I had it gift-wrapped and enclosed a card stating, “Happy Birthday and many of them.” I knew my father would be offended by any greeting more affectionate. He is an austere man who values reason over emotion. I, on the other hand, believe the heart commands and the mind obeys. (The glands may cast their vote as well.)
I drove my fire engine-red Miata back to our ersatz-Tudor manse on Ocean Boulevard. I pulled into my slot in the three-car garage, disembarked, and started for the back door leading to the kitchen. But then Hobo, our crossbred terrier, came bouncing from his gabled house to greet me. I gave him an expected pat and ear tweaks and assured him he was the doughtiest dog who ever lived. I believed it; family and friends concurred: Hobo was one fearless canine. But modest. Praise him and he yawned.
I found Ursi Olson working in the kitchen. She is the distaff side of the Scandinavian couple who keep the McNally ship afloat. Her husband, Jamie, is our factotum, a taciturn character with a fondness for aquavit and pipe tobacco with an odor distressingly similar to asafetida.
Ursi was in an understandably peckish mood. My father had refused to approve a celebratory birthday dinner party with several close friends as guests. And when Ursi began to plan a scrumptious family-only feast, the lord of the manor informed her he would much prefer a simple meal of pot roast with potato pancakes and dilled green beans—hardly a challenge to Ursi’s culinary skills.
However, she declared triumphantly, he hadn’t mentioned dessert, and she had constructed a confection known in New York as seven-layer cake although I think it is rightfully called Dobos Torte. It consists of fifteen thin alternating layers of cake and milk chocolate crème, the whole covered with dark chocolate icing. One taste is enough to make you roll your eyes and swear to begin dieting—tomorrow.
The guv’s birthday dinner went delightfully. The crew always takes its cue from the captain and that evening the skipper was in a genial mood and we responded. He even consumed two slender slices of the torte (I had three) and expressed hearty thanks for his gifts: a James Upshall pipe from the Olsons, my cognac, and from my mother, Madeleine, a V-necked sweater she had knitted in an argyle pattern. Pops was especially pleased with her present and forbore to mention one sleeve appeared to be two inches longer than the other.
Dinner concluded, my parents and I moved into his study and I hoped it might be for a postprandial birthday toast with the XO Courvoisier I had given him. No such luck. Father seated himself in the leather throne behind his monumental desk, motioned mother and me to club chairs, and posed a question that was to ignite a devilish Discreet Inquiry testing the sagacity and deviousness of yrs. truly. What a doozy it was!
“Archy,” he said, “are you acquainted with Mrs. Edythe Westmore?”
“I’ve met the lady once, sir, at a charity bash at The Breakers.”
“Oh?” he said, and elevated one of his gnarly eyebrows, a display of legerdemain I’ve never been able to master. “And how did you happen to meet?”
“Her necklace of garnets broke and I helped her retrieve them.”
“Do you also know her son and daughter?”
“No, father, I do not.”
“Are you aware Mrs. Westmore, a widow, is on our client list?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” I turned to mother. “She is a close friend of yours, is she not?”
The mater smiled. She is a rather large woman who succeeds in being simultaneously imposing and soft. Her complexion is a bit florid (the poor dear suffers from high blood pressure) but I think her uncommonly attractive. When I was a mere whelp and became addicted to attending revivals of old movies I was amazed at how mother resembled Mary Boland: same good looks, more pleasing than striking, and a similar ditsy manner.
“Perhaps not a
close
friend, Archy,” she replied. “But we do see each other frequently. Edythe belongs to both my bridge and garden clubs. Her African violets are simply unpareil. Is that the right word?”
“Nonpareil,” I corrected gently.
Father stirred restlessly and I knew he was becoming impatient with our gibble-gabble. “Maddie,” he said, “suppose you repeat to Archy what you told me last night concerning Mrs. Westmore.”
“Well, our bridge club met at Suzy Longhorne’s two days ago and after we finished playing, refreshments were served: cucumber sandwiches and some lovely petits fours Suzy bought at a new bakery in Boca. They were
so
good, especially the ones with mint icing.”
A sigh from behind the desk. “Mother, please get on with it.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “we started talking about the stock market and real estate, and Edythe Westmore said she had recently consulted an investment adviser who is a real expert and is making her a lot of money in unusual things.”
“Oh?” I said. “Such as?”
“Stocks that aren’t even listed in the paper. And a tin mine in Bolivia and oil wells in Texas.”
Mon pere
and I exchanged a quick glance.
“And now,” she went on, “Edythe said he has a wonderful deal for her. He says she could make a small fortune.”
I knew the retort to that: “If she starts with a large fortune.” But all I said was, “Did Mrs. Westmore give any details about this wonderful deal?”
“Yes, he wants her to buy a Fabergé egg from a man in Paris. This man needs cash and is willing to sell the egg for half a million dollars. Edythe’s financial adviser says she could easily get more than a million for it at auction, even two or three million.”
“Then why,” I asked, “doesn’t the man in Paris put it up for auction?”
“Edythe didn’t say. I don’t think it occurred to her to ask.”
Then father and I stared at each other. “Is Mrs. Westmore wealthy, sir?” I inquired.
He lapsed into his mulling mode: a long period of silence during which he undoubtedly held an internal debate on the ethics, necessity, and possible unwelcome repercussions of answering my question. He’d go through the same process if he was invited to put Colman’s mustard on his broiled calves’ liver.
“Moderately wealthy,” he pronounced finally. “But not to the extent that a single investment of half a million dollars would be considered prudent.”
“A Fabergé egg,” I repeated. “What an odd investment. I have heard them described as the world’s costliest tchotchkes.”
Father straightened in his chair, not at all amused. “Do you have anything on your plate at the moment?” he demanded.
“No, sir. Not since the Franklin kidnapping is resolved.”
“Then I suggest you institute Discreet Inquiries anent this so-called investment adviser Mrs. Westmore is consulting and particularly his recommendation she purchase a Fabergé egg. You must tread carefully here, Archy. The lady has not requested our assistance and McNally and Son has no right or duty to go prying into her personal money matters. But she is a valued client and I would not care to see her defrauded by a common swindler. From what Mother has told us, I fear it is exactly what may happen.”
“I concur,” I told him. “It has a whiff of flimflam.”
“Then look into it,” he said sharply. “But be circumspect. The client must not be aware of your investigation. Is that clear?”
“Yes, father.”
He rose and I knew I was dismissed. I wished him a final “Happy Birthday,” which he accepted with a wan smile. Then I left my parents alone. I suspected they had private memories to exchange. Birthdays are a time for fond remembrances, are they not?
I climbed the stairs to my third-floor mini-suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. It was small, cramped, and under a leaky roof but I cherished it. It was my sanctuary and the rent was zilch.
I lighted only my third English Oval of the day and poured myself a small marc. This is a brandy made from the residue of wine grapes after they have been pressed. It is possibly the world’s most powerful sludge.
Thus equipped, I sat at my grungy desk, put up my feet, and phoned Consuela Garcia, the young woman with whom I am intimate and, regrettably, sometimes unfaithful. As I explained to my pal Binky Watrous, my infidelity is due to a mild but persistent case of satyriasis caused by seeing Jane Russell in
The Outlaw
at an impressionable age.
S
HE PICKED UP THE
phone.
“Martha?” I said.
“I’ll Martha you, goofball,” Connie said. “Have you been behaving yourself?”
“Don’t I always?”
“No,” she said. “Why haven’t you called?”
“I am calling,” I said. “Right this very minute. It is I, Archibald McNally, famed epicure, bon vivant, dilettante, and lout-about-town. How are you, hon?”
“Okay, I guess. Tired. Lady C. has been working my fanny to a nubbin. She’s planning a sit-down dinner for local pols and so far she’s changed the time twice, the menu three times, and the guest list is revised every hour on the hour. She’s been a world-class pain.”
Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest doyenne in Palm Beach, proud of six ex-husbands, and possessing the personal warmth and social graces of a pit viper. I happen to admire the Lady and consider her prickliness more amusing than offensive. She does have many local detractors but I suspect their enmity springs from envy. They have never been invited to dine at her table and enjoy the
risotto alia champagne e foie gras
prepared by her French chef.
“Suffer in silence,” I advised Connie. “Christmas is right around the corner and with it comes your annual bonus.”
“Good thinking on your part,” Connie said.
“Listen, hon,” I said. “How about dinner on Saturday?”
“I may work. If I do, dinner will have to be late and informal. I’ll let you know.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Your wish is my command.”
“Since when?” she scoffed. “Now I’m going to crash. I’m exhausted.”
“Sleep well, luv,” I said.
That was the extent of our conversation. Please note the teasing tone and absence of vows of love and/or passion. I enjoyed our casual relationship and—fearing a closer alliance: the dreaded M-word—hoped it would continue. Sheer cowardice on my part, of course.
Despite her zealous investigation and occasional confirmation of my extracurricular activities, Connie endured. She was suspicious, jealous, and had every right to be. But she endured. What a marvelous woman she was! And what a cur I was.
I resolutely turned my thoughts away from my own behavior to a more immediate problem: the conduct of an “investment adviser” who sought to persuade a financially naive widow to purchase a Fabergé egg. Why that particular bijou, I wondered, and not a bag of diamonds, a Rembrandt, or even the jawbone of a dinosaur?
What exactly did I know about Fabergé eggs? Not a great deal. The treasures were designed and created by the world-famous House of Fabergé, jewelers and goldsmiths, headquartered in St. Petersburg. They were commissioned by the Russian czars Alexander III and his son Nicholas II. Two of the opulent fantasies were made each year from 1885 to 1917 and given by the reigning czar to his wife and mother to celebrate the Russian Easter.
At the moment that was the extent of my knowledge and I realized I’d have to learn more. One final personal note: Several years previously I had seen four Fabergé eggs exhibited at a Manhattan art gallery. I was surprised by their size—or lack thereof. I had envisioned towering wonders of gold and diamonds. What I saw were glittering masterpieces no higher than six inches. It made their artfully detailed craftsmanship all the more impressive.
I keep a journal in which I record accounts of my Discreet Inquiries. I try to make entries every day or so during the course of an investigation. I include everything: facts, rumors, surmises, even scraps of conversation and descriptions of the physical appearance, personality, dress, and habits of the people involved.
Donning my reading specs, I flipped to a fresh page and began scribbling notes on Mrs. Edythe Westmore, her investment adviser, and the Fabergé
objets de luxe.
I thought of heading the page “The Case of the Rotten Egg” but discarded the notion. A few weeks later I was happy I had.
Labors completed, I had one more marc, a final coffin nail, and listened to a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” She finished and I knew what time it was. So I went to bed.
I have a lifelong habit of oversleeping (I refuse to be a slave to an alarm clock) but on Friday morning I managed to wake in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. I was glad I wasn’t still snoozing for Ursi had whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes she served with little turkey sausages. What a great way to start a new day!
Father had his nose deep in his morning newspaper, so mother and I did all the chatting, mostly about a shopping trip she and Ursi were planning to replenish the McNally larder and Hobo’s supply of Alpo and kibble. I was on my second cup of black coffee when I remembered what I wanted to ask her.
“By the way, moms,” I said, “there’s something I need to know. When Mrs. Westmore was telling your bridge club about her investment adviser, did she happen to mention his name?”
“Oh, Archy, I’m sure she must have. Now let me think...” She pressed the tip of a forefinger against a soft cheek. “Of course!” she cried, brightening. “A very unusual name. Twain. I distinctly remember because it was just like the writer Mark Twain. But his name is Frederick Twain.”
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
Breakfast concluded, the family separated. I returned to my aerie to don a sport jacket I had recently purchased: a tweed blazer with bone toggles instead of buttons. Natty is the word. Then I dallied at my bedroom window. It overlooks the graveled turnaround fronting our garage.
I waited patiently and finally saw father leave for the office in his black Lexus. A few moments later Ursi and mother departed on their shopping trip in Mrs. McNally’s ancient wood-bodied Ford station wagon. I trotted downstairs and went directly to papa’s study. I sat behind his desk in his high-backed swivel chair feeling like a czarevitch eager to ascend the throne.
Really all I wanted to do was use the old man’s telephone directories stacked in the lower drawer. I pulled out the thickest with listings for the entire West Palm Beach area and searched for Frederick Twain. Nothing. Then I tried the Boca Raton book. Nothing again.