McNally's Caper (10 page)

“No drinking or drugs allowed,” Sylvia said. “Caught once and out you go.”

“Very admirable,” I said, thankful I wasn’t a stable boy. “Handsome horses,” I commented although I know absolutely nothing about horseflesh except that when I place a bet it causes them to run slower.

“Constance doesn’t own them. She boards them and feeds them, takes care of their ailments, and provides instruction in riding, jumping, and dressage—things like that. For a hefty fee, of course.”

“It’s a pricey hobby,” I guessed.

“Horse people are nuts,” Sylvia said flatly. “Hey, there’s Timothy. Tim!” she called, waving. “Over here!”

We were standing on the tanbark outside the barn. The young man turned, waved back, and came sauntering toward us. Something insolent in that gait, I thought.

“Archy,” Sylvia said, “meet Timothy Cussack. Tim, this is Archy McNally.”

We shook hands, smiling like villains at each other. He was a hunk, no doubt about it. But not heavy or clumpy. More like a fencer or diver: tall and whiplike. Face suntanned almost to cordovan, which made his choppers startlingly white. Pale eyes and a wide mouth with faint laugh lines. I could see what had seduced Geraldine Forsythe.

“I’ve been giving Archy the fifty-cent tour,” Sylvia said.

“Yeah?” he said. “You ride?” he asked me.

“Wheels,” I said. “Not legs.”

He laughed and I heard another clue to his charm. It was a hearty up-from-the-chest laugh and infectious. It was difficult to doubt his sincerity—but I managed.

“Sylvia will convert you,” he advised me. “She’s becoming one of our best exercise boys—girls, persons, whatever.”

“What do I get today?” she asked him.

“How about Lady Macbeth?” he suggested.

“Tim!” she cried. “That’s like riding a desk.”

“She needs a run. Her owner is still up north and the poor beast hasn’t been able to sniff the clover. Give her a break.”

“Okay then,” Sylvia said. “Lady Macbeth it is.”

She went back into the barn; Timothy Cussack and I were left together.

“I keep thinking I’ve seen you before,” I told him. “It couldn’t have been the Pelican Club, could it?”

“Might have been,” he said peaceably. “I drop by there occasionally. Not often. Dull place.”

“It can be,” I said, not yet ready to condemn him for this minor fabrication.

“What do you do?” he asked idly.

“I’m a flunky at my father’s law firm, McNally and Son.”

“Sounds like you got it made,” he said.

I thought that was an extraordinary thing to say, expressing contempt and envy simultaneously.

“Well, I don’t have a law degree,” I informed him. “I just do odd jobs. Investigations and such.”

Perhaps I had said more than I should have, because up to then he had been placidly pleasant, not displaying any great interest in our chatter. But suddenly his expression and manner became more animated.

“Investigations?” he said. “Like what?”

I was saved from answering by the reappearance of Sylvia, leading a saddled white mare, undeniably plump.

“We’ve only had her a few weeks,” Cussack explained to me. “She does need thinning down. Right now I doubt if she could step up a curb, let alone take a low hurdle.”

I must admit I admired the man, admired the way he talked and the way he carried himself. He leaked self-assurance, but nothing pushy, you understand; just cool confidence and an amused way of looking at things. I thought it possible he was totally amoral.

Sylvia brought Lady Macbeth alongside us. I took a small step backward. That horse looked enormous.

“Timmy,” she said, “give me a leg up.”

He linked his fingers, she stepped in the cup his hands formed, and he tossed her onto the English saddle. The whole movement was so smooth it was almost balletic. Sylvia waited, erect, while he adjusted the stirrups. Then she walked the horse away.

“No more than a canter,” Cussack called after her, then turned back to me. “Want to try a ride?” he asked. It wasn’t quite a jeer but it came close.

“I think not,” I said. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Listen,” he said, serious now, “you mentioned you do investigations. Free-lance?”

“Nope,” I said promptly. “Only for clients of McNally and Son. You’re in need of a shamus?”

He looked at me a long moment and I saw wariness in those fallow eyes. Then he turned to watch Sylvia Forsythe, who was now trotting Lady Macbeth along one of the bridle paths.

“Maybe,” Cussack said. “It depends.”

I was dying to ask, “On what?” but decided not to pin him. “Happy to have met you, Tim,” I said, departing.

“Likewise,” he said absently.

I decided to stop at the Pelican Club on my journey back to the beach and accumulate some nourishment. All that time spent in the bracing air of the Great Outdoors had given me an appetite—and a thirst.

The bar was crowded with the lunchtime mob and I glanced into the dining room. There, seated at our favorite table, was my light-o’-love, Connie Garcia. I scuttled to her side and she looked up.

“May I join you?” I asked.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m waiting for Humphrey Bogart.”

“He’s been dead for some time,” I pointed out.

“So have you,” she said. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t fax. What’s
with
you?”

“My dear child,” I said loftily, sliding onto the chair opposite her, “you must realize that I toil for a living, and frequently at jobs that require long hours and the utmost concentration on the business at hand.”

“Which is usually monkey business,” she added. “Are you going to feed me or not?”

“You haven’t ordered yet?”

“Just got here before you arrived.”

I waved at Priscilla Pettibone and she came sashaying to our table.

“Oh my,” she said, “how nice it is to see Romeo and Juliet back together again. Or is it Julio and Romiet?”

“We didn’t come here for a side order of sass,” I told her. “We want food and drink, in reverse order. What’s the special today?”

“Me,” she said. “But if that doesn’t suit you, Leroy is pushing crabmeat salad. Real crab, not that rubbery stuff you get in plastic packages.”

“Sounds great,” Connie said. “I’ll have the crab-meat salad and a glass of chardonnay.”

“Double it,” I said. “And the sooner the better.”

She winked at us and went into the bar area. Connie and I helped ourselves to kosher dill spears placed in Mason jars on each table along with a basket of peppered focaccia wedges.

“All kidding aside,” Connie said, “what
have
you been doing?”

“All kidding aside,” I answered, “I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that rot.”

“But it has to do with the Forsythes, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you asked me about them and then there was that item in Lolly Spindrift’s column.”

“Clever lady,” I said.

“So your job
does
involve the Forsythes?”

“Wild horses—and I met a few this morning—couldn’t drag that information from me.”

“Too bad,” Connie said, “because just yesterday I heard some hot gossip about the Forsythes.”

I’m not sure how one’s ears perk up but I think mine did. “That’s interesting,” I said. “What did you hear?”

But then Priscilla served our wine and salads, and there was a cessation of talk as we began stuffing. An observer might think we had both been on oat bran diets for several weeks.

“So,” I said after my hunger pangs had diminished slightly, “what gossip did you hear yesterday?”

She stopped excavating her salad bowl and looked up. “What will you give me?” she demanded.

“Connie,” I said, “what you have just asked leaves me totally aghast. I mean I am saddened that after our many years together—intimate years I might add—you should require payment before divulging rumors that might possibly be of assistance and further my career. This is extortion, nothing less than rank extortion, and I refuse to be a party to it.”

“How about a dinner at Cafe L’Europe?”

“You’ve got it,” I said eagerly. “What did you hear?”

“Well, I heard it through a friend of a friend of a friend. The original friend was having lunch in the back room of Ta-boo and at a nearby table were the Forsythes, father and son. They weren’t exactly shouting at each other, you understand, but there was a king-sized argument going on: red faces, raised voices, some pounding on the table. Very nasty it was, the informant reports.”

“And did the informant overhear the subject of the fracas?”

“Afraid not. But apparently it was a first-class squabble. Archy, is that a clue?”

I almost choked on a chunk of crabmeat. “A clue to
what
?”

Connie shrugged. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Darling, I appreciate your help. Really I do. But I’m not certain of the importance of the Forsythes’ brannigan. Perhaps they were arguing about the best way to iron one’s shoelaces. They’re quite capable of that. But thank you for the report.”

“And our dinner is still on?”

“Of course. Give you a call tomorrow.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ll call you tonight.”

We had lemon sorbet and cappuccino for dessert. Then I signed the tab and we went out to our cars.

“Thanks for the grub, luv,” Connie said. “Do I get a goodbye kiss?”

“With mucho pleasure,” I said, and so we kissed in the sunbaked parking lot: a delightful kiss tasting faintly of garlic. Connie looked smashing that day—but then she always looks first-class. She is shortish and plumpish but has a glowing suntan that doesn’t end, a mane of long, glossy black hair, and burning eyes. All admirable physical attributes, to be sure, but her greatest attractions are her wit and supercharged esprit. What bounce she has! Kissing her is akin to sticking your tongue in a light bulb socket. Then she turns on the switch.

After that fervent parting I drove to the Forsythe estate wondering what might have been the cause of the altercation that made both men,
père et fils
, become red-faced and pound the table. I could not believe it was anything serious simply because I did not take either of them seriously. I thought they were both bloodless prigs. What a mistake that turned out to be!

Anthony Bledsoe opened the front door for me. I had the weirdest feeling that he had been awaiting my return.

“Have a good time?” he asked.

“Very enjoyable,” I replied. “Although I’m not all that keen about horses. Do you ride?”

“Occasionally,” he said. “I like it. Sometimes, on my day off, I go out to Mrs. Forsythe’s farm and she lets me exercise one of the nags.”

“Oh?” I said. “Do you know Timothy Cussack?”

“Tim? Sure, I know him. Nice guy.”

“Seems to be,” I said. “I met him for the first time today. Was he a good polo player?”

Bledsoe laughed. “When he wasn’t hung over. Our Timmy likes the sauce.”

“Don’t we all,” I said, tempted to add that bordelaise was my favorite. “Is Lucy home?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “The school van dropped her off about fifteen minutes ago. She’s out back somewhere.”

I nodded and went into the library, thinking I really should do a spot of cataloging. But the dreary chamber depressed me and I fled. I went hunting for Lucy, that lorn child who seemed like an outsider in the disordered Forsythe household.

I
FINALLY FOUND HER
in the secret place. She was sitting on the ground, a small pad on her lap. She was chewing the stub of a pencil and her face was twisted with concentration.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said.

She started, then looked up and smiled. Sunlight glinted off the bands on her teeth.

“Am I really your sweetheart?” she asked.

“Of course you are,” I told her. “I have several but you are definitely Numero Uno. What are you doing?”

“I’m writing a poem,” she said timidly.

“Good for you,” I said. “Will you read it to me?”

“It’s not finished yet.”

“Well, when it’s finished may I read it?”

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “It’s very private.”

“I thought we were friends, Lucy. Friends can show each other their private poems.”

“They can? Do you have any private poems?”

“Many,” I assured her.

“Tell me one.”

I thought she was a bit immature for “There was a young man from Nantucket,” so I recited “I never saw a purple cow.” It was an immediate success; she laughed and clapped her hands.

“That’s a nice poem,” she said. “I like it when they rhyme. My poem rhymes.”

“Grand,” I said. “Did you go to school today?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what did you teach the teacher?”

She laughed again. “You’re silly,” she said. “The teacher teaches us. Everyone knows that. Today we learned about George Washington.”

“Splendid chap. Never lied.”

“Yes, he did,” she corrected me. “But only when he had to. He didn’t like to lie. Some people do, you know.”

Her wisdom was breathtaking.

“I can’t believe anyone lies to you, Lucy.”

“Oh, yes they do,” she said sadly. “My mother, my father—lots of people. They’re supposed to love me but they really don’t. Leastwise they never say they do and so they’re lying, aren’t they?”

This was becoming murky and I didn’t quite know how to handle it. “I’m sure your parents love you, Lucy,” I said, “but sometimes people find it hard to express their love. They just assume you know it.”

“Well, if they both love me,” she said with the illogic of the very young, “then why are they always fighting?”

“Darling,” I said, “perhaps it has nothing to do with you. They may disagree about other things but I’m certain they agree about their love for you.”

“I don’t know,” she said gloomily. “I heard mom say to dad, ‘If it wasn’t for Lucy I’d be out of here tomorrow.’ And he said, ‘Don’t let the kid stop you.’ That doesn’t sound like they love me, does it?”

I felt like weeping. She was disclosing things I really didn’t want to know. I was acutely uncomfortable listening to these distressing revelations. Most of all I was anguished by the intensity of her unhappiness. No child should be a shuttlecock between gaming parents and, even worse, be aware of it.