McNally's Secret (14 page)

Ordinarily I am an even-tempered johnny. I don’t curse when a shoelace snaps. Stepping on a discarded wad of chewing gum might elicit a mild “Tsk.” And I’ve been known to laugh merrily after spattering the front of my white shirt with marinara sauce. But that go-around with Lady Cynthia definitely cast a shadow on the McNally sunniness. It was not, I felt, going to be my day. How right I was.

I went into the main house to search for Mrs. Marsden, hoping she might be willing to describe in more detail those forebodings she had mentioned. But as I passed the game room, I heard the unmistakable sounds of a female sobbing, and since the door was ajar I had no scruples about entering and looking about for the sobber.

I found Gina Stanescu leaning against the billiard table and trying to stanch a freshet of tears with a hanky no larger than a cocktail napkin. I’ve told you that I’m usually a klutz when dealing with lacrimating ladies, but in this case I believe I responded sympathetically if not nobly.

“Hi, Miss Stanescu,” I said. “What’s up?”

Her answer was more sobs, and I reacted to the crisis in my usual fashion by heading directly for the nearest source of spirits—in this case, the wet bar. The first bottle I put my hand on was ouzo, which I thought would be excellent shock therapy. I poured the tiniest bit into a snifter, brought it to her, and pressed it into her hand.

It worked to the extent that she found she couldn’t cough and weep at the same time. The weeping stopped and, eventually, so did the coughing.

“What is wrong?” I asked. “Is there anything I may do to help?”

She shook her head, then took another sip of the ouzo, which emptied the glass.

“More?”

She cleared her throat. “Thank you, no. You have been most kind, Mr. McNally. I should have closed the door. But it came upon me very suddenly. Do you have a handkerchief, please? I’m afraid mine is a mess.”

I supplied the linen, happy it was fresh and unwrinkled. She used it to dab her eyes dry, but they remained swollen.

“I received some bad news,” she said. “The Rouen authorities wish to close my orphanage. The roof leaks dreadfully, you see, and the plumbing is in very bad repair. Also, the electrical wiring must be replaced. It would all cost a great deal of money.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, suddenly wary, I admit, because I feared this might be a prelude to an attempted financial bite. “Surely your patrons or contributors would be willing to provide the funds.”

“I think not,” she said, now speaking evenly and decisively. “We have just been scraping by as it is. People give what they can afford. I will not beg.”

“Very admirable,” I said, “but sometimes it’s necessary. What about your mother?”

She looked at me as if questioning my IQ. “Who do you think has been making up the losses all these years? I will not ask her for more. I cannot. She has been so generous. Just incredible.”

Why did I feel this was the first false note in what she was telling me? I knew that her mother made small annual contributions to several charities, but she was Lady Horowitz, not Lady Bountiful. Unless, of course, she splurged on her daughter’s orphanage. That was possible, but after the morning’s snappish interview I found it difficult to credit her mother with any generosity, of spirit or purse.

“I don’t know about France,” I said, “but in this country there are fund-raising organizations. For a fee, they recommend methods of increasing the income of worthwhile charities. Direct mail campaigns, for instance. Auctions of donated art objects. Even lotteries.”

She shook her head again. “We are too small,” she said, “and too local. We can only exist with the kindness of our benefactors. But the cost of the repairs far exceeds what we can expect.”

“Surely you don’t intend to close down?”

“No,” she said determinedly, “not yet.” And her sharp features hardened. Then she did resemble her mother. “Not until the very last moment. There is still a slim chance we may pull through.”

“And what is the slim chance?”

“A miracle,” she said solemnly. “Mr. McNally, thank you for your interest, and the loan of your handkerchief. I shall have it laundered and returned to you.”

“No need,” I said, but she was already sweeping from the room. She was wearing one of her voluminous white gowns, and it billowed out behind her. But now it made her look less like a romantic heroine than a fleeing ghost.

Nothing was making much sense to me. First, Lady Cynthia refused to reveal her whereabouts at the time Bela Rubik was killed. Now Gina Stanescu refused to ask her mother for funds to repair her orphanage although, according to her, mommy dearest had been a generous contributor in the past. I suspected Ms. Stanescu had been telling me the truth, but not the
whole
truth.

What I needed at the moment, I decided, was one of Leroy Pettibone’s creative hamburgers and a pail of suds. A lunch like that would goose the disposition and bring roses back to my cheeks.

But when I arrived at the Pelican Club, I found it mobbed with the midday crowd, all apparently ravenous, because when I glanced into the dining room, I saw no vacant tables. I concluded I would be forced to lunch at the bar, but then a bare feminine arm was raised, waved, and beckoned me. I peered and saw it was Consuela Garcia, sitting alone at a table for two. I dodged over immediately.

“Hiya, babe,” I said huskily, twirling an imaginary mustache. “You come here often?”

“Oh, shut up and sit down,” she said. “You look hungry.”

“
And
thirsty,” I said, sitting. “How are you, Connie?”

“Miserable,” she said.

“Well, you look great,” I assured her. “Just great.”

That was the truth. She was wearing a white linen sundress that enhanced her deep tan beautifully. Big gold hoop earrings dangled, and her glossy black hair was unbound. I happened to know it was long enough to touch her buns.

Priscilla came over to take our order and glanced at me. “Connie,” she said, “you’re not allowed to pick up strange men in the club.”

“You’re going to get it,” I said to her threateningly.

“I hope so,” she said. “But when?”

Connie and I laughed, ordered hamburgers and beers, and started nibbling on the pickle spears.

“Why are you miserable?” I asked her.

“It’s that nuthouse I work in,” she said. “I had to get away for an hour or I’d be climbing walls.”

“What’s the problem? Lady Cynthia?”

“You’ve got it, Archy. She’s been in a snit lately.”

“Oh?” I said, suddenly curious. “Since when? Since her stamps were stolen?”

“No,” Connie said, “that didn’t seem to bother her. It’s only been in the last few days that she’s become a holy terror. You know what I heard her called the other day?”

“Lady Horrorwitz?”

“That’s old stuff. I was at a cocktail party and heard some old bitch refer to her as Lady Whorewitz. People can be awfully cruel.”

“Awful
and
cruel,” I said. “Ah, here’s our lunch.”

Connie asked for hot salsa to put on her burger, but I passed. I recalled that during our brief and intimate joust she amazed me by nibbling on chipotles, those peppers that can scorch your tonsils. Connie popped them like macadamia nuts.

“Tell me something,” I said casually, working on my food, “when the madam takes off alone in her Jag, does she tell you where she’s going?”

“Sometimes,” Connie said, “and sometimes not. And she hates it if anyone asks. She’s really a very secretive person.”

“Maybe too secretive. Sergeant Al Rogoff asked her where she was at a particular time, and she lied to him. Then I asked her, and she as much as told me to stuff it.”

“That sounds like her.”

“She lied to you, too,” I said quietly.

Connie stopped eating long enough to stare at me. “When was this?”

“The day everyone was supposed to go out on Phil Meecham’s yacht. You told me Lady C. went to her hairdresser’s.”

“That’s where she said she was going.”

“I’m sure she did. But she never showed up at the salon.”

“That’s odd,” Connie said, frowning. “As I told you, she either tells me where she’s going or she doesn’t. But I can’t recall her ever lying to me. How do you figure it?”

“I can’t,” I said. “Perhaps she enjoys being a mystery woman.”

“Archy, that’s nonsense. She’s about as mysterious as a fried egg. She has only one rule: Just do everything exactly her way, and you’ll get along fine with her.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to ask her where she went instead of the hairdresser’s.”

“No, I would not,” Consuela said firmly. “In spite of my kvetching I happen to like my job and want to keep it.”

We cleaned our plates and sat a moment in silence, finishing our beers.

“You still seeing Jennifer Towley?” Connie asked idly.

I nodded.

“Did she tell you her history?”

“She did.”

“That her ex-husband is also an ex-con?”

“She told me,” I said patiently.

“You ever see him, Archy?”

“No, I never have.”

“I have,” Connie said. “He was pointed out to me last Saturday.”

“Oh?” I said, interested. “What kind of a dude is he?”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t look like he’s done time. I mean he’s well-dressed, got a nice tan, looks to be in good shape. I’d guess he’s an inch or two shorter than you. No flab. Pleasant-looking. Not a matinee idol, but presentable enough. He laughs a lot.”

“Where did you see him, Connie?”

“Down at Dania Jai Alai.”

“What on earth were you doing there?”

“My Significant Other and I decided to do something different on Saturday, so we drove down to catch the games.”

“And that’s where you saw Thomas Bingham?”

“Oh-ho,” she said, “so you know his name. Yes, he was there. My guy knew who he was.”

“Connie,” I said, “was he betting?”

“Bingham? Like there was no tomorrow.”

I signed the tab, we left the club, and Connie gave me a warm kiss on the cheek and thanked me for lunch. I waved when she drove away in her Subaru. A sterling lady, I reflected, and our abbreviated affair was something I’d remember when I was playing checkers in a nursing home.

I got into the Miata and squirmed a bit on the sun-heated cushions. I lighted an English Oval and pondered my next move. Al Rogoff was wrong; I did not enjoy complexity. I liked things clear and uncomplicated. But now I seemed to be involved in a maze of maybes. The uncertainties were so overwhelming that I was tempted to take off for Hong Kong immediately and not return until all problems had been solved.

But instead of flying to Hong Kong, I drove to a car rental agency in West Palm Beach. I flashed my plastic and hired a black Ford Escort GT for a week. I asked the clerk if I could leave it right there on the lot.

He looked at me as if I were a new variety of nut. “For a week?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded. “I’ll pick it up every now and then.” I told him. “Whenever I feel the urge.” And I gave him a twenty-buck tip.

“Of course, sir!” he cried heartily. “Absolutely no problem.”

I didn’t wish to explain my motive to him. To wit: The Miata is a spiffy little car that catches the eye, especially when it’s a screaming red. If I was going to do any tailing, I wanted wheels that wouldn’t attract a second glance.

I drove back to the McNally
&
Son Building and parked the Miata in our underground garage. I went upstairs and asked Mrs. Trelawney if my father was available. She said he was in, but conferring with a client; she’d give me a buzz when he was free. So I went to my office which, for some reason, seemed smaller than ever. I thought of it as an Iron Maiden without the spikes.

I sat there for more than a half-hour reviewing the morning’s tête-à-têtes with Lady Cynthia, Gina Stanescu, and Consuela Garcia. Very frustrating. Instead of clarifying matters, all three women had succeeded in adding to my professional and personal woes. They had tossed me more oddly shaped pieces on the table, the jigsaw puzzle kept getting larger, and I hadn’t yet found two parts that fit.

Mrs. Trelawney phoned and said the boss could give me fifteen minutes before his next appointment, so make it snappy. Before I left for my audience, I tugged out my breast pocket handkerchief a bit to display it more conspicuously. It happened to be a square of brightly colored Pucci silk in a wildly abstract pattern, and I knew it would make my father’s teeth ache. I really don’t know why it pleased me to rile the old man occasionally. Perhaps it was just a sophomoric way of asserting my independence.

He was standing alongside his big rolltop desk when I entered his office, and I saw his gaze go immediately to the Pucci square. He made no comment, but one hairy eyebrow rose a good half-inch.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” I said, “but I wondered if you’ve had a chance to speak to Lady Horowitz about her will.”

“I have,” he said, “and she absolutely refuses to reveal any of its contents to the police.”

“I expected that,” I said, “but as you observed, she’s unpredictable, and there was always a chance she might agree. Sergeant Rogoff will be disappointed.”

There was silence, and I could tell by his thousand-yard stare that he was conducting one of those long inner debates that always preceded his dicta.

“I trust your discretion, Archy,” he said finally. “If I didn’t, you would not occupy the position you do in this organization. For your information—and I emphasize,
only
for
your
information—approximately half of Lady Horowitz’s estate will go to several charities. Then there is a long list of specific bequests to individuals, including servants, friends, and even, I might add, all her ex-husbands who are still alive. The remainder of the estate is to be divided equally amongst her five children, three of whom are presently her houseguests.”

I nodded. “I appreciate your confidence in my discretion, father. Without revealing any of the details to Sergeant Rogoff, may I tell him that you informed me there is nothing in Lady Cynthia’s will that would aid his investigation?”

Again that long pause while he considered all the possible consequences of granting my request. Prescott McNally was one great muller.