McNally's Caper (7 page)

“Oh
that
,” I said breezily. “I’m cataloging Mr. Forsythe’s books.”

“You’re doing
what
?”

“Cataloging the Forsythe library. I don’t spend all my time nabbing villains, you know.”

“Son,” the sergeant said heavily, “you’ve got more crap than a Christmas goose. But I’ll let it go—for now. You know all the people in that nuthouse?”

“I’ve met them all, yes.”

“Excluding the injured woman and Lucy, the kid, that leaves Constance Forsythe, the daughter Geraldine, the housekeeper Mrs. Bledsoe, and the two maids, Fern and Sheila. Five females, all with fingernails long enough to make those wounds on the victim’s neck. Assuming no outsider was allowed in, who’s your pick?”

“Al,” I said, “I just don’t know and that’s the truth. I can’t even guess. Too many imponderables.”

“I love the way you talk,” he said. “You mean it’s all shit—right?”

“Something like that.”

He sighed. “I hate these domestic violence cases. You can dig for weeks, months, years and never get to the bottom. You know that Fern, one of the maids?”

“Sure. The one who giggles.”

“Well, she wasn’t giggling this morning. Boo-hooing as a matter of fact. But I guess that’s understandable; she found the victim. Anyway, we were making a half-assed search of that loony bin and came across some bloodstained tissues in a wastebasket in Fern’s bedroom. She claims she got blood on her hands when she tried to revive Mrs. Sylvia. Could be.”

“Of course it could,” I agreed. “And that’s all you discovered?”

He laughed. “Not quite. Griswold Forsythe the Third, the uptight, upright heir to the throne, has a small but choice collection of nude photos.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m not. They aren’t professional. I think he took them himself. Polaroids. Same background, same lighting. We left everything where we found it. Now is that discretion or isn’t it?”

I didn’t want to ask my next question but I had to. “Did you recognize any of the models?”

“Sure,” Rogoff said cheerfully. “The two maids.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And Griswold’s sister Geraldine. Now do you know why I hate these family messes?”

“Yes,” I said dully, “now I know.”

We hung up after warm expressions of fealty, some of which were heartfelt. I like Al and I think—I hope—he likes me. But although we may be friends we are also, during the cases we work together, avid competitors. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

I admit I was shaken by his final revelation. Griswold Forsythe III an eager snapper of nude photos? Including his maidservants and sister? It was mind-boggling. I imagined for one brief moment that it might be just an innocent hobby, somewhat akin to collecting Indian head pennies.

Then I realized how insane that was. My fault was that I had assumed a man who wore mud-colored, three-piece cheviot suits and to whom verbosity was a way of life was incapable of passion, legitimate or illicit. It was obvious that I had underestimated Griswold Three—and probably all the other denizens of the Chez Forsythe as well.

I went to bed that night resolved to practice and exhibit more humility in my relations with others. But I knew in my heart of hearts that this noble resolution, like so many I had made in the past, was doomed to ignominious failure.

T
HE RAIN HAD STOPPED
by Sunday morning but the sky still had the color and texture of a Pittsburgh sidewalk. I confess I am somewhat phobic about the weather; when the sun doesn’t shine I don’t either. But my spirits were boosted when I breakfasted with my parents in the dining room. Ursi Olson served us small smoked ham steaks with little yam cubes in a dark molasses sauce. I could almost feel the McNally corpuscles perk up and move onto the dance floor for a merry gavotte.

Mother and father departed for church, and I phoned Connie Garcia. She was in a laid-back Sunday morning mood and didn’t seem inclined to make a definite date for lunch or dinner.

“Did you see the paper, Archy?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Lolly Spindrift says something is going on at the Forsythe home. He says the police were called.”

“Good heavens,” I said. “I wonder what it could be.”

“I thought you might know,” she said. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions about that family lately.”

“Well, they are our clients, you know. Perhaps I’ll take a run up there and see if they require assistance. I’ll call you this afternoon, Connie, and maybe we can meet later.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll try to get my act together by then. Archy, if you learn anything spicy at the Forsythes’, will you tell me?”

“Don’t I always?”

“No,” she said.

We hung up and I meditated, not for the first time, on my romance with that dishy young woman. I had a great affection for her, no doubt about it, but my tender attachment did not prevent my being unfaithful when an opportunity occurred. I could only conclude that infidelity was part of my genetic code, like snoring, and I must learn to live with it. I could only hope that Connie would as well.

I donned a blue nylon jacket, clapped on a white leather cap, and ventured out into a muggy world. I spun the Miata northward along Ocean Boulevard and en route I spotted, coming in the opposite direction, the big, boxy Rolls-Royce belonging to Griswold Forsythe II. I don’t know what model it was, but it was aged and seemed high enough to allow a formally attired gentleman to enter without removing his topper.

It was proceeding at a sedate pace and I was able to note that Griswold III, the famous nude photo fiend, was driving while his mother, father, and sister occupied the rear. The family was on its way to church, I reckoned, which gave me the chance of chatting up the stay-at-homes without interference.

I encountered, on the front lawn of the Forsythe estate, a blocky servitor clad in faded overalls and sporting a magnificent walrus mustache. He was raking the grounds of palm fronds and other arboreal debris blown down by the previous day’s gusty winds. Assisting him in his labors was my new friend, Lucy, who was striving mightily but futilely to stuff a very large pine branch into a very small plastic garbage bag.

“Hi, Lucy,” I called.

“Hi, Archy,” she sang out. “Look what the storm did.”

“I know,” I said. “But everything will dry out eventually.”

The gardener glanced at me and tipped his feed-lot cap.

“Good morning,” I said to him. “My name is Archibald McNally, a friend of the Forsythes. You’re Rufino Diaz?”

“Thass right,” he said, surprised I knew his name. “I take care of the outside.”

“Much damage?”

“Not too bad,” he said. “We lost some ficus, and two new orchid trees I had just planted got blown over. But I stuck them back in, tied them up, and I think they’ll take. The ground got a good soaking and thass important.”

I nodded and turned back to the little girl. “How is your mother, Lucy?”

“She got hurt.”

“I know. Is she feeling better now?”

“I guess. She’s got a bandage around her neck.”

“Perhaps I’ll see if she’s able to receive visitors.”

I started away but Lucy came running after me. She clutched my arm and pulled me down to her level.

“You remember?” she whispered.

“About what?”

“My secret place. You promised you’d come to a picnic there.”

“Of course I will—after it dries out.”

“And we’re still friends?”

“Absolutely,” I told her. “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be wearing diamonds.”

She sniggered and scampered back to her work. I went to the half-open front door and found Mrs. Bledsoe peering out.

“Good morning, Mr. McNally,” she said. “I’m keeping an eye on Lucy. I don’t want her to get too wet.”

“She’s doing fine. How are you, Mrs. Bledsoe, after yesterday’s unpleasantness?”

“Bearing up,” she said. “This too shall pass.”

“I’m sure it shall,” I said, not at all certain. “And how is Mrs. Sylvia?”

“Much better, thank you. She is wide-awake and alert and had two poached eggs and a cup of tea for breakfast. No toast because her throat is still sore, you know.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Do you think she’s in any mood for company?”

“I can ask.”

I followed her down the hallway and up the staircase, seeing again what a robust woman she was. Curious, but she and Constance Forsythe were the same physical type: square and resolute. I thought of them both as no-nonsense women who managed that rather giddy household with an iron hand in an iron glove. But I may have been moonbeaming.

I waited outside Mrs. Sylvia’s door while Nora Bledsoe went in to confer with the patient. She came out a moment later.

“Yes,” she said, “she’ll be happy to have company. The doctor has ordered her to stay in bed and rest for another day, and she’s bored. Wants to get back to her harpsichord, I expect.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “Mrs. Bledsoe, do you have any idea who might have done this awful thing?”

“None whatsoever,” she said grimly and marched away.

I entered the bedroom and found Sylvia Forsythe lying under a canopy as fanciful as a Persian tent. She was wearing a white gown, her head on two lace-trimmed pillows. A silk sheet was pulled up and tucked beneath her arms. There was a gauze wrapping about her throat, and atop the flowered counterpane was an opened musical score. She smiled brightly as I approached.

“Mr. McNally,” she said, “how very nice of you to visit.”

Her voice was husky and unexpectedly come-hitherish.

“My pleasure,” I said. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”

“Much,” she said. “I want to be up and about but I promised Dr. Pursglove to stay in bed another day. Pull up a chair.”

I moved a chintzy number to her bedside and sat down. She reached a hand to me, I clasped it and she did not release my paw.

“I’m delighted to see you looking so well,” I told her. “And Mrs. Bledsoe says you had not one but two eggs for breakfast.”

She laughed. “And I’m famished. I’ve been promised pasta alfredo for lunch and I can’t wait.”

I nodded toward the score. “And meanwhile you’re studying Vivaldi.”

“Scarlatti,” she said, and we smiled at each other.

She was an enormously attractive invalid. Her wheaten hair was splayed out on the pillows in a filmy cloud and her paleness gave her features a translucency revealing an inner glow. And she held my hand in a warm grip. This woman is married, I sternly reminded myself. And she is recovering from a grievous injury. But the McNally id could not be restrained.

She noted me staring and turned her head away. “I feel so helpless,” she said in her husky, stirring voice.

How was I to interpret that comment? I didn’t even try.

“Mrs. Forsythe,” I started, but she looked at me again and shook her head.

“Sylvia will do,” she said. “And may I call you Archy?”

“Honored,” I said, and gently disengaged my hand from hers. It was a noble act but a moment later I wanted to grab it up again and nibble her knuckles.

“Sylvia,” I said, “do you have any idea who attacked you?”

She sighed. “So many people have asked me that: the doctor, that police sergeant, my husband, father-in-law—just everyone. I’ve told them all the same thing but I’m not sure they believe me. The last thing I remember is being awakened from a sound sleep and becoming aware that someone was choking me. After that I have no memory at all. It’s just a total blank. Dr. Pursglove says that sometimes happens: the mind wipes out a painful, traumatic experience to aid healing. Self-protective, you know. But he expects the recollection will slowly return.”

She looked at me wide-eyed and I did not believe a word she had said. But “You’re lying!” is not something one shouts at a convalescent young female—or at a healthy young male either. I was convinced Sylvia Forsythe knew the identity of her assailant. Why she chose not to reveal it was another unnumbered dot in that picture puzzle I was trying to draw.

It seemed useless to pursue the matter and so I continued my detecting by switching to another subject. “Your mother-in-law tells me you’re an expert rider,” I remarked.

“Not expert,” she said, “but I do enjoy it. I’m proud to say I’ve been thrown only once.”

“I understand Mrs. Forsythe operates a horse farm and trains jumpers,” I went on. “Do you ever compete?”

“Oh no,” she said, “I’m not that good. I just like to ride around and gallop occasionally. That’s exciting.”

“What is the farm called?” I asked casually. “It sounds like an interesting place.”

“Oh, it is. You really should see it, Archy. It’s called the Trojan Stables. Isn’t that a wonderful name?”

“It surely is.”

“It costs a fortune to run. Do you know the price of hay?”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t been eating much lately.”

She grinned at me. “Well, I suspect the function of Trojan Stables is to train jumpers and serve as a tax loss. I hope this conversation is confidential, Archy.”

“Of course it is,” I assured her. “I’m a loyal employee, and even if the IRS uses thumbscrews I won’t talk. I may blubber but I won’t talk.”

She laughed and took up my hand again. “I like you, Archy,” she said. “You’re fun and there’s not much of that around here. Perhaps we might go out to Wellington together and I’ll show you around the Trojan.”

“I’d enjoy that,” I said, and wondered what Griswold Forsythe III might think of my squiring Sylvia. But then, I recalled, when Sgt. Rogoff had listed the models in Griswold’s nude photos he hadn’t mentioned the man’s wife.

Then we were silent, but it was a reflective quiet. I imagine most of you ladies and gents have known such a moment—a briefness of balance, a shall-I or shall-I-not choice when you question not if you have the desire (that’s a given) but if you have the energy, psychic or physical or both.

And always, of course, there is the problem of logistics. If the union contemplated is to be consummated, then where, when, and how? Sometimes craving remains just that only because to scratch the itch would require planning as complex as that for D-Day.

And so Sylvia Forsythe and I gazed at each other tenderly while all we were thinking remained unspoken. Finally she released my hand and I assumed that was a signal of dismissal. I rose and expressed hope for her quick recovery.