McNally's Folly (26 page)

Maybe she had something there. Ouspenskaya knew me and everyone I associated with and watched my every move. If he used a spy, why couldn’t I? Kate was discerning and game for adventure. She had worked lounge acts with a magician and shared billing with clairvoyants. I bet she could spot a scam through a brick wall. “Why not?” I said. “Are you up for a little sleuthing?”

“Don’t be silly, Archy. I was just kidding.”

The kitchen was very narrow and we were very close. “Hear me out,” I begged.

“I hear better when I have room to breathe,” she pleaded.

I gave her room, but not much, and continued cajoling her. “All I want you to do is visit his office and inquire about a consultation. You can say you work downstairs and are curious. It’s perfectly logical and legal.”

“What will this prove?” she wanted to know.

“I want to see how he treats someone who walks in cold. Someone he has never seen before and knows nothing about. Also, what he charges if he’s willing to do a consultation. It’s that simple.”

The cups were in the sink and the sticky rolls were placed in the refridge. “I’ll have to think about it,” Kate said. “I’m not an actress.”

“We’ll talk more about it tomorrow night,” I told her. “Over dinner at the Pelican Club?” she said hopefully.

I returned home in time for my swim and to add a few notes to my journal, deciding to merge my new case with that of the pseudo psychic. Then I called Binky who had just returned from walking his patients and was informed that the Palm Beach Community Theater was meeting at the home of Lady Cynthia Horowitz, Creative Director, at nine.

On a hunch I called Desdemona Darling and got Jorge. His accent told me that he might be of Philippine extraction but he was hatched in New Jersey. He said he would tell
La Signora
I wished to speak to her. Give unto me a break.

“Archy,” she bellowed when she came on, “I knew my director wouldn’t desert me even if everyone else has.”

“I want to know if you’ll be at the meeting tonight,” I said. “I’m handing out the rehearsal schedules.”

“I wanted to come, but Cynthia doesn’t think it would be proper and I’m sure she’s right. It’s not that I’m insensitive to what happened. I loved Richard. But I hate sitting on my hands and brooding. It never did anyone a lick of good.”

“I agree, DeeDee, but perhaps it would be better if you rested for a week or so before starting rehearsals. We can work around you.”

“It’s a long way around,” she roared.

I held the telephone a good six inches from my ear but didn’t miss a syllable. “When is the service for Richard?”

“I won’t know that until the police officially release him. They questioned Cynthia and me for hours at the station house and they told us to stay available for more questioning. That’s a polite way of telling us not to leave town.”

“They’re going to question everyone who was at the party that night, which means our entire cast and crew plus the catering people. It’s their job, DeeDee, and can’t be avoided.”

“Some publicity for our show,” she sighed. “It’s the kind of press you can’t buy and don’t want.”

“Out in Hollywood they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” I reminded her.

“Tell that to Fatty Arbuckle, Archy.”

She had a point there. “I’ll leave your schedule at Lady Cynthia’s. The call is four evenings a week, Monday through Thursday, leaving the weekends free. I broke down the scenes and characters so people will know when they must attend. I think we’ll need four weeks but as the theater hasn’t given us our opening date I can’t say what Monday we’ll begin.”

“What time are you meeting tonight?”

“Nine,” I answered.

“Why not come by here first and drop off my schedule?” DeeDee proposed. “We can have a cocktail and a nosh and you can lie to your star and tell her how happy you are you’ll be working with her. It’s standard procedure where I come from.”

It was just what I wanted to hear. “It’s the best offer I’ve had in years, DeeDee. Should we say seven for seven-thirty?”

“Let’s say seven for seven, Archy. I’m no camel.”

I wanted to tell DeeDee that I would mix my own drink but that would be pushing the envelope one push too far. I put together an outfit that suggested authority with a hint of mystery. Black pants with pleated front. White silk turtleneck. Madras jacket. Designer sneakers. In lieu of a hat I placed a pair of dark glasses atop my dome and was set to take over the reins of the community theater, a company consisting of one unnatural death and a dozen suspects.

Father was assembling the paraphernalia for the evening cocktail hour when I stopped by the den on my way out. Mother had not yet arrived, which was just as well, as I didn’t want to report my meeting with James Ventura in her presence. When I finished my summation Father nodded pensively but I didn’t know if that was because of Ventura’s plight or the dark glasses nesting in my hair. The cheaters had his eyebrows and eyeballs bobbing up and down in perfect sync. Amazing.

“I thought as much,” Father said, “when I spoke to him. What do men who marry children expect, Archy?”

“A little more lead in their pencil at best and fidelity at the very least,” I answered honestly.

“Don’t be vulgar, Archy.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s just a manner of speaking.”

When I told him my plans for the evening he asked if I had learned anything more about the demise of Richard Holmes. “Nothing, sir, but I’m hoping his wife will shed more light on the subject. You’ve heard about the accident theory?”

“Hastings told me. How do you think it will play?”

“Like a snowball in hell, but I don’t know how the poison got in his glass and why he chose that particular glass when the tray was presented to him. Al Rogoff thinks the accident theory might be the only explanation.”

Father had finished lining up the vodka, vermouth, olive jar, liquid measuring glass and stirrer. Now he proceeded to place ice cubes in the silver pitcher, one at a time. Was a precise number of ice cubes as vital to his ritual as the ratio of vodka to vermouth? I believed it was.

“Hastings said Lady Cynthia told the police she believed she had placed four or five glasses on her tray. When she got to Richard Holmes, there was only one glass left. In other words, Archy, he had no choice.”

And that made the cheese more binding. “So the point is not why did Holmes take that glass, but why didn’t anyone else? The more we learn about the distribution of the wine the more of an enigma the case becomes.”

“You thought of the possibility that if it is indeed murder, the intended victim might not have been Richard Holmes,” father offered.

“I did, and I discussed it with Al Rogoff. We’re still left with the two essentials. How did the poison get in the glass and how did the murderer expect to match the glass with the victim? It’s a conundrum, sir.”

“Are you working on the case with Al Rogoff, Archy?” Father asked.

“Unofficially, as usual. Thanks to my position with the community theater I’ll be tongue-and-groove with all the suspects for the next month, at least. I intend to keep my eyes and ears open, sir.”

“And watch your back, Archy. Poison is a coward’s weapon.”

“And a woman’s weapon,” I added with a glance at my watch. Mickey’s hands were telling me I would be late if I didn’t leave immediately. “I’m off to the wars, sir.”

“One thing more, Archy,” Father said. “The police will question everyone who was at the party that night. Should they require a lawyer to be present at the interrogation, we can be of service.”

Remarkable man, Prescott McNally. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Something else, Archy,” he suddenly remembered.

“Yes, sir?”

“I prefer the silk berets. Even the one in puce.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

I met Mother coming downstairs and paused long enough to give her a kiss. “Why, Archy,” she exclaimed, “you look just like a movie star.”

“Bless you, Mother. Bless you.”

J
ORGE, IMPECCABLE IN HIS
black trousers with their razor-sharp crease and white shirt with its starched collar, led me to
La Signora,
who received me in the great room. Wanting a few dozen partygoers, the room looked cavernous but served to render its sole occupant less imposing than her bulk otherwise demanded and pathetically vulnerable, if not demure. It was a scene a director of film noir might create to elicit pathos for his character. I’m sure this did not escape Desdemona Darling’s notice.

For our meeting she chose one of her formal muumuus in black with a white satin border around the collar and cuffs. “My condolences,” I said when I entered. She was seated in a club chair and opened her arms to me as I approached. I bent to kiss her cheek and became engulfed in a bear hug. Theater people become kissing cousins in less time than it takes them to become mortal enemies—which is a very short time, indeed.

“Oh, Archy,” she cried, “you don’t know what I’ve been through. I was just coming to terms with the fact that Richard was dead when the police told me how he died. Can you believe it? Poison, just like in the play.” She touched her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief, careful not to disturb the dusting of face powder that covered her flawless complexion.

I assumed she refrained from complimenting my outfit and the dark glasses affixed to the top of my head because she was accustomed to being surrounded by movie stars. “I know how you feel,” I said. “We’re all in a state of shock. Are you sure you want to go on with the play? No one, including Lady Cynthia, will fault you if you back out.”

“I’m sure, Archy,” she began, then as if suddenly remembering her manners she exclaimed with great fanfare, “Help yourself to a drink. All Jorge can mix is a tequila daiquiri, which tastes even worse than it sounds.”

A credenza held the necessary bottles, mixers, ice bucket and glasses. “Can I freshen yours?” I asked, indicating the glass that sat on what I believe is called a TV table—a tray on a folding stand—within arm’s reach of the actress.

“Just add some vodka,” she said, “it’s gone a bit watery.”

If it started out as vodka over ice it was going to become vodka over vodka. I put together a light vodka and tonic for myself and replenished Desdemona’s drink. “Pull over a chair so we can talk without shouting,” Desdemona ordered. “Whoever furnished this room didn’t have intimate conversations in mind.”

Taking her drink from me she continued, “I’ll go on with the play. I’m a child of the big studio days in Hollywood where we contract players fought each other for every scrap of publicity. There are a few I can mention who were jealous of the attention Lana got when her daughter killed poor Johnny. I’m ashamed to say it, but I can’t resist being the centerpiece of this drama, on and off the stage. It’s in all the L.A. papers and it’s on the television news every night. The Golden Girl,” she said with reverence, “they still call me that, Archy. The Golden Girl.”

She seemed to have forgotten the lesson of Fatty Arbuckle but then
ars longa, vita brevis.
The memory of her golden days as the Golden Girl, plus the booze to be sure, plunged Desdemona Darling into a nostalgic reverie. “I had my pick of men, Archy, from Aherne to Zanuck and all the stops between. Even royalty paid their respects but we went undercover because the prince was married. Ty Power was our beard. Dear Ty. He needed a few beards of his own as I recall.” She couldn’t resist the risqué innuendo even when it was apropos of nothing under discussion.

“Men like Cynthia’s Buzz were a dime a dozen back then.” Once started there didn’t seem any way to stop her. “You know Buzz is making time with that Fitz girl and why the hell not? Cynthia knows but she keeps her mouth shut because a bird in the hand, as they say. But I could take him away from both those ladies, just like that,” she assured me with a perfectly executed snap of her crimson-tipped fingers for emphasis.

“I told Buzz that my Hollywood connections could get him past the studio guard and into makeup for a screen test.” She laughed with great gusto. “He wanted to know if I would rehearse with him on the side. You know, a little private tutoring. I’m thinking about it.” More laughter.

I had dragged over a matching club chair—it wasn’t easy—and positioned it so that the portable table was between us. This being more or less of a condolence call I skipped any toast before sampling my drink. Desdemona didn’t seem to notice as she ranted on. With all the rehearsing that was going on in private, I wondered if I wouldn’t be declared redundant before I heard one of my actors recite a line. Didn’t these old biddies ever give up? No, they did not. That’s why they make the news lesser mortals read about—and dream about.

“But now that Richard is gone I think I’ll let Cynthia and Fitz do battle over Buzz,” she pledged. “I don’t want it to look like Richard’s death was more convenient than tragic.”

DeeDee’s having finally brought up the subject of her husband’s “accident,” I followed up with, “What exactly did the police tell you?”

“They said Richard was poisoned.” Again a snap of the fingers to drive home the point as she reiterated, “Just like that, they said it. Must have been in the wine because that’s the last thing he drank before he keeled over. You know it’s always the spouse they suspect in cases like this and while they didn’t come right out and accuse me, they grilled me for over an hour. It wasn’t until Cynthia told them that she served Richard the wine that they let up on me.”

“Did they interrogate Lady Cynthia?”

“Only until that lawyer your father sent over showed up. Then they eased off on both of us. I owe you for that, Archy.”

“It was my father’s doing, DeeDee, and I’ll pass on your gratitude. What happened next?”

“They told us to stay in touch as if we would beat it as soon as they released us. Beat it to where? Brazil? The police see too many movies, Archy.”

“You described everything that took place from the time Lady Cynthia made her presentation until the wine was distributed?”

Desdemona sipped her vodka before assuring me that she had. “Now they’re going to question everyone who was present to... to...”