“Frightened? How so?”
“Because I know now that someone is trying to destroy Whitcomb or at least use the funeral homes in a criminal scheme. Archy, in effect I am the chief financial officer and feel I have a fiduciary duty to make certain our business is conducted in a legal and ethical manner. And I find this matter a cause for grave concern.”
I think I successfully hid my amazement. I mean, that rather pompous speech was so obviously rehearsed she lacked only a promptbook. I merely nodded encouragingly.
“As you know,” she continued, “I’ve been checking the invoices of the airlines which handle Whitcomb’s out-of-state shipments, trying to discover the names and addresses of the consignees.”
“The information missing from your files.”
“Stolen
from my files,” she said angrily. “As you discovered, most of those, shipments went to New York, Boston, and Chicago. At LaGuardia in New York, practically all of the caskets were picked up by the Cleo Hauling Service.”
I looked at her, puzzled. “Sunny, isn’t that a bit unusual, to deliver human remains to a hauling service?”
She was drinking an amber liquid with bubbles. I guessed it might be ginger ale or something similar. Now she took a great gulp of it as if she needed whatever strength it might give her. “Unusual?” she repeated. “Archy, it’s practically unheard of. The coffins are customarily picked up by local funeral homes or cemeteries. Sometimes by relatives or churches when a service is to be held. But by a hauling company? That’s just ridiculous! Would you like another drink?”
“I think I need one,” I said, holding out my empty glass.
“You will,” she said. “The worst is yet to come. I’ll have one, too. I’ve had enough diet cream soda for one night.”
She returned with our drinks, and I noticed mine was larger this time, and it turned out to be gutsier. But hers was the same size and, I hoped, of the same toughness. I mean, I did not believe Sunny was trying to paralyze me.
She seated herself on the couch close to me. She continued: “It’s definite that the majority of shipments going to LaGuardia in New York were consigned to the Cleo Hauling Service. Now would you care to guess who picked up most of Whitcomb’s shipments to Logan in Boston and O’Hare in Chicago?”
I groaned. “Don’t tell me it was the Cleo Hauling Service.”
“You’ve got it,” she said, and we stared at each other. “Archy, what on earth is going on?” she burst out. There was fury in her voice and, I thought, an undertone of fear.
“We’ll find out,” I promised, “and bring it to a crashing halt. I’m as convinced as you that there’s a nefarious plot afoot aimed at your employer and our client.”
She gazed away, looking at nothing. “If I let anything bad happen to the company I’d never forgive myself. Never! Horace Whitcomb has been so good to, me. He’s helped me so much. He’s given me a chance to be happy.”
“Like a father, is he?” I said casually. It was perhaps an intrusive thing to say, but as you well know, I’m a nosy chap.
She turned to look at me directly. “A father?” she said. “I wouldn’t know. My real father deserted my mother and me when I was three years old.”
“Oh,” I said, an admittedly vacuous comment. “Well, I think Horace Whitcomb is a splendid gentleman.”
“Yes,” she said, “he is that. And I can’t have him hurt. I simply won’t stand for it.”
Suddenly she had become too heavily emotional. She was falsifying again, just as she had when Binky and I first visited. After that encounter the would-be Hercule Poirot of Palm Beach had declared the lady was scamming us—or trying to. I thought his judgment was accurate.
I believed she was sincere in her professed loyalty to Whitcomb, but I still sensed she was not revealing all she knew. That troubled me. Not because I suspected she might be involved in the caper—whatever it was—but because what she was holding back might enable me to write “Finis” to this case a lot sooner. Now I had to spend time and the racking of my poor, deprived brain in an effort to tweak out the mystery she kept hidden.
“Something bothering you, Archy?” Sunny asked.
“Pardon?” I said. “Oh no. Just woolgathering.” And then, because I have a talent for improv, I forged ahead. “I was thinking of your comment that Horace Whitcomb had given you the
chance
to be happy. That was well said. The Declaration of Independence lists ‘the pursuit of happiness’ as one of our unalienable rights. What a wonderful phrase! ‘Pursuit’ is the key word. I suspect Tom Jefferson used it ironically or at least slyly, meaning to imply that the chase after happiness is more important than its capture.”
Sunny smiled and took my hand. “Let’s go see if we can capture it,” she said. We finished our drinks and off we went to the tourney.
I won’t label Sunny Fogarty as Rubenesque, but she was abundant and all the more stirring for it. Her body was vital, overwhelming. I hung on for dear life and, in addition to my pleasure, had the added delight of being a survivor.
But I must admit that despite our yelps of bliss I could not rid myself of an aggravating unease that there was a dichotomy in her motives and in her actions. Just as during our first tumble, I had the antsy feeling that she was a Byzantine woman, very complex, and quite capable of giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation without becoming emotionally involved.
I sensed there was a deep and muffled part of her that she would never surrender, ever, to anyone.
But I cannot deny it was a joyous evening. For me at least. And before I departed, Sunny clutched me in a hot, almost frantic, embrace, and I began to believe she was a woman torn.
I promised I would investigate the Cleo Hauling Service and report the results to her ASAP. She gave me a brave smile and walked me to the door, clutching my hand tightly as if she feared to let me go. No doubt about it; she was a riddle, a troubling riddle.
I was home shortly after midnight with absolutely no desire to jot notes in my journal, smoke a coffin nail, listen to music, or have a nightcap, no matter how tiny. In truth, the McNally carcass was totally drained, wrung out, and hung up to dry. All I sought was blessed sleep, hoping the morn would bring roses back to my cheeks.
I had a delayed breakfast on Wednesday morning, having enjoyed a few extra hours of catalepsy. I found Jamie Olson alone in the kitchen, puffing on his ancient briar, which had a cracked stem bound with a Band-Aid. He was also nursing a mug of coffee, and I had no doubt he had added a dollop of aquavit to give him the push to face the rigors of another day.
Jamie offered to scramble a brace of eggs for me, but I settled for an OJ, a bran muffin, and black decaf. Very abstemious and totally unsatisfying. Why do all healthy meals remind me of wallpaper paste?
I sat across from Jamie and thought it a propitious time to start redeeming the promise I had given Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb: to discover the reason for the enmity between her husband and son.
“Jamie,” I said, “do you know Jason, houseman for the Horace Whitcombs?”
“Yep,” he said. “One year younger than God. Got the arthritis.”
“I noticed. Nice man?”
“Jase? The best. Him and me have a belt together now and then.”
I was about to observe that “He and I” would have served even better but restrained that pedantic impulse.
“There seems to be a quarrel between Horace and his son Oliver. The next time you have a belt with Jason you might inquire as to the cause.”
Jamie considered that a moment, staring at his fuming pipe. “Couldn’t ask straight out,” he said finally.
“Of course not,” I said hastily. “Didn’t expect you to. But you might hint around. Gently, you know. Tell him you’ve heard gossip. Something like that. He may tell you something he wouldn’t reveal to me.”
“Yep,” he said. “Jase don’t blab when it comes to his family. But I can buy him a Bushmills. That’s his favorite, and it would be a treat for him.”
I took a twenty from my wallet and slid it across the table. “Buy him two Bushmills,” I said, “and see if he’ll loosen up about Horace and Oliver.”
“With two Bushmills in him,” Jamie said mournfully, “he’ll tell me again about Peaches and Daddy Browning.”
I was preparing to depart when the phone rang and I picked up in the kitchen.
“The McNally residence,” I said, figuring it was probably a call for mother.
“Archy?” Binky Watrous said. “Why aren’t you in your office?”
“Because I’m here,” I explained. “What’s on your mind, Binky?—if you’ll forgive a slight exaggeration.”
“How about buying a fellow lunch?” he asked eagerly.
“And what fellow do you suggest?”
“Come on, Archy,” he said. “You don’t pay me a salary, and the least you can do is feed me for all my hard work. I’ve got a lot of neat stuff to tell you. Besides, the Duchess has canceled my credit cards. Archy, I’m
starving!”
“All right,” I relented. “Meet you at the Pelican Club around twelve-thirty.”
“Can’t we go somewhere tonier?” he said plaintively. “And more expensive.”
“No,” I told him.
I drove to the McNally Building, went directly to my office, and got on the horn. I phoned Operator Assistance in New York, Boston, and Chicago. I called vehicle license and registration bureaus, trade associations, and even chambers of commerce. And by noon I had my answer.
Or rather I had no answer. None of the sources I contacted had any record—past, present, or applied for—of the Cleo Hauling Service. Apparently it did not exist.
I can’t say I was shocked. After all, it would be a fairly simple scam to finagle. One truck for each of the three aforementioned cities, the trucks purchased secondhand or stolen. Ditto for the license plates and registration. No insolvable difficulties. Then you painted whatever you wished on the truck sides, added a phony address, and you were in business.
But
what
business?
L
EROY PETTIBONE, OUR ESTEEMED
chef at the Pelican Club, occasionally grew bored with preparing his special cheeseburgers or seafood salads for luncheon. Then he switched to what he called a Deli Delite: a hot corned-beef sandwich on sour rye with a heap of coleslaw spiked with coarsely ground black pepper, and a plate of kosher dill spears. Leroy had also discovered a hot mustard made in Detroit, of all places, that made your eyes water.
The Deli Delite was not the equal of masterworks from the Stage or Carnegie in Manhattan of course—but then what is? But it was as yummy as anything of the genre I had tasted in South Florida.
And that’s what Binky Watrous and I had for lunch, with enough cold beer to keep our palates from charring.
“All right, Binky,” I said as we scarfed, “what’s the neat stuff you said you had to tell me?”
“About this Dr. Omar K. Pflug,” he said, mumbling through a mouthful of corned beef. “He was kicked out of New York and New Jersey. And now he’s working in Florida. Also, he’s a druggie.”
“Why was he kicked out of New York and New Jersey? Was his license to practice revoked or was he just accused and is under investigation? And for what? Has he been licensed to work in Florida?”
“Well, those are just minor details, aren’t they? I mean, the guy is obviously a wrongo.”
“Binky, did you check with your family physician or contact professional associations and the state licensing board as I suggested?”
“Well, ah, no,” he said, taking a chomp of a pickle. “I thought there really wasn’t much point in going through all that folderol. So I just asked Mitzi Whitcomb and she told me.”
I tried to repress a groan and didn’t quite succeed. I looked at him, saw a brain sculpted solely of cottage cheese, and wondered if I had suddenly become a victim of synesthesia.
He must have sensed my outrage, for he immediately became defensive. “You can depend on what Mitzi told me,” he said. “Absolutely!”
I took that
cum grano salis.
With a heap of
salis,
if the truth be known.
“Binky,” I said, “did it ever occur to you the lady may be lying?”
He was astonished. “Why should she do that?”
I sighed. “People usually lie for reasons of self-interest of which you wot not.”
“Well, Mitzi wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Oh? Give me a because.”
“Because she’s in love with me.”
“She told you that?”
“Not exactly. But she let me paint her toenails.”
This surreal conversation, I realized, was getting me precisely nowhere.
I asked, “Did Mitzi Whitcomb reveal any other nuggets of information?”
He pondered a moment, pale brow furrowed, a shred of coleslaw hanging from his chops. Then he brightened. “Sure she did! The carrottop, the nurse you saw in Pflug’s office—well, she’s no nurse. She’s not exactly a hooker, but she’s sort of a call girl and uses the doctor’s place as a home base.”
“Some home,” I said. “Some base. Did Mitzi tell you her name?”
“Rhoda. Mitzi didn’t know her last name.”
“Is Ernest Gorton managing her?”
“I don’t understand.”
“To put it crudely, is Gorton her pimp? Providing customers?”
“Oh,” he said, and I think he actually blushed. “I don’t know anything about that.”
I finished my second beer and sat back. The Deli Delite had more than adequately compensated for that wretched bran muffin I had for breakfast.
“All right, let’s assume Mitzi Whitcomb’s information is accurate. Then what we’ve got is a rogue doctor willing to sign fake death certificates, presumably to finance his drug addiction. He also shares working quarters with a call girl who may or may not be the girlfriend and/or employee of Ernest Gorton, a Miami hustler who claims to be in the import-export trade. Is that how you see it?”
“See what?” Binky said.
There was no point in screaming at the pinhead. He was a good-hearted chap, no doubt of that, but his thought processes were so sluggish as to be almost immobile.
“Binky,” I said gently, “discreet inquiries demand the ability to deal with complexities and complications. You must be able to endure total confusion temporarily with the faith that eventually you will be able to bring order out of chaos. You follow?”
“Oh sure,” he said. “Hey, let’s have a kirsch at the bar. Just to cut the grease, you know.”