“Do what?” I asked, fearful of what she might answer.
But “Something” was all she said.
I realized I was uncomfortable in her presence as if she might be suffering a petit mal and I was ignorant of how to aid her. So I was somewhat relieved when she said, “I don’t want to make love this afternoon, Archy.”
“All right,” I said equably.
“I’m too upset,” she explained. “You can see how things are, can’t you?”
I couldn’t, of course. I had only the haziest notion of how things were in the Westmore ménage. But I nodded and she accepted that. She plopped down alongside me on the cot and put a bare and slender arm around my neck. I kissed her wrist.
“You’re a yum-yum devil,” she said.
For some reason I recalled the classic line from
The Ten Commandments,
spoken by Anne Baxter to Charlton Heston: “Oh, Moses, you adorable fool!”
“Tell me a story,” Nettie enjoined. “Take my mind off my problems.”
“Okay,” I said. “What kind of story?”
“A true one but a funny one.”
I thought a moment. Then: “Well, here’s one you may find mildly amusing. I work for my father’s legal firm and not too long ago...”
I told her about the Franklin kidnapping and how the Boston bubbleheads had been nabbed simply because their intended victim had a phone equipped with Caller ID. Natalie didn’t laugh uproariously but she smiled and tightened the arm about my neck.
“The boy wasn’t hurt?” she asked.
“Nope. He was fine.”
“And what happened to the kidnappers?”
“Durance Vile, I hope.”
“What do you do at your father’s firm, Archy?”
“This and that,” I said casually. “I’m a sort of paralegal. I don’t have a law degree.”
She accepted it with no further questions about my occupation, for which I was thankful. She withdrew her arm and took up her perch on the high stool again. My recital of the attempted Franklin kidnapping had enlivened her for a few moments but now she seemed to have slipped back into her broody mode, planning, no doubt, how to slaughter her mother, discombobulate her sister-in-law, and finance her brother’s African explorations. Then, her self-imposed tasks successfully completed, she would take me to cot in celebration.
I thought it time to depart and she made no effort to persuade me to linger. She did insist I take the two remaining cans of Heineken with me and I finally acquiesced, hoping they were still cool enough to be drinkable. I also received a light kiss before I left.
“See you on Friday?” she asked. “At the cocktail party.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
She gave me a lidded glance but said nothing more.
I drove home reflecting I had learned a great deal about the Westmores that afternoon but nothing directly concerning my Discreet Inquiry into Mr. F. Clemens. But isn’t there a folk saying to the effect that the longest way round is the shortest way home? There is no such bromide? Strange; I could have sworn there was.
Even stranger was the character of Natalie Westmore. What a contradiction she was! At our first meeting I had been initially aware of her apparent apathy and indifference. Then came the Paroxysm of the Collapsing Cot during which she displayed a physical passion I had not suspected. And more recently she had revealed an emotional intensity scary to such an easygoing, laid-back chap as your ’umble ’ero.
A windless calm’ outside and raging squalls within—that was the only conclusion I could arrive at, and wondered if my gamble on an intimate relationship might be a losing proposition. Women and men who present a serene persona to the world but who carry repressed storms within can prove extremely dangerous when finally thunder rumbles and lightning flashes. And I abhor violence. Except for the Three Stooges, of course.
W
HEN I PULLED INTO
the graveled turnaround at the rear of the McNally manse I saw Jamie Olson sitting on the step leading to the back door. Hobo was lying beside him. The pooch was on his spine, all four paws in the air, and Jamie was slowly scratching his belly. Lucky dog. No one ever did that for me.
Hobo was alerted by my arrival. He raised his head, saw me, scrambled upright and came dashing. I gave him the customary ear tweak and assured him he was the handsomest hound in dogdom. I retrieved the two beers and went over to join Jamie on the step. I gave him one of the cans.
“Not cold,” I warned. “But I think it’s still cool enough to drink.”
“Thankee,” he said.
We popped the tabs, sipped, sat placidly in the waning sunlight and watched Hobo chase a fluttering moth. Jamie filled his old briar from an oilskin pouch and I lighted a cigarette to protect myself. I think Jamie smokes shredded tar paper.
When he had the pipe alight he said, “Al Canfield,” and lapsed into silence. I waited for what seemed like minutes. No one has ever accused Jamie of being mouthy. “Had a brew with him and some others,” he finally added, pausing midspeech to quaff his beer and puff his pipe.
I reckoned the “others” he referred to were all staff employees of Palm Beach richniks, which meant the gathering was probably a gossipfest.
“Hear anything?” I asked. “From Al. About the Westmores.”
“Got a boyfriend. Canfield says.”
“Who’s got a boyfriend?”
“Mrs. Westmore.”
“Jamie,” I protested, “she’s as old as my mother. I can’t see her fooling around.”
“Not her. T’other one.”
“Mrs. Helen Westmore, the daughter-in-law?”
“Yep.”
“Did the houseman say who he was—the boyfriend?”
“Nope. Don’t know.”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible. She’s a flashy woman and her husband was away for a year. But he’s back now.”
“Uh-huh.”
I heard amusement in that interjection, a cynical recognition of the ways of the world.
“You mean that even with hubby at home she’s continuing her affair?”
“Al says.”
I did not pursue the subject further. Natalie had hinted at her sister-in-law’s misbehavior and now a servant had confirmed her suspicion. I believed it. I had met Helen Westmore only once, briefly, but she had impressed me as a woman likely to consider chastity an absurdity.
That’s the way I saw her. It takes one to know one.
After a while I wandered into the house and went up to my den much bemused by what I had learned from Jamie about Helen Westmore’s concupiscence. Poor Walter, I would have wagered, suffered from uxoriousness. (Look it up, fevvin’s sake.)
I entered all this in my journal along with an account of my luncheon at Natalie’s studio. Then I reread everything I had recorded since my current Discreet Inquiry began. I found no startling revelations but there were some tantalizing snippets meriting further investigation.
It would be a help, I knew, if I dared ask Sgt. Al Rogoff to search for possible police dossiers on Frederick Clemens and his alleged secretary, Felix. But Rogoff would demand to know why I wanted the information and I was silenced by my father’s insistence on discretion. I could earn the sergeant’s cooperation only if it involved criminal activity, and I had no evidence of that. As yet.
During the family cocktail hour I announced I had been invited to attend a cocktail party at the home of Mrs. Edythe Westmore on Friday. Mother said she and father had also been asked and would probably make a short
pro forma
appearance. She didn’t have to explain the reason for their brief attendance. The pater has a thing about socializing with clients, preferring to keep the relationship on a professional level. He feels familiarity breeds contempt—and a casual delay in the payment of retainers.
Dinner that evening was a proletarian meal but not to be scorned. Ursi Olson had prepared a huge platter of spaghetti with marinara sauce. Accompanying this dish were two bowls of roasted Italian sausage, one of hot for father and me and the other of the sweet variety for mother, who because of her high blood pressure tries to avoid spicy foods.
We also had a small salad of romaine and radicchio and a basket of garlic bread to sop up excess spaghetti sauce. And to help digest this savory feast we drank red wine from a jug with a handle and screw-top, vintage of last Tuesday. Nothing subtle about that vino, but its biting harshness was exactly what was needed to cut the richness of sauce and sausage. Dessert was amaretti with espresso and I staggered upstairs singing “
O Sole Mio.”
My appetite may have been satisfied but my curiosity remained unfulfilled. I began leafing through my up-to-the-minute journal again, hoping to find a startling factoid which might help unlock the mystery of Frederick Clemens. Instead I found myself dawdling over the entries concerning Natalie Westmore.
That young lady fascinated and, I must admit, spooked me. She was so volatile, y’see, and I feared her capriciousness. It was highly unlikely to happen but I could imagine her blurting out a merry account of our fervid tussle on the collapsing cot to her brother, mother, or—heaven forfend!—to the astonished but delighted guests at the cocktail party. Impossible she might be so lacking in prudence? I didn’t think so; the woman was totally unpredictable.
The more I read and mused on her actions and utterances, the more firmly convinced I became that I would be wise not to encourage our intimacy. I knew from the beginning it was a gamble. Now I regretfully admitted it was a no-win situation and I had better cool the relationship before I became a hapless victim of her caprices.
I could make a start at withdrawing from our incipient liaison during the cocktail party Friday evening, and I thought I knew how to do it. Hadn’t Walter Westmore said I could bring anyone I chose? I phoned Connie Garcia.
“Hi, hon,” I said. “How’s by you?”
“Okay, I guess,” she said, sighing. “It’s been a heavy week and I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m frazzled.”
“Got just the thing to unfrazzle you,” I said breezily. “Remember we spoke about Mrs. Edythe Westmore? As I told you, she’s a client of ours and she’s throwing this great cocktail party on Friday evening. Lots of food, drinks, and maybe even funny hats and confetti. My parents are invited and so am I. The balloon goes up at five o’clock. Can you make it?”
“Oh, Archy,” she wailed. “No can do. Friday is the night of Lady Cynthia’s sit-down dinner for the pols—the shindig I’ve been working on so hard for so long. I’ll have to be there to make sure everything goes like silk. There’s no way I can see you on Friday night.”
“Drat!” I said. “Also hell and damnation. I was hoping you’d come along to provide aid and comfort and make certain I don’t put a lampshade on my head.”
“I can provide aid and comfort on Saturday night,” she consoled me. “And I’ll be even more in need of unfrazzling. How about it?”
“You betcha,” I said bravely. “Saturday night it is. I’ll give you a buzz to decide where and when. But I’m sorry you can’t make the cocktail bash. It reduces the gaiety potential by ninety percent.”
“We’ll make up for it on Saturday,” she promised. “And behave yourself at the Westmores.”
“I’ll have to,” I said sadly. “My parents will be present.”
“Good. They’ll keep you on a short leash. See you Saturday, sweet. I hope the party is a hoot.”
“And I hope you have a grand time at the Lady’s dinner.”
“Fat chance,” she said, and rang off.
I sat there practically grinding the McNally molars in frustration. I’m sure you ken my attempted ploy. I had wanted Connie to accompany me as protection against any untoward advances by Natalie. I wanted Ms. Westmore to see and recognize there was a woman in my life I had known longer than I had known her, an attractive woman whom, I intended to make evident, I cherished and possibly loved.
But the stratagem had come to naught and I was faced with the problem of finding another way to lessen the intensity of Nettie’s emotional attachment to me while retaining her friendship. Students of ego giantism will note that never once did I consider she might be utterly indifferent to my charms and just as eager as I to be casual pals rather than impassioned lovers.
In defense of my machismo I can only point to the evidence of the collapsed cot. And if you wish to remind me I was as much seductee as seducer, I suggest we terminate this conversation at once. It is a spiteful thing to rob a man of his illusions.
Nothing of any great consequence occurred during the following forty-eight hours. The weather was, as the French put it,
lousay,
and I could think of nothing better to do than Christmas shopping. I bought everything on plastic and refused to brood about the bills arriving in January.
I shall not distract you by detailing the items selected for everyone on my list. I only wish to mention I was stumped in finding a proper gift for Natalie Westmore. I think you’ll agree I had to give her some token of my esteem no matter how impersonal. But a card saying “Best wishes for a jolly holiday season” seemed insufficient for a woman with whom I had played adult patty-cake. I finally decided to postpone the purchase of her present until I could find a trinket she might appreciate but which wouldn’t signify undying passion on my part.
At noontime on Friday I decided to take a break from my shopping orgy and escape the relentless rain for a few moments by ducking into the Pelican Club for a wee bit of the old nasty. And there, standing at the bar, was my number one (and only) aider and abettor, the bedlamite Binky Watrous himself. He greeted me effusively.
“Hey, old sport!” he shouted. “Merry Xmas and all that sort of thing. Let me buy you a snifter to chase the winter chill.”
I looked at him in amazement. “I appreciate your kind offer,” I told him. “A generous impulse on your part. But do you have the wherewithal?”
“Floating,” he assured me. “Awash in cash. Mr. Pettibone, did I or did I not show you a plump bundle of spondulicks?”
“You did indeed, Mr. Watrous,” the bartender said gravely.
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll have a double vodka rocks with the merest tincture of aqua. Binky, tell me at once; what is the source of your unusual liquidity? Have you tunneled into Fort Knox?”
“Frederick Clemens,” he said with a smirky grin. “I told you he promised me a hundred-buck finder’s fee for every person I suggest who becomes a client. Two of the people I touted signed up, and Fred forked over the moola with heartfelt thanks. Archy, he’s a true gentleman. A paragon one might even say and I do say it.”