McNally's Risk (3 page)

"Yep," Jamie said.

"Blood will tell," I said, and poured myself another cup of coffee that had been laced with chicory. "One more: How about the painter, Silas Hawkin? Know him?"

He nodded.

"How many in his menage?"

"Menage?"

"Household."

"Him, wife, daughter. One live-in."

"Everything harmonious there? All peace and goodwill?"

"Nope," Jamie said.

I woke up. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"Him."

"I can understand that," I said. "The man's a dolt. Know any details?"

He shook his head.

"Ask around, will you, Jamie? About Theodosia and her father, and the reason for discord in Si Hawkin's not-so-happy home."

He nodded.

I slipped him a tenner before I left. The lord of the manor would be outraged to learn that I customarily gave Jamie a pourboire for information. The Olsons drew a handsome stipend to keep the McNally family comfortable and well-nourished, but I felt revealing inside skinny to yrs. truly was not included in domestic chores and deserved an extra quid now and then.

I went into my father's study and sat in the big armchair behind his desk, feeling like a fraudulent dauphin. I used his local telephone directory that had been bound in a leather slipcover. I swear, he would put a calfskin cozy on a teapot. I looked up the number and pecked it out.

"The Hawkins' residence," a chirpy female voice answered. I presumed this was the live-in.

"May I speak to Mr. Hawkin, please," I said. "Archy McNally calling."

"Just a moment, please, sir," she said.

It was more than a moment, more like three or four, before he came on the line.

"Yeah?" he said. It was practically a grunt.

"Good morning, Si," I said, giving him a heavy dose of the McNally cheer. "That was a wonderful show last night."

"It went okay," he said. "Ivan Duvalnik called earlier and claims we got two new clients out of it and four possibles."

"Congratulations!" I cried. "Due to that marvelous portrait of Theo Johnson, no doubt. Listen, may I pop over this morning and ask a few questions? That silly inquiry I mentioned to you last night. It won't take long."

"Well ... all right," he said, "if you keep it short. I've got a lot of work to do."

"Just take a few minutes," I promised. "I'm on my way."

They lived in an imitation Mizner on the Intracoastal down toward South Palm Beach, and when I saw the house, really a villa, I guessed a million five. Then I saw the guest house and changed my estimate to two million five. That detached, two-story edifice looked like an enormous Nebraska barn painted white, but the upper floor seemed entirely enclosed in glass, and I mean big, openable picture windows. It had to be the artist's studio—or a solarium devoted to sunbathing in the buff.

I was greeted at the front door of the main house by the chirpy-voiced domestic who had answered the phone. I had envisioned her as young, small, lissome. She was old, large, creaky.

"Archy McNally," I said. "To see Mr. Hawkin."

"Of course," she said, and her smile won me over. "Do come in."

I followed this pleasant woman into a home decorated in what is called the Mediterranean Style, but whether that means Marseille or Beirut I've never been able to figure out. Anyway, I thought it a strident interior with a lot of rattan, jangling patterns, acidic hues, and the skins of endangered species. On the walls, to my surprise, were seascapes and paintings of Lake Worth by Silas Hawkin. I had no idea he did that kind of thing, but there was no mistaking his style; the man
was
a superb colorist.

There were two women seated in the Florida room, leafing through slick magazines, and it was the older who rose to greet me.

"You must be Archy McNally," she said, holding out a hand. "I do believe I've met your parents. I am Louise Hawkin."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am," I said, pressing dry, bony fingers.

"And this is my daughter, Marcia," she added.

"Stepdaughter," the younger woman said in a Freon voice, not looking up from her copy of
Vogue.

Mrs. Hawkin made a small moue as if she had suffered that correction before.

"Glad to meet you, Miss Hawkin," I said, and was rewarded with a nod. One.

"Would you care for something to drink?" Mrs. Hawkin asked. "Coffee perhaps? Or anything else?"

"Thank you, no," I replied. "I promised your husband I'd only stay a few minutes. I know how busy he must be."

"Oh yes," she said airily, "he's always busy."

I heard a sound from the stepdaughter. It might have been a short, scornful laugh. Or maybe she was only clearing her throat.

"He's in the studio now," Louise Hawkin said. "Through that door and along the walkway. He's on the second floor."

"Thank you," I said. "I hope to meet you ladies again."

Neither replied and I left in silence. Happy to leave, as a matter of fact. Bad vibes in that room. Something bilious about the relationship between the two women. But perhaps they had merely had an early morning squabble ("Aren't you finished with the
Vogue
yet?" "No, I am
not
finished with it!"), and I thought no more about it.

The walkway to the guest house was roofed with slates. A nice touch, I acknowledged, but not very practical if you got a blowy squall coming in from the sea. The door to the Nebraska barn was oak and etched frosted glass. It was horribly scarred, and I judged it had been purchased from one of those antique shops that specialize in old saloon furnishings.

I pushed in and found myself in an enormous space that had indeed been designed for sleep-over guests: bedroom area, conversation pit, kitchenette. But it did have all the comforts of home: fridge, TV set, VCR, and what appeared to be a well-stocked bar. Everything was precisely arranged, new and unused, awaiting guests who never arrived.

I climbed a cast-iron staircase to the second story and entered the studio, as large and open as the floor below. But this area was cluttered with all the paraphernalia and detritus a working artist might accumulate: easels, taborets, palettes, tubes of oil, stretched blank canvases, stacks of finished paintings leaning against the outside walls, innumerable cans of turps and who knows what.

There was a dais decorated like a stage set, the floor carpeted, maroon drapes, an ornate armchair alongside a delicate tea table. I remembered seeing those drapes and that tea table in the painting of Theodosia Johnson, and had little doubt that the artist used the same props in all his portraits of Palm Beach matrons.

Oh yes, one more thing: In a far corner was a battered sleigh bed that might have been a charming antique at one time but was now in such a dreadful state of disrepair that it had all the compelling grace of an army cot. It was covered with rumpled sheets, and the wadded pillow looked as if it had been used to smother palmetto bugs.

The artist himself was seated at a shockingly dilapidated desk, smoking a morning cigar and apparently making entries in a ledger. He slapped it shut when I entered. He rose and came forward to meet me, viewing with some distaste the madras blazer and electric blue slacks I was wearing. He made no offer to shake hands.

"Found me, did you?" he said. "Pull up a chair. That one over there. It looks ready to collapse, but it won't. You met my wife and daughter?"

"I did," I said, seating myself rather gingerly on the spindly kitchen chair he had indicated. "Lovely ladies."

"Yeah," he said, going back behind his desk. "Now what's all this bullshit about an inquiry and questions?"

It
was
bs, but it was a scam I had used before with some success, and I saw no reason why it wouldn't work on this crude man. He might have been a talented artist, but he was also, in my opinion, a vulgar pig. There. I said it and I'm glad.

"It's a project dreamed up by the Real Estate Department of McNally and Son," I said earnestly. (Hey, I can do earnest.) "We are agents for perhaps a dozen mansions in the Palm Beach area, ranging from two million to twelve. Asking price, of course. What we're planning to do is put together a list of potential buyers, people with sufficient resources to afford one of these magnificent estates. Before we send them a very expensive four-color brochure, we'd like to do a little research and make certain they're completely trustworthy and capable of making such a hefty investment. One of the names on the list is Hector Johnson, and I hoped you'd be willing to tell me a little about him. Strictly
entre nous,
of course."

He looked at me. I could see he didn't believe and he didn't disbelieve. He finally decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. People are continually doing that—until they learn better.

Let me tell you something about Silas Hawkin. He suffered from what I called the Hemingway Syndrome—very prevalent in South Florida and particularly in the Keys. Bulky, middle-aged men cultivate a grizzled beard, wear a long-billed fishing cap, and drink nothing but Myers's Dark rum. Some go so far as to sport a small gold ring in one ear or even a ponytail. None wear bifocals or a hearing aid in public.

Hawkin was a charter member of this macho cult. I didn't know whether or not he was an obsessed fisherman, but I would have bet a farthing that he had the cap and drank rum. I could see he had the requisite pepper-and-salt beard, for at the moment he was combing it with his fingers and regarding me with a mixture of hostility and suspicion.

"Hector Johnson," he repeated. "Theo's father. I've only met the guy a couple of times. He seems okay. Knows a lot about art. Good taste."

Which meant, I presumed, that Hector said he admired Hawkin's work.

"Seems to have bucks, does he?" I asked.

The artist shrugged. "I get the feeling he ain't hurting."

"Paid your bill on time?" I pressed.

He took that badly. "None of your damned business," he snapped angrily. "As a matter of fact, I haven't sent in my bill yet."

"I have no desire to pry unnecessarily," I hastily assured him. "I'm just trying to get a handle on the man. Do you know anything about his background? What he did before he and his daughter moved to South Florida?"

"I don't really know. I think he said he was a professor."

"Oh?" I said. "Biology?"

"Biology?" He was puzzled. "Why do you say that?"

"I heard he was an expert on orchids."

"Nah," the artist said. "Maybe he knows orchids, but I think he taught electronics or computer stuff—something like that. Look, I've really got to get back to work."

"Of course," I said, rising. "Before I go I must tell you again that I think your portrait of Theodosia Johnson is the best thing you've ever done."

"Yeah," he agreed, "but I couldn't miss with a model like that. Beautifully proportioned. Classic. Incredible skin tone. That hair! And carries herself like a duchess. A complete woman. I'll never find another like her."

I was somewhat surprised by his excessive praise but made no comment—mostly because I concurred with everything he had said. Before I departed I proffered my business card.

"If you come across anything that might help my inquiry," I said, "pro or con, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call."

"Sure," he said, tossing my card into the litter on his desk.

And that was that. I tramped downstairs wondering what I had learned. Not much. I reached the ground level, glanced in, and there was Mrs. Louise Hawkin, a winsome lady, seated on one of the couches in the conversation pit. She beckoned, and I obeyed. Good boy! Now
heel.

"I'm having a vodka gimlet," she said. "There's a pitcher in the fridge. Would you like one?"

I considered this invitation for a long time—possibly three seconds. "Yes," I said, "thank you."

It was an excellent gimlet, not so tart that it puckered one's lips but sharp and energizing. Mrs. Hawkin patted the cushion beside her and I obediently took my place. Good boy! Now sit up and beg.

"How did you make out with Si?" she inquired lazily, her drawl obviously an attempt to conceal a real curiosity.

"Fine," I said. "I only had a few questions. Your husband was very cooperative."

"He was?" she said, mildly astonished. "Questions about what?"

"Whom," I said. "A mutual acquaintance." I hoped she wouldn't push it. She didn't.

"You're a lawyer?" she asked suddenly.

"No, ma'am," I said. "My father is an attorney but I am not."

"Does he do divorce work? A friend of mine is looking for a good divorce lawyer and asked if I could recommend someone."

"Sorry," I said. "McNally and Son doesn't handle divorces. But if you like, I can ask my father. I'm sure he can suggest someone who would be willing to talk to your friend. Shall I do that?"

"Yes. Let me know as soon as possible."

"Of course," I said.

She sipped her gimlet, stared at the high ceiling, and ignored me. Good boy! Now lie down and play dead.

She was a heavy-bodied woman with an attractive mastiff face: very strong, very determined. I decided I would rather have her for a friend than an enemy. That may sound simple, but there are some people, men and women, of whom you are instinctively wary, knowing they could be trouble.

I finished my drink, rose, and expressed thanks for her hospitality. She gazed at me thoughtfully but made no reply. So I slunk away, grateful to be out of her presence.

I can't explain exactly why. Just that I was conscious of a very deep anger there with which I could not cope, and had no desire to.

I retraced my route and entered the main house through the door to the Florida room. I could have circled around and reclaimed my Miata on the bricked driveway, but I wanted to learn the name of the pleasant, chirpy-voiced maid who had ushered me in.

Instead, I found Marcia Hawkin wandering about, hugging her elbows. I was about to bid her a polite farewell when she accosted me—and accosted is a mild word for her attitude. She was in my face.

"Did you go to daddy's show last night?" she demanded.

"Why, yes, Miss Hawkin," I said as softly as I could. "I did attend the exhibit."