

“I’m sure he will be. But his ego is the size of an elephant’s behind and he won’t be able to resist dazzling me with his cleverness. The more risks he takes, the greater the chance of his tripping over himself. When he does, I’ll be there to watch him fall.”

Holmes’s jowls quivered like jelly on a plate but I was sure he was starting to see the wisdom of my maneuver. “You’ve seen the guy in action. What’s your take on him, Archy?”

“I was impressed. Did Father tell you about the cruise ships?”

“I did,” Father said.

“How does he do it, Archy?” Holmes asked again.

“There are tricks to every trade, sir. But tell me, if Mrs. Holmes is convinced of Ouspenskaya’s powers, how does she explain the fact that he has not located that can of film and the guy who owns it?”

With a gesture of despair Holmes began, “He claims to be the radio, not the broadcaster, so he has no control over what comes through.”

I was familiar with the routine, which seemed to be Ouspenskaya’s standard
megillah.

“But get this, Archy,” Holmes continued, “like the con artist Ouspenskaya is, he has the brass to blame his failure on DeeDee.”

The radio blaming the listener for what was being broadcast? Here was a turn of the screw worthy of a plot by Henry James. “What’s his rationale, sir?”

“Ouspenskaya says that DeeDee is so fearful of the film being made public and so intimidated by the guy who sends the letters that she is subconsciously denying their existence. Meaning, during the sittings she’s tuning them out instead of in.”

“So he dabbles in psychoanalysis on the side,” I concluded.

“Archy,” Holmes said, “when DeeDee tells me what some of the ladies discuss with Ouspenskaya, I blush. It’s embarrassing.”

Being familiar with the distaff half of Palm Beach’s upper crust, I could believe this. “Due to Mrs. Holmes’s subconscious reluctance to tune in to her blackmailer,” I observed, “I guess Ouspenskaya has to try and try again. Correct?”

“Right,” Holmes concurred. “At five hundred bucks a pop. Now do you see why I want this guy stopped?” As if overburdened by this financial loss, Holmes sank into Father’s visitor’s chair.

“Mr. Holmes, you told us that Ouspenskaya knew what your wife was seeking before she told him. Does he know the nature of that short film?”

“I may have misled you on that one, Archy,” the man confessed. “What he said was, ‘You are seeking something related to your career in Hollywood.’ I think that’s how it went.”

How ingenuous people are, and especially actors. Ouspenskaya may have heard rumors of Darling’s one-reeler and had come up with a sentence that said nothing and everything at the same time. “Have you ever attended a séance, or sitting, as Ouspenskaya calls his radio show?” I asked Holmes.

“Me?” Holmes shouted. “Never. I ain’t that balmy.” Giving this some thought, he recanted, “Not yet, anyway.”

“Have you ever met him?” Father asked, no doubt anticipating where this was leading.

“Several times,” Holmes told us, “and I wasn’t shy about expressing my views on psychic phenomena.”

And people wonder how practicing psychics know what they do. We tell them, that’s how. When I turned up at the Tremaines, Ouspenskaya didn’t have to consult his tarot cards to tell him who had sent me. Holmes was the psychic’s number-one critic, but Holmes’s wife was Ouspenskaya’s number-one promoter. The self-styled seer had to sustain a very delicate balance to keep one at bay and the other happy, and it was my guess that Serge Ouspenskaya welcomed the challenge.

Looking at his watch, Holmes said, “I have to go. I’m picking up DeeDee at Cynthia’s—Say, is that Cynthia really a lady?”

“With a capital L,” I told him. “Her last husband was knighted for devoting his life to watching beetles mate.”

Holmes’s jowls did a freeze. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“And I thought all the kooks were in southern California.” Dressed in yellow linen slacks and a lime-green blazer, Richard Holmes had brought a touch of southern California to Florida’s east coast. “Well, keep me posted, Archy, and I didn’t mean to hassle you. In my business we go for the kill and tie up the loose ends before the five o’clock whistle blows. Thanks for your time, Prescott.”

If Holmes was referring to pork bellies, I refused to even imagine the killing and tying out of respect for my
l’omelette brouillée.

Opening the door, the man stopped and turned, saying, “I almost forgot. There’s a cocktail party at my place tonight for everyone involved with that theatrical production. You’ll get a call from Cynthia’s secretary. Pretty gal, she is.”

“Consuela Garcia,” I informed him.

“Latin! Nothing like a little cha-cha-cha to keep the blood flowing. About seven, Archy. See you.”

When the door finally closed, Father breathed a sigh of relief. “Insipid man,” Father said. “I’ve had him in here since nine this morning.”

This was the sire’s way of telling me I was late but that wasn’t the true purpose of his ire. “Must you get involved with that damn theater group?” he protested.
That
was the true purpose of his ire.

“I’m afraid so, sir. As I explained, I didn’t want to make an enemy of both Desdemona Darling and Lady Cynthia by refusing. I want to gain Darling’s confidence and, if I may remind you, sir, Lady Cynthia is a very valued client of this firm.”

Father opened his arms and shrugged his shoulders. “If it has to be, it has to be.” His ceding to the inevitable was based more on Lady Cynthia’s lucrative business than on my need to cultivate Desdemona Darling. “But I must say, Archy, the more I learn about this Ouspenskaya, the less I like him.”

“Having met him, sir, I agree with you.”

“Richard Holmes is very angry and will do everything in his power to thwart his wife from continuing to consult with the psychic. If one can believe Holmes, it’s his money that pays for Desdemona’s indulgences. Holmes could cut off the flow, which would result in a great financial loss for Ouspenskaya.”

“Do you think Ouspenskaya will do everything in his power to stop this from happening?”

“What do you think, Archy?”

“I think, sir, that Serge Ouspenskaya is too smart to commit murder, if that’s what we’re talking about, to retain a client. My hunch is that he’ll string Desdemona Darling along as far as he can, for as long as he can. I intend to shorten the distance, the time and his profit by half.”

“I hope you’re right, Archy. And may I ask a favor?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Be a competent enough director to appear bright, but inept enough so that you don’t get invited back next year.”

“I’ll try my best, sir.” I wondered what our lives would be like if Alfred Hitchcock’s father had requested a similar favor from his son. For a change of pace, I asked, “Have you decided what ship you and Mother will cruise with?”

“I think we’ll go with the
Pearl of the Antilles
,” Father announced.