McNally's Caper (26 page)

Finally, dizzy with rapture and exhaustion, we lay panting as if we had just set a record in the high hurdles, which I believe we had. I staggered from the track and stumbled to the kitchen where, with trembling hands, I prepared transfusions of applejack on ice. Lots and lots of ice.

“Bless you, my child,” Sylvia murmured when I delivered her glass. “That was quite a go, was it not?”

“The only trouble,” I said, “was that it went.”

“Tomorrow’s another day,” she said blithely and sat up, pressing the icy glass to her swollen bosom.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, lacking the strength to straighten my spine. “Sylvia,” I said, trying very hard to keep my voice from becoming a weak croak, “what’s happening between you and Griswold? The last time we spoke you implied you were thinking of leaving him.”

“Not now,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve come to an understanding. Soon after we married I realized my husband was a victim of the seven-week itch. That’s how long it took him to stray. And guess who he picked.”

“I have no idea,” I said, one of my easier falsehoods since she could have had no idea of how much prying I had done.

“Sheila Hayworth!” she cried. “Can you believe it? Our maid! I do believe El Jerko is hooked. But that’s okay; it’s his problem. Anyway we’ve come to an arrangement. We’re going to stay married. He’ll go his way and I’ll go mine. Naturally we’ll have a financial agreement.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“It’s best for everyone,” she said, and I thought she was trying to convince herself as much as me. “Lucy will still have a momma and a poppa, and Griswold and I will have complete freedom to live the way we want to live. Don’t you think that makes sense?”

“It does,” I said, trying not to reveal my doubts.

She began stroking my bare back with drink-chilled fingers.
Then
my spine straightened. The woman
dabbled
with me. I can think of no other word that better describes her actions. I had the insane notion that she saw me as a human harpsichord and was playing me. Vivaldi? It felt more like Scott Joplin.

“Sylvia,” I said hoarsely while this noodling was going on, “I’d like to ask you a personal question and if you wish to tell me to go to blazes you’ll be entirely within your right.”

“Okay,” she said. “What’s the question?”

“Did you ever make it with Tony Bledsoe?”

“Once,” she said ruefully. “It was a rainy afternoon and I was bored. But then he got serious and I can’t stand that. He had this crazy idea of our running away together. Rubbish! You probably think me a fluffhead but I do have a keen instinct for the bottom line. I mean what did he have to offer? Love? You can’t pay your Neiman-Marcus charge with that.”

“Indeed you can’t,” I agreed. “And is Tony still lovesick?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. He keeps giving me these moony looks. He’ll get over it.”

I wasn’t so sure. A lark on a rainy afternoon for her might well have been an epiphany for poor Tony. He had caught a glimpse of how glorious life could be. I suspected it had given focus to all his inchoate longings. Now, suddenly, he knew what he wanted: he wanted
her.

“It was Fern Bancroft, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“What?” she said sharply.

“It was Fern Bancroft, the other maid, who tried to throttle you.”

She looked at me, first puzzled then wry. “You’re a busy busybody, aren’t you? How did you guess that?”

“Elementary, as Mr. Holmes said to Mr. Watson. I put two and two together and came up with five. Fern is slightly off the wall and not a lady to be trifled with. She has hot eyes for Tony Bledsoe, he is enamored of you, and she attempted to remove the competition. Is that the way you see it?”

She nodded.

“Sylvia, why didn’t you report her to the police?”

“Give me a break, Archy! I didn’t want to put that silly girl behind bars. I had a long talk with her and convinced her that Tony is all hers; I have absolutely no interest in him.”

“You’re very forgiving,” I said admiringly. “She could have done you in.”

That earned a laugh. “But she didn’t, did she? It’s all water under the bridge or over the dam or whatever. Now come here.”

I rolled back onto the bed and we nuzzled a moment. Why do so many nice things begin with an “n”? Nuzzling, nestling, nibbling, necking. Even noshing.

“Now that you’re in a confessional mood,” I said, “tell me about Timothy Cussack.”

“You mean am I bedding him? No. Have I ever? No. You asked me that before, Archy.”

“So I did. But I’ve since learned what a lecher he is.”

“I suppose,” she acknowledged. “I admit I was willing but I’m just not Tim’s type. Too young.”

“And not enough money?”

“That too,” she agreed. “I don’t always make a grand slam, you know.”

“It didn’t bother you?”

“His turning me down? Of course not. Why should it? There’s no shortage of studs. You, for instance,” she added, giggling. “You know what I’d like to do now?”

“Yes,” I said.

I was right. We parted an hour later, having showered
(à deux)
, dressed, and pledged to each other mock declarations of undying love. We both snickered. She was not a serious woman but then I am not a serious man. I suppose that’s why we hit it off so splendidly.

“Sylvia,” I said before we went our separate ways, “I want you to know that everything we talked about today, everything you told me, is strictly confidential.” What a whopper! Connie Garcia is right: my nose gets longer by the minute.

“I don’t care,” she said carelessly. “You can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me.”

I thought that was a very brave and very foolish thing to say.

It was too late for an ocean swim even if I had the energy for it, which I didn’t. Instead, before sprucing up for the family cocktail hour, I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff and found him at his office. He was in a spleeny mood.

“Now what?” he demanded irritably.

“What did you have for lunch?” I asked him.

“Tortillas with onions and peppers. With black coffee.”

“Ah,” I said, “the surly-bird special. Listen, Al, I’d like to get together with you tomorrow.”

“You’ve found a new disco? I don’t enjoy dancing with you, Archy; you always want to lead.”

“Oh, shut up. There have been developments in the Forsythe case you should know about.”

He was silent for a tick or two. “Something good?” he said.

“I think so. I’ll spell it all out for you.”

“
All
?” he repeated. “Including the homicide?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “The whole shebang.”

“You wouldn’t be diddling me, would you, old buddy?”

“Not me. But it’s going to take some work on your part to prove it out.”

He sighed. “Hell, I’m still stuck in square one so I might as well listen to you. I really have no choice.”

“That’s right, Al. As the French say, when there’s no alternative a man must sleep with his wife.” He laughed and we agreed to meet at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. “Come over here,” I urged.

“We can talk in the kitchen while you have your fourth cup of black coffee.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised. “This better be good.”

“It is,” I said and rapped knuckles on my noodle for luck.

Ursi served saltimbocca that evening: a hearty dish of veal, ham, and cheese in a wine sauce. It was just what I needed after that exhausting day.

I had intended to spend several hours working on my journal but when I retired to my chambers and undressed I saw the bed inviting me with fresh linen and plumped pillows.

This will shock you, I know, but despite my sybaritic tendencies—a fondness for good food, good wine, good love—I truly believe one of life’s greatest pleasures is a good night’s sleep.

“Go for it, McNally,” I said aloud and slid gratefully between the sheets.

R
OGOFF WAS LATISH BUT
I had no objections; before he arrived my father had departed for his Saturday golf game, mother and the Olsons had taken the station wagon into town for a spot of weekend shopping, and I had the McNally wickiup to myself.

I also had time to phone Connie Garcia. She wasn’t at home so I took a chance and called her office.

“Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s residence,” she recited.

“Working on a Saturday?” I said. “You must really love your job.”

“Bite your tongue,” she said tartly. “I was planning to have a relaxed day, just futzing around my apartment, doing laundry, washing my hair. Then Lady C. decided she wanted to go over budgets and accounts today, so here I am. Hey, Archy, when are we going to the Bahamas?”

“Next weekend.”

“You promise?”

“Of course. I’ll provide an affidavit if you insist. Connie, how are you coming along on that matter I asked you to investigate?”

“I’ve got an answer for you. Actually, I’ve got half an answer.”

“Better than none at all. Can you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Can I ever!” she cried. “Listen, Archibald, I’m going to be stuck here till late and won’t have time to go home to change. I’m wearing scruffy jeans and a T, so I think we better meet at the Pelican Club. Okay?”

“Fine. Sevenish?”

“Around there. I warn you, after spending eight hours crunching numbers with the Lady, I’ll be in need of a powerful transfusion. One, at least.”

“Only one?”

“I’m driving and the roads are full of troopers. But we can always go back to my place and continue the festivities.”

“What a marvelous idea,” I said. “Shall I bring my tarot cards?”

“That’s not exactly what I have in mind,” quoth she, and disconnected.

Just in time, for through the kitchen window I saw Al Rogoff drive his pickup into our turnaround, and I went out to greet him. He was wearing khaki slacks and a Hawaiian shirt President Truman would have admired.

“Al,” I said, “you shouldn’t have dressed so formally.”

“Go to hell,” he said amiably. “It’s Saturday, I’m off duty, and my dinner jacket is at the cleaners. Sue me.”

Ursi had left a pot of coffee; all I had to do was heat it up and put out cups and saucers. I also piled a platter with her homemade chocolate chip cookies. They’re chewy and rich enough to tempt a chocoholic to overdose.

We sipped our steaming Java, wolfed down calories, and I began my recital. I started by advising Al to F & F (File and Forget) the attempted strangling of Sylvia Forsythe. I explained the circumstances: the assault was committed by Fern Bancroft, Ms. Non Compos Mentis herself, in an effort to kill the woman she feared had stolen the heart of the man Fern coveted. Namely, Anthony Bledsoe.

“Beautiful,” the sergeant said. “I love it. I also love ‘Tillie’s Punctured Romance.’ Do you think Sylvia wants to bring charges against the Bancroft dame?”

“Nope.”

“Will she sign a statement attesting to the identity of her assailant?”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Good,” Rogoff said happily. “I’ll deep-six the whole schmear. Now what about the homicide.”

“Here’s where the wicket gets sticky,” I said.

I explained what I thought had happened. I was careful to differentiate between hard evidence—of which there was precious little—and my own suppositions and blue-sky guesses. I told him of the thefts of property from Griswold Forsythe II, but I made no mention of the disappearance of Geraldine Forsythe’s jewelry.

I finished my discourse. Rogoff’s expression had not changed one bit during the telling. But in the brief silence that followed he rose to fetch the coffeepot and refill our cups.

“You know,” he said finally, “sometimes you act like a mental dumpling. And sometimes I think you’ve got more than matzo balls between your ears.”

“Thank you,” I said humbly.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the thefts before this?”

“Because our client would not allow it. That’s why I was assigned to make discreet inquiries. Forsythe wouldn’t even go to the police immediately after receiving that threatening note. Al, the rich are firmly convinced they’re more intelligent than poorer folks.”

“I know,” he said mournfully, “but you could have told me after the guy was chilled.”

“I didn’t realize how closely the thefts were connected to the homicide until last Thursday. Then little bits and pieces of evidence accumulated until I had enough to fill a sporran.”

He looked at me. “What in God’s name is a sporran?”

“A Scotch fanny pack but worn in front of the kilt.”

“You have more useless information than anyone I know.”

“True enough,” I agreed.

“Let’s get back to business. Where do we go from here on the Forsythe kill, assuming your theory is on target?”

“Here’s what I suggest,” I said and detailed the things I could do and the things he might do. “It may turn out to be a blind alley,” I admitted. “No guarantees.”

“I realize that, Archy, but I like it. You know why?”

“Sure. You’ve got nothing better.”

“I’ve got nothing, period. There’s not much I can do today or tomorrow but I’ll get cracking on Monday. With any luck we should have this thing wrapped up by midweek.”

“We better,” I said. “I’m planning a jaunt to Freeport next weekend.”

“Alone, of course.”

“Of course.”

He laughed. “When pigs whistle. Thanks for the coffee and cookies. Hit the spot. I’ll be in touch.”

He left and I cleaned up the kitchen. Then I debated what my next move should be. I decided it was time I made good on at least one of the promises I scattered about so freely. I phoned.

“The Forsythe residence.” A young woman’s voice.

“This is Archy McNally. May I speak to Miss Lucy Forsythe, please.”

She giggled and I knew it was Fern Bancroft. “Just a moment, sir,” she said.

I waited patiently and eventually I heard a piping voice: “This is Lucy Forsythe. To whom am I speaking?”

What a grammatical treasure the child was!

“Lucy, this is Archy.”

“Hi!”

“Hi! Listen, dear, it looks like a lovely day and I was hoping we could have that picnic we talked about.”

“Oh yes!” she said, suddenly excited. “I was afraid you’d forgotten all about it.”

“No chance. Now I’m going to bring our lunch; you don’t have to do a thing but be there. Suppose we meet at your Secret Place at noon.”