McNally's Folly (17 page)

“What’s that?”

“Your friend charges five hundred bucks for a séance and he’s averaging about ten a week. I make that out to be five G’s every seven days.”

“That’s more than you pull in, even with the graft.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you want a favor.”

“Good night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

“He should have married the girl, Archy.”

I rang off knowing I had reached the nadir of my case. That moment when you’ve hit an impasse in the shape of a brick wall and all you want to do is bang your head against it. I had exhausted all my leads, which weren’t many to begin with, and had hoped that Al Rogoff would supply a few I could follow up on. All he had to tell me was that Hamlet never married and Ouspenskaya was on a roll—neither of which was exactly an epiphany.

I WENT HOME, CHANGED
into my swimming togs and threw myself into the Atlantic, contemplating playing Norman Maine and never returning to shore. But I did return after my two-mile workout. I showered, donned heather-gray briefs with matching T-shirt and slipped on a pair of jeans that would do a Gap ad proud. I accessorized with a classic Brooks Brothers button-down, loafers, no socks, and my original NY Yankees baseball cap.

Then I phoned Kate Mulligan and invited myself to dinner.

“I have nothing in the house,” she whined, “and it’s past four. Besides, I’m a lousy cook.”

“I’ll stop by a little place I know and treat you to the best takeout in Palm Beach.”

“Not Tex-Mex, please.”

“Cross my heart.”

The little place I knew was our kitchen, which wasn’t very little, and said to Ursi, “Once, in the not too distant past, you put together a picnic lunch for me and I’m imploring you to do it again.”

“When, Archy?”

“Right now.”

“The best I can do is fill you a basket with what I’m preparing for tonight.”

“And what might that be, Ursi?”

“Fried chicken, cooled. German potato salad. A green salad of arugula and radicchio, raspberry vinaigrette and for dessert a blueberry tart with vanilla ice cream.”

“You’re making me hungry, Ursi love. I’ll get the picnic hamper. It’s in the utility room, I think.”

“It is,” she called as I hurried out of the kitchen.

I also managed to snare a bottle of zinfandel from Father’s wine cellar before returning to help Ursi. In a little over an hour we had gotten it all together. I turned down linen napkins in favor of paper—after all, it was a picnic—and was off to Currie Park with my little yellow basket. I even remembered to bring a corkscrew.

P
ALM BEACH LORE HAS
it that if you’re planning a day at the beach, or an evening barbecue, do it on a day Lady Cynthia Horowitz is giving a pool party or a sit-down dinner al fresco, sans tent. It does not rain on Lady C’s parades and her outdoor buffet for the community theater corroborated the maxim. Does God favor the rich? If he didn’t they would be poor.

It was a sterling evening. No full moon, but there were a jillion stars lighting up the sky. I had attended several of Lady C’s outdoor bashes and the decor and ambience seldom varied. But if it ain’t broke, why fix it? The patio surrounding the pool was aglow with Chinese lanterns and there were scented candles within the hurricane lamps on every table. The tables also held pots of narcissi growing straight out of their bulbs. Narcissi? A cryptic message for Archy? And would young William give us a demo of his swimming prowess wearing his naughty bathing trunks?

A portable bar was being manned by one of the caterer’s staff and several young men and women were passing around the finger food—pigs in a blanket were not among the pickin’s. The chef, wearing a
toque blanche,
was roasting perfectly trussed beef tenderloins (not chestnuts) on the open fire. Finally, as Cole Porter had put it, “down by the shore an orchestra playing and even the palms seemed to be swaying.” The orchestra was a six-piece combo playing—who else?—Cole Porter, and the palms were truly swaying in a cool ocean breeze.

A class act? And why not when the hostess was said to be worth a hundred million, give or take ten mill? Tonight she wore a white sheath that I suspected served a dual purpose. It did justice to her still bewitching figure and made her chum, Desdemona Darling, pea green with envy. Bitchiness was one of Lady C’s more noticeable traits. The rest of the gang, who hadn’t seen each other since
L’Affair de Desdemona Darling,
as Lolly Spindrift had dubbed it, tonight cavorted in everything from jeans to cocktail dresses. I wore an Ultrasuede jacket in sand and navy pants.

Lady C, with Buzz at her side, was greeting her guests. He looked every bit the movie star in a yachting cap, double-breasted blazer and white flannels. Fitz was at a safe distance charming William Ventura and Arnold Turnbolt. I would notice, as the evening progressed, that Fitz and Buzz kept a wide berth in the presence of Buzz’s patroness. But then illicit sex is always so much more exciting. I should know.

“Nice party,” I said to our hostess.

“Nice of you to notice, lad. You didn’t happen to come in with your friend Binky, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?”

“He hasn’t shown up with the scripts.”

“Lost between Miami and Palm Beach. It’s happened before, Lady Cynthia.”

“Not to me, it hasn’t.”

“I know all my lines, Archy,” Buzz said, pumping my hand. He had the grip of a vise.

“Knowing them is half the battle, Buzz. It’s how you deliver them that gets the applause.”

“And we’re counting on you to see that he delivers them to a standing ovation,” Lady C reminded me.

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“You’d better, lad.”

“There’s Binky,” Buzz called. “The scripts have arrived.”

I could see that Binky had arrived, but I wouldn’t be too sanguine about the scripts. With nary a curtsey to our Lady of the Performing Arts I headed for the bar like a horse wearing blinders. I asked for a Sterling vodka on the rocks and got it. A minute later I was two sips closer to a party mood and began surveying the crowd when Richard Holmes approached. “What’s happening, Archy?”

“I could lie and say I’m working on a few leads, but that would be crap of the purest nature. Zilch, Mr. Holmes. What’s new with you?”

He was wearing his Lilly Pulitzer and drinking something the color of dirty water. A bullshot, I believe: a concoction of vodka and beef bouillon. I would rather drink castor oil while sticking pins in my eyes.

“DeeDee was a mess the other night, as I guess you noticed. She does that when her nerves get the best of her, otherwise she can hold her booze pretty good. Since the party she’s been in constant touch with that effing con artist and I don’t know what she’s been telling him but I know what I told him.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Holmes?”

“I told him that I wasn’t writing any more checks to Serge Ouspenskaya, that’s what I told him. If DeeDee wants to continue seeing him the tab comes out of her own pockets, which ain’t very deep, believe me.”

“And what did he say, sir?”

“He told me to have a nice day and hung up.”

A burst of raucous laughter drew our attention, and everyone else’s. It was DeeDee, regaling a group of young people with stories of old Hollywood, Ouspenskaya by her side. “He’s here?” I bellowed.

“Cynthia insisted,” Holmes told me. “She says he brings luck with him.”

“Well, he can take his luck someplace else. As director I’m going to insist on a closed rehearsal hall. Company members only.”

“Good for you, Archy.”

Another burst of laughter from DeeDee’s admirers, which seemed to consist of half the guests.

“I hope she’s not telling them who the most ‘endowed’ actor in Hollywood was fifty years ago. It always gets that response. Christ, the guy was five foot two in his elevator shoes. I better go see no one is fetching her drinks.”

Five foot two in his elevators? Hmmm. A hundred-watter fit up in my head. Of course. But I’ll never tell.

I got a refill before moving off into the crowd; waving, blowing kisses and trying to look like a director. I would have to pay my respects to my star but first I would indulge myself by ogling my starlet. Tonight Fitz was in a knee-skimming navy sheath with a matching navy topcoat, a single strand of pearls around her graceful neck. Her dark hair cascaded to her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled like the stars winking down at us. But before I got to Fitz, Lolly Spindrift got to me.

“If you can keep your leading lady off the demon rum you might get a performance out of her.” Lolly wore a white suit with dress shirt and tie, and his trademark Panama hat, a look best described as
Saturday Night Fever
meets
Scarface.

“And if you can keep your friend Meecham away from Buzz, I might get a performance out of both of them,” I rejoined.

“Then you had better keep Fitz away from Buzz before Lady C throttles your ingénue, and Vance Tremaine away from Fitz before his wife throttles him.”

“Am I directing a play or a sex circus?”

“Not to mention,” Lolly went on, “that Arnie is in hot pursuit of William Ventura.”

“Really? What does William Ventura have to say about that?”

“He’s too busy chasing after Fitz to notice.”

“I might kill myself, Lol.”

“If you do, give me an exclusive. I get extra bread for doing society obits. What’s new with Ouspenskaya?”

“What have you heard?”

“That he’s Mr. Amazing. You lose it, he finds it. You want to speak to the dead, he connects you, but the rates don’t go down after six. Did you hear about Liz Haberstraw?”

“No. Do I want to?”

For an answer Lolly told me, “At a sitting, her late mother told Liz to have a look in the bottom left hand drawer of the desk in her husband’s study.”

“Okay. What did she find?”

“A first-rate porn collection. I’ll be announcing the divorce in tomorrow’s column. Remember, you heard it here first. Now I must fly. Arnie is chatting with William at poolside and Vance has managed to slip away from Penny and is heading for Fitz. Ta, ta, Archy.”

Penny Tremaine? Was she also here to bring us luck? If so, it wasn’t Vance the gods were smiling upon. I spotted Priscilla Pettibone with a young black man who was as handsome as she was beautiful. I went to greet them, hoping for a respite from those with an ax to grind.

“So this is how the other half lives,” Priscilla said with a toss of her head.

“What do you think of it?”

“I could take it for a few hundred years. But no more than that. This is Henry Lee Wilson. He’s playing one of the policemen. This is Archy McNally, our director.”

I shook Henry Lee’s hand. “You’re with the company, Henry?”

“Call me Hank, please. Yes, sir. My second year.”

Lady C had managed to salvage some of the old members of the group in minor roles and as gofers. Conquer, divide and keep what you can use. One day she would get her comeuppance but I doubted I would live long enough to see it.

“Glad to have you aboard, Hank. I still haven’t met all the members of the cast.”

“You will tonight,” Priscilla said. “Connie told me Lady Cynthia is going to make a formal announcement later. Like a press release. Isn’t it exciting?”

The director gets the news from the makeup artist. Give me a break. If I didn’t start pushing my weight around, the Creative Director was going to walk all over me. Let her have her evening. When the real work starts, Archy is going to hand everyone a surprise, especially our Creative Director and the unrequited lovers of all three genders.

“What’s with the six flags flying around the pool, Archy?” Priscilla asked me.

“They represent the ethnic backgrounds of each of Lady Cynthia’s husbands.”

“She had six?” Priscilla was greatly impressed. “I’ll settle for one and the sooner the better.”

Henry Lee Wilson looked a bit uncomfortable with that one and I saved the moment by asking, “Where’s Connie?”

“In her office labeling the scripts for distribution later tonight,” Priscilla informed me.

The good news was that Binky had delivered the scripts. The bad news was that Lady C, as usual, was making Connie work when, as a member of the group, she should be enjoying the party. If she didn’t appear soon, I’d go and rescue her. “Nice meeting you, Hank. See you later, Pris. I’m off to pay my respects to our star.”

As the crowd surrounding her began to disperse, Desdemona Darling came clearly into our line of vision. “I checked her out at the library,” Priscilla said. “She really was a star and some looker. Wha’ happen, baby?”

“She’s still a looker,” Hank said, “only now there’s more to look at.”

“Her dress is not original,” Priscilla noted as if saddened by the former actress’s choice of apparel.

“Where have you seen it before?” I asked her.

“Sheltering two cub scouts on a field trip.”

Hank liked that one and so did I, but I didn’t let Priscilla know it. As I moved toward DeeDee I saw Hanna Ventura chatting with the woman I had seen her with on Clematis Street. The woman had been at DeeDee’s party, too, so she must be one of the old members of the theater group. But what was Hanna doing here? Ouspenskaya seemed to draw them like flies. I also noticed that Hanna was as far removed from her stepson as the length of Lady C’s patio allowed, while William had jettisoned Arnie and joined Vance, Penny and Fitz. I wondered what they were discussing—method acting or the price of alligator handbags on Worth Street?

“Archy, love.” Before I had a chance to respond I was on the receiving end of a wet kiss on the cheek from DeeDee; my nose told me it was one hundred proof. “You know Mr. Ouspenskaya? But of course you do. He’s the reason you’re here.”

Richard Holmes was nowhere in the vicinity and Ouspenskaya didn’t seem the least bit perturbed at having been financially cut off by the pork bellies mogul. For that matter, neither did DeeDee.

“I’m here because you and Lady Cynthia asked me to direct our showcase,” I said, with a nod at Ouspenskaya.

“We meet again, Mr. McNally.” Ouspenskaya acknowledged me with that patronizing grin I would have liked to wipe off his face, but under the circumstances had to settle for ignoring him. Facing Ouspenskaya and DeeDee, it occurred to me to wonder if I still had a client now that Holmes had given my mark the heave-ho. In retrospect, a most prophetic thought.