McNally's Caper (31 page)

I tried to be crafty. “Surely divorce would have been preferable to murder.”

She laughed. “You
are
devious, aren’t you? Archy, I’m not admitting a thing, to you or anyone else. Don’t take it so hard. With Cussack’s death, the cops can close out the case. Now my kids can live the way they want to, the Trojan Stables belongs to me, and everyone will live happily ever after.”

“Not everyone,” I said in a low voice. I don’t believe she heard me.

We walked outside together. Al Rogoff was waiting. But before we joined him, she paused a moment to survey her domain: acres of greenery, jumping horses, the excited cries of young riders—all sun-spangled and glowing.

“Not bad, is it?” she said.

“No,” I had to agree, “not bad at all.”

“Paradise,” she breathed.

She and Rogoff moved toward his car. I waited because Sylvia Forsythe was heading for the barn, on foot and leading her huge gray horse.

“Hiya, Archy,” she said brightly. “Did you see me trying to make this monster behave?”

“I saw,” I told her. “Have fun?”

“Loads,” she said. “Busy this afternoon?”

“Afraid so,” I said. “Besides, I suspect Suite 309 is closed down for the nonce. The police will want to conduct a more thorough search.”

I told her what had happened to Timothy Cussack. She didn’t seem shocked—or even interested. She shrugged.

“I knew he was a negative from the start,” she said. “But you and I—we’re positives, aren’t we?”

“I’d like to think so,” I said.

She gave me a flip of her hand. “We’ll make it another time,” she said lightly and continued leading her mount to the barn.

Not bloody likely, I thought. To be excruciatingly honest, she was just too frothy for me. I vaulted into the saddle of my mount and pointed the Miata eastward.

You know what I was wondering as I drove, don’t you? Of course you do. You are questioning, as I was, whether or not Mrs. Constance Forsythe had an affair with Timothy Cussack, in addition to their conspiracy to murder her husband. Well, you know as much about their characters and motives as I do, and the choice is yours.

As for my opinion, berserk horses couldn’t drag that from me—although an irascible Chihuahua might.

I arrived at the Forsythe aviary in a tempestuous mood, hoping both vultures would be present and strutting. There was really no rational reason for seeking this showdown; it would accomplish nothing. But I was stormy with resentment, determined to ruffle the feathers of those rapacious birds.

Anthony Bledsoe opened the door, and I could see he was stricken.

“Tim Cussack,” he blurted. “Did you hear what happened? It was on TV.”

“Yes,” I said, “I heard.”

“My God,” he said, looking as if he might weep, “that’s awful.”

“Awful,” I agreed. “Are Griswold and Geraldine Forsythe at home?”

“They’re having lunch. Should I tell them you’re here?”

“No,” I said sternly. “Just direct me to where they’re lunching.”

I had never before entered the formal dining room. The phrase “baronial hall” immediately sprang to mind. The enormous arched chamber was complete with tasseled velvet drapes at the windows and ghastly oil portraits of forebears hanging on oak-paneled walls. The long table could easily have accommodated a platoon of guests, and there was a carved walnut sideboard with a marble top that would have caused instant hernia if anyone ever tried to lift it.

Griswold Forsythe III was seated at the head of the plank, sister Geraldine on his right. They were both wearing crisp white linen and appeared to be sharing a gigantic wooden bowl of Caesar salad. Their glasses were filled with white wine, and the bottle was placed on a coaster between them. I caught a look at the label. Dreadful plonk.

They both looked up, startled, when I came barging in.

“Archy!” Griswold said without rising. “How nice to see you again.”

I doubted that.

But I had no desire to exchange pleasantries. “You’ve probably heard,” I said in the coldest voice I could muster, “Timothy Cussack was shot dead by the police while attempting to escape arrest for the murder of your father.”

“We heard,” Geraldine said. “A shock!”

“The man must have been demented,” the Forsythe scion said, shaking his thick head. “What could he possibly have gained? It’s just terrible.”

“Oh, come off it,” I said angrily. “I think both of you are secretly relieved.”

They stared at me. “What a rotten thing to say!” he shouted, and then he rose to his feet.

“Is it?” I said. “How is this for a scenario: on the evening before the day he was killed, your father determined to his satisfaction that it was your mother who had been removing valuable items from your home and either selling or pawning them.”

“I must ask you to leave at once,” Griswold said. “You are no longer welcome in this house.”

“Oh, stuff it,” I said. “Your father reported what he had discovered, told you about the threatening note he had received and, I suspect, said he was convinced his wife had written it. He also announced his intention of taking the whole matter to the police the following day.”

“You’re hallucinating,” he said. “Nothing of the sort ever occurred.”

“No?” I said. “And neither did the Battle of Waterloo. The first thing you did, reckoning how you might profit from this state of affairs, was to run to mommy dearest and tell her what your father planned. That triggered his murder the following day before he could report his suspicions to the police.”

“You’re insane!” Geraldine cried. “Totally mad!”

I turned to her. “And you,” I said, “what a dandy you turned out to be. I guessed almost from the start that the jewelry you claimed had disappeared had never been stolen; those were baubles you had
given
to Timothy Cussack to win his fidelity when you were having a thing with him. But he dumped you, and you suspected unjustly that he had taken up with your sister-in-law. And so you resolved to prove them thieves and asked me to provide proof. Then, when your brother eventually told you of your mother’s involvement, you instructed me to end my investigation.”

She gave me a scathing glare. “Louse!” she said.

I felt no contrition at all. “Congreve was right,” I said. “ ‘Hell hath no fury...’ And after you discovered it was your mother rather than Sylvia who supplanted you, you saw, like your brother, the profit that might result from that.”

“Griswold!” she screamed. “Get this maniac out of here!”

I turned back to him. “Just as you called off my search for the stolen family property when you learned Constance was probably guilty. Neither of you acted from any filial loyalty. The two of you were not part of the murder conspiracy, I admit, but yours were sins of omission. You were hoping for your father’s demise—visions of sugarplums were dancing in the shape of those grand bequests you’d receive—and so you did nothing to prevent your father’s murder.”

“Tony!” Griswold shouted at the top of his lungs. “Tony! Come here at once!”

“No need to have me forcibly ejected from the premises,” I told him. “I’m leaving, happy to have had the opportunity to inform you that I and others are fully aware of your treachery.”

I stalked to the door, then turned back to face them. “By the way,” I said casually, “I forgot to mention that your mother is presently in police custody and is being questioned. Ta-ta.”

I didn’t tell them she had denied everything and was probably going to walk away scot-free.

Let them sweat.

M
Y FURIES SOMEWHAT AMELIORATED
, I drove back to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. I was eager for hours of dreamless slumber, but there was one more chore I had to perform: my father needed to be informed of what had transpired since I last reported.

I didn’t have to phone for an appointment for as I pulled into our underground garage I saw him alight from his black Lexus and walk toward the elevator. I parked hurriedly, hopped out, and scurried to his side.

“Do you have a few minutes, sir?” I asked.

He frowned. “Very few. A client is arriving shortly. What is it, Archy?”

I told him what had happened to Timothy Cussack, omitting any mention of the part I had played in that sanguinary climax. Then I related a detailed account of Sgt. Rogoff’s and my confrontation with Mrs. Constance Forsythe at the Trojan Stables. I concluded with a description of my most recent encounter with Griswold the Three and Geraldine.

The squire began to pace rapidly up and down the concrete floor of the garage. I had to hustle to keep at his side.

“Mrs. Forsythe admitted nothing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. “She stonewalled. Seemed very sure of herself although she did ask that you recommend an attorney she might retain.”

“Do the police have any evidence other than what you’ve told me regarding her role in this affair? To wit, the pawning of property taken from her home, purchase of a car for Cussack, possible withdrawals from her bank account.”

“No, sir. As far as I know that’s all Rogoff has.”

“Do you think it possible you or he may uncover additional evidence of her involvement?”

“Doubtful,” I said. “Father, this woman may be perfidious but she is no dummy. I’m sure there were no witnesses to her plotting with Cussack, no letters written, nothing that might inculpate her.”

I had never seen him so shaken. Because, I supposed, he admired Mrs. Constance as much as I did. Not, of course, for what she had done but for the woman she was, her awesome strength and resolve.

He wagged his head. “Not enough, Archy,” he said. “Not nearly enough to charge her, let alone convict. The state attorney won’t touch it. Prosecutors have no great love for lost causes. If she sticks to her denials she’ll walk free.”

I was indignant. “That’s not right!” I cried. “I
know
the woman is guilty. I know it, Rogoff knows it, and
she
knows it. Whatever happened to justice?”

He gave me a tight smile. “Don’t despair, Archy. Justice is a hope, not a certainty.”

“Yes, sir,” I said mournfully.

He stopped pacing to face me. “However,” he added grimly, “I am the executor of the deceased Mr. Forsythe’s estate. I don’t believe you, or they, fully realize the powers of an executor. Almost unlimited. Obviously I cannot legally deny the widow and surviving children their inheritances. But there are two kinds of time, Archy: the ordinary of hours and days. And then there is legal time, measured in years and decades. There are many things I can lawfully do as an executor to delay the rewards Mrs. Constance Forsythe and her offspring so avidly anticipate.”

My father is not a vindictive man, you understand, but on occasion he fancies himself God’s surrogate on earth. I was confident he had the power and resolution to do what he had stated. It would not be as satisfactory as seeing Mrs. Constance tried and convicted for conspiracy in the murder of her husband, but it provided a small soother to my outrage.

Father continued on to the elevator, and I returned to my velocipede. I drove directly home and asked Mrs. Olson to wake me in time for the cocktail hour. Then I went upstairs, disrobed, and flopped into bed. Fatigued? I felt as if I had just completed a triathlon while lugging a 150-lb. anvil.

I was awakened in time to shower, dress, and present a respectable appearance at family gatherings that evening. The preprandial martinis were especially welcome. The dinner of broiled butcher’s steak completed my rejuvenation. Who was it who said, “I love to eat red meat but it must come from a cow that smoked”?

I went up to my digs afterward, beginning to feel I might live to play the kazoo again. I intended to complete the Forsythe saga in my journal, but Al Rogoff phoned before I could even start scribbling.

“Did Constance say anything while the two of you were alone?” he demanded.

“Nothing, Al,” I told him. “Didn’t admit a thing.”

“She’s one tough lady,” he said. “We couldn’t budge her. Did you tell your father about her?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He said she’ll walk.”

“He’s so right,” Rogoff said, sighing. “The state attorney’s office laughed at us. It’s a no-win. Well, what the hell, we got one of them, didn’t we? Fifty percent. I’ll settle for that.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Come on, Archy. You want everything nice and neat. You want the good rewarded and the evil punished. You know life’s not like that.”

“I guess,” I said dolefully.

“Besides,” he went on, “I’m not totally without clout, you know. There are a lot of inspectors in this town and county. Electrical, sewers and sanitation, environmental, labor, building codes, fire safety—all kinds of inspectors. I figure to drop a hint here and there. Mrs. Constance Forsythe is going to have more inspectors than customers. Not as satisfying as seeing her in the clink, I admit, but I can make her life miserable if I choose—and I do choose. It’s not the solution I wanted but it’ll give me a charge. How about you?”

“Better than nothing,” I admitted, thinking that with the vengeful plans of my father and Rogoff, the Widow Forsythe might find her dream of paradise slightly tarnished.

“I’m off on a forty-eight,” Al reported. “Nothing but sleep. So long, old buddy. Stay in touch.”

He hung up and I was left staring at my open journal. It was dispiriting to consider completing the history of the Forsythe case. As Rogoff had said, it was a half-victory. But the half-defeat rankled. I craved solace and so I phoned Connie Garcia.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“Painting my toenails and watching TV.”

“I yearn for you.”

“You
yearn
for me?” she repeated incredulously. “Since when?”

“Since this minute,” I told her. “If I rush over with a cold bottle of bubbles will you allow me entrance to your abode?”

“I might,” she said.

That was good enough for me; I rushed. I think it must have been around midnight when, emboldened by champagne, I stood naked on her little balcony overlooking Lake Worth. I stretched my arms to the heavens and did an awful imitation of James Cagney in
White Heat.

“Top of the world, ma!” I shouted joyously.