McNally's Folly (31 page)

A while back I was hired to locate a kidnapped cat. (In Palm Beach this happens.) The case led to murder as my cases sometimes do, and the prime suspect, the victim’s husband, maintained his innocence because he had called his wife in the presence of Father and me, then found his wife dead when he arrived home. This seemed to prove that his wife was alive when he was with us, and murdered before he got home.

Not true. He had murdered his wife before leaving home and in our presence he made the call and spoke, most likely, to his answering machine. Father and I heard only one side of the conversation. The murderer’s side. We believed he had spoken to his wife because, at the time, we had no reason to doubt it.

Serge Ouspenskaya called Lady Cynthia at nine the morning she and Desdemona went to the police station and left a message on Connie’s voice mail. The message simply stated that Ouspenskaya wanted to talk to Lady Cynthia and would she please call him. He had said nothing about a disturbing dream or that the women would encounter trouble at the police station. When he called back after ten that same morning, he said his earlier call was to warn Lady Cynthia of trouble because by then he knew what the police had found. How? I told him, that’s how.

Walking with Kate back to the house from Mother’s potting shed, I told her that Richard Holmes had been poisoned. It was then shortly after ten. Now I needed Ursi to confirm that Kate had immediately contacted Ouspenskaya.

I was relieved to see Kate’s car gone from the driveway and the station wagon returned. She had gone for the day—and forever if I had anything to say about it. I went directly to the kitchen and put the question to Ursi.

Our housekeeper had to think a while before answering. “Yes, Archy,” she said, “I remember that day. You and Kate came in from the garden. I remember because as soon as you left, Kate asked to use the phone. She said she wanted to make a call in private. I told her to use the phone in the den.”

When Tony Newley belted out his classic, “What Kind of Fool Am I?”, he said it all, didn’t he?

I had my swim and debated whether or not I should confront Kate Mulligan one last time when I received a call from James Ventura. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home, Archy,” he said. “They told me you had left the office and I wanted to speak to you before this evening.”

“Not at all, James, it’s the reason I gave you this number. What can I do for you?”

“Hanna is going out tonight, to rehearse for the play with Penny Tremaine,” he informed me.

“That’s possible, James. We start formal rehearsals tomorrow, but some of the cast may be getting together to bone up.”

“Have you seen the
Arsenic and Old Lace
film, Archy?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Both Hanna and Penny are policemen, or policewomen. I don’t think they have any lines, or at most a sentence each. For this they need to rehearse all evening?”

“I see your point,” I said, reluctantly. I hate trailing people, especially lovers. “What time is she leaving, James?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll get on it,” I said.

“Did you hear about Ouspenskaya?” he asked.

With the speed of light, I thought, the news had traveled up and down Ocean Boulevard. “I heard, James.”

“We got rid of Margaret. You know, I never cared for her.”

It was too late to rent a Ford Escort, so I would have to borrow Mother’s Ford wagon—and would need another swim when this was over.

I
WAITED FOR HANNA
a safe distance from the Ventura home. When she pulled out in a smart black Corvette, I followed her to AlA. Most cars head in that direction so I had no fear of her paying any special attention to me. We went north on A1A which, as usual, was busy so all I had to do was join the herd. When she turned off for Lantana, I got the craziest idea that I knew where she was heading—and I was right.

Hanna pulled up outside the home of Dr. Gussie Pearlberg. There were several other cars parked in the vicinity and leaning against one of them, obviously waiting for Hanna, was none other then William Ventura. Mother and stepson entered the home and office of Dr. Pearlberg. What was going on? A cocktail party, an orgy or—blessed mother of Sigmund Freud—a group therapy session?

I had met Dr. Pearlberg, who is a psychiatrist, through Al Rogoff. This wonderful woman, who was eighty if she was a day, had on occasion provided the police with psychological profiles of serial murderers and rapists. I never consulted Dr. Gussie, as I call her, for my own neuroses, which I know to be incurable, but had introduced her to father, who often recommended her to clients in need of psychiatric help.

I waited the fifty-minute hour for a group of about eight souls to emerge, get into their vehicles and depart. Hanna and William spoke to each other for a moment before doing the same. When the coast was clear I got out of the Ford and rang Dr. Gussie’s bell.

“You?” she said in her raspy voice. Dr. Gussie has a two-pack-a-day habit.

“Me,” I answered. “How are you?”

“Alive, last time I checked. What do you want at this hour, Archy?”

“I know you can’t talk about your patients, Dr. Gussie...”

“That’s right, I can’t. So where do we go from here?”

I followed her into her office and I could see by the chair arrangements that she had been conducting a group session. “Listen to the story of my life before you toss me out,” I begged.

“That’s what I do all day, young man, for a hefty fee. You can’t afford me.”

“I don’t need your services,” I said, “I’m very well adjusted.”

“Which means you’ve come to terms with your shortcomings.” She lit a cigarette, unfiltered, and following the doctor’s lead I pulled out my box of English Ovals and joined her. “Those things will kill you,” she cautioned.

“How old are you, Dr. Gussie?”

“None of your damn business, young man. Now what are you doing here?”

Having no choice, and counting on her professional discretion, I filled her in on James Ventura’s fears.

“Foolish man,” Dr. Gussie said. “He’s got sex on the brain. It happens at his age. Well, he has nothing to worry about. Hanna loves him, but then there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

Dr. Gussie saw no harm in telling me that Hanna had come to her seeking advice for her (Hanna’s) problem with William. Dr. Gussie invited Hanna to join one of her group sessions with those who had similar problems. “I called William myself,” Dr. Gussie admitted, “and got him to come to one session. He’s a good boy, Archy. His father marrying a girl who was William’s peer was very traumatic for the boy. He rebelled and lashed out at the object of his frustration. Not unusual. Tonight was his third session with us and he’s making progress. You know, he really likes Hanna.”

“But why didn’t they tell James what they were up to?” I asked.

“I told them not to,” Dr. Gussie said. “First, because he might want to join the group and that would negate any good the sessions were doing for both Hanna and William. With him listening, they would clam up. Second, because if it didn’t work James Ventura might think there was no hope and give up on either his wife or his son. But William is doing fine.”

I was so happy to hear this I could have kissed Dr. Gussie. In fact, before I left, I did. She said, “Don’t do that, young man, unless you mean to follow through,” and I think she meant it.

Feeling good, I decided to call upon Kate Mulligan one more time. Dr. Gussie would shout “masochistic” but I thought of it as putting closure to a low point in my career.

Kate didn’t seem overly surprised to see me standing in her doorway. “Some guy wrote that love means never having to say you’re sorry,” she wisecracked.

“He was either a fool, or never in love.” She let me in but didn’t invite me to sit.

“I’m almost fifty years old, Archy, with one face-lift, two careers and two marriages behind me. The first was to a blackjack dealer in one of the big casinos. A famous film actor played at his table one night and lost his shirt. To compensate, the guy walked off with my husband. After the magician, I met Ouspenskaya at that all-night café I was telling you about. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh, but you could have,” I told her.

“Don’t be a jerk, Archy. I’m not the type that settles down. You live in your lovely home, in this lovely town, with your lovely parents and lovely friends, and you can’t understand why people like me do what we do. To keep the wolf off our backs, mister, that’s why.”

“Nice people die of gentle starvation,” I told her, half meaning it.

“Screw you, Archy McNally.”

“My only regret, Kate, is that Mother will miss you.”

“Really? My only regret is that I never got to have dinner at the Pelican Club. Does that make us even?”

My spirits had risen and fallen so many times this day I felt like a Yo-Yo in the hands of an overwrought schoolboy. When I got back to our lovely house (unquote), Mother had retired but I found Father in the den reading Dickens. It was at times like this when I envied the man his ability to withdraw from this time and place into one more to his liking. He removed his glasses when I entered after knocking. “Good evening, Archy. What do you have to report?”

“We will need a replacement for Kate Mulligan, sir.”

“I will inform Mrs. Trelawney of that fact.”

“The Ventura case is closed, sir, to everyone’s satisfaction. Would you like to hear about it?”

“I don’t think so, Archy. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you, sir. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll retire.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night, sir.”

Not crazy about Dickens, I withdrew into an English Oval and a marc. It was still early enough to make a few calls, and I did.

When I reached James Ventura I asked him if I could talk freely.

“Sure, Archy. Hanna is back home and watching the tube with William. Imagine that.”

“I can imagine it,” I said. “I have very good news for you, James. Very good news, but it’s top secret. Do I have your word to keep it strictly between us?”

When I reached Connie she reported that the police had released Richard’s body and the cremation service would take place tomorrow. “Very private,” Connie told me. “Just Lady Cynthia. And Desdemona is furious with Ouspenskaya. The news is all over town.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night, Connie?”

“I thought you’d never ask. The Pelican?”

“Heavens no,” I protested. “What about the Alcazar Lounge at the Breakers?”

“What?” she cried. “The Breakers? What have you done, Archy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t buy me an expensive dinner unless you’ve done something you’re feeling very guilty about and want to say you’re sorry by flashing your plastic around the Breakers. What is it, Archy?”

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry, Connie.”

“Who said that?”

“A guy who was either a fool, or never in love.”

I slept a dreamless sleep and awoke a
happier
and a wiser man—but then the old mariner didn’t know Consuela Garcia.

O
N THURSDAY I VISITED
Al Rogoff at his “wagon” and was treated to a Bud straight out of the can to the accompaniment of Vivaldi on the stereo. We sat in Al’s padded captain’s chairs at an oak dining table positioned in a corner of the living room.

I told him about Ouspenskaya’s operation and he agreed that even if anyone brought charges against the man they would be almost impossible to prove.

“These guys are the original Teflon kids. The people they dupe are too embarrassed to report them or appear in court to testify against them,” Al explained through a cloud of smoke coming from his Sunday two-buck cigar.

“He’s getting ready to leave town,” I said. “Are you going to let him go?”

“No reason to hold him,” Al responded.

“Which means Ouspenskaya is exonerated from any wrongdoing in the death of Richard Holmes.”

“We questioned all your fancy friends and came up with nothing,” Al said, rising to get another Bud out of the fridge. In his stocking feet he moved with all the grace of a grizzly. Was his addiction to the ballet wishful thinking? “Ouspenskaya was nowhere near that table when the wine was being poured and no one saw either Lady Cynthia or Desdemona Darling slip anything into one of the glasses. Then we come up against the same old brick wall—how could anyone know which glass Holmes would take? The case is not officially closed but unless we come up with something new, like a confession, it’ll end up on the ‘Death by Misadventure’ shelf and it won’t be alone.”

And that, I thought, was the end of that.

The stage was bare but our stage manager had come early and thoughtfully set up folding chairs for the cast and a card table for the director to sit behind, facing his charges. Had Binky found his forte? The venue seemed to give my players a severe case of stage fright. They crossed and uncrossed their legs, opened and closed their scripts and looked at the auditorium wistfully, perhaps imagining what it would be like when all the plush seats were occupied. In short, the full consequences of their rash decision to volunteer for the community theater were upon them—and me.

The groupings were very similar to when we had met at Lady Cynthia’s last week. Hanna and William sat together, looking comfortable in each other’s company. This gave a boost to my cynical heart. Fitz was up front with Buzz at her side, and why not? In the play they were about to be married. Penny and Vance Tremaine sat together, and why not? They
were
married. Arnie Turnbolt and Phil Meecham, again, sat side by side. They weren’t married but they had a lot in common—namely their sights set on William and Buzz, respectively.

Hank Wilson, Ed Rogers and Ron Seymour were now joined by Joe Anderson who, thankfully, had decided not to leave the show. Binky, Connie and Priscilla sat with me at the table. “I want to observe their faces,” Priscilla told me, “like an artist studies a blank canvas.” The only “canvas” she seemed to be observing was Hank Wilson’s.

Our Creative Director had already announced that she would be a no-show and to add to the first-night jitters our star arrived almost thirty minutes late. She made a grand entrance down the theater’s center aisle, her pearl white muumuu shimmering about her as she moved. That, need I say, was a lot of shimmering. She was carrying what looked like a bottle of booze.