McNally's Secret (15 page)

“Yes,” he said at last, “you may tell him that, but no more. How is the investigation proceeding?”

“‘A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,’” I quoted. “Winston Churchill.”

“Sir
Winston Churchill,” he corrected me gravely, always the stickler for titles. “No suspects at all?”

“Too many suspects,” I said. “Including Lady Horowitz herself.”

He stiffened and almost glared at me. “Surely you are not suggesting our client stole her own stamps and murdered the dealer.”

“Oh no, sir,” I said hastily, “nothing like that. But she refuses to reveal her whereabouts at the time Rubik was killed.” Then I told him of the inability of Al Rogoff to determine where she was, capped by my own failure that morning. “Not necessarily guilty conduct,” I admitted, “but worth a little more digging, wouldn’t you say, father?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly, and I sensed the return of that troubled state of mind I had noted the previous evening.

“One final question, sir,” I said. “You told me that approximately half of Lady Horowitz’s estate will go to several charities. Do you happen to recall if one of them is an orphanage in Rouen operated by her daughter Gina Stanescu?”

He thought about that, but only for a moment this time. “No,” he said definitely, “it is not.”

“Thank you, father,” I said.

I drove home in a pensive mood; “pensive” meaning that I devoted no thought at all to the Inverted Jenny Case, but spun my mental wheels trying to decide whether or not to tell Jennifer Towley that her ex was gambling again. If I did tell, was it to save her from potential heartbreak or further my own romantic prospects? There was a nice moral choice involved there, and I solved the problem in my usual fashion: I postponed my decision.

I found my mother standing at the wooden workbench in the potting shed. She was sorrowfully regarding what was possibly the most decrepit plant I had ever seen: stalk drooping, leaves withered, the soil in the white pot dried and cracked.

“Mother,” I said, “what on earth is that thing?”

“Isn’t it sad, Archy?” she said, and I feared she might weep. “It’s a ‘Dancing Girl’ begonia. Sarah Bogart brought it over to see if I could save it.”

“What did she
do
to it—feed it Drano?”

“Neglect,” mother said angrily. “Just sheer, brutal neglect. The sick little thing is on its last legs.”

“Can you save it?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” she said determinedly. “I shall repot it in proper soil, water and fertilize, coddle it—and talk to it, of course.”

She set to work with a marvelous set of stainless steel gardening tools my father had sent her during a business trip to Edinburgh. Her ministrations were slow, gentle, and purposeful. I had no doubt at all that the “Dancing Girl” would be kicking up its heels within a fortnight.

“Mother,” I said, “have you noticed that father seems unusually troubled lately?”

“The poor thing,” she said, and it took me a beat to realize she was referring to the bedraggled begonia.

“I realize he works very hard,” I went on, “and is probably under a great deal of stress. But that’s nothing new, and I’ve always felt he was coping.”

“Tender, loving care is what’s needed,” mother said.

“But recently,” I continued, “he seems almost distraught. Do you know of anything in particular that might be disturbing him?”

“You’re going to be well again real soon,” my mother promised the plant. “You’ll have gorgeous, healthy leaves and all the scarlet flowers you could want.”

I gave up and started away, but she called me back. “You must think positively, Archy,” she said, “and always look on the bright side of things.”

“Yes, mother,” I said.

I
REALLY HATED TO
scam Consuela Garcia. I thought her a lovely woman, perhaps not as sophisticated as she believed, but there was no malice in her. And I knew that despite her complaints, she was intensely loyal to her employer. So I had a swindle devised and rehearsed before I tooled up to the State of Horowitz on Wednesday morning.

I found Connie in her office, talking on the phone as usual. She waved me to a chair and continued her conversation. Apparently it involved a reception Lady Cynthia planned for a famous tenor who was about to visit Palm Beach.

Connie hung up and rolled her eyes heavenward. “The first crisis of the morning,” she said, “and now you. What’s on your mind, Archy?”

“A request,” I said. “But please hear me out before you decide. Yesterday at lunch you told me that sometimes when Lady Horowitz takes off alone in her Jag, she doesn’t tell you where she’s going. Right?”

Connie nodded.

“What I’d like you to do,” I said, “is the next time that happens, give me a quick telephone call.”

“So you can follow her?” she said, outraged.

“Please listen a moment. You know I’ve been working closely with the police on the theft of the Inverted Jennies. We have good reasons to believe Lady Horowitz is being blackmailed, and she turned over the stamps as part payment.”

“Blackmail!” Connie gasped, but she sounded more dismayed than disbelieving. She had been around long enough to know that Palm Beach is to a blackmailer as a chicken coop to a fox.

“All the evidence points to it,” I lied on. “Regular cash withdrawals from her bank account, for instance. Now you know that if the cops or I ask her the direct question, ‘Are you being blackmailed?’ she’ll tell us to get lost. Our best bet to stop this nastiness is to follow her to the blackmailers, identify them, and either put them behind bars or kick them out of the county. With no publicity; I can promise you that.”

She looked at me, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I suppose she’s done some things in her life she could be blackmailed for.”

“Haven’t we all?” I said. “Will you do it, Connie? Will you call me the moment you learn she’s taking off in the Jag?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Please do that,” I said, rising. “I know you want to end this dirty business as much as I do.”

I left her shaken and fumbling for a cigarette with trembling hands. Did I feel guilty about giving her that song and dance? No. The end doesn’t
always
justify the means, but sometimes it does.

I exited the main house and heard sounds of laughter and splashings coming from the pool area. I strolled over there and found Felice and Alan DuPey frolicking in the water like baby dolphins. The newlyweds were wearing matching mauve swimsuits and aqua bathing caps.

I waved to them, and they waved to me. Their terry robes were piled on an umbrella table, and I pulled up a chair there and sat in the shade. I watched them cavort, yelping and dunking each other. Why did I feel so old? And why did I feel faint stirrings of envy? Tinged with a smidgen of regret, of course.

They came scrambling out of the pool laughing and peeling off their caps. They pulled on their robes, joined me, and we all exchanged greetings.

“Having a good time?” I asked. A silly question; they both looked like they had found Eden in South Florida.

“Oh, it is so lovely here,” Felice said, looking about with shining eyes. “I never want to leave.”

“But we must,” her husband said, clasping her hand. He turned to me. “We depart Saturday morning.”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said. “Can’t you stay a bit longer?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, no. We must return to our jobs. Back to the salt mines.”

“You go, Alan,” his wife said saucily, “and I shall stay. Mr. McNally will take care of me.”

“I’d be delighted,” I said, and we all laughed.

But it disturbed me. The DuPeys ranked close to the bottom of my list of suspects, but I didn’t want to see them gone from the scene. If they were somehow involved in the theft and subsequent homicide, it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to prove their guilt if they were half a globe away.

Even more important, if they were totally innocent, as I believed, they still might have information they hadn’t yet divulged, information they thought insignificant but which could be useful. Alan gave me the opening I needed.

“Tell me, Mr. McNally,” he said, “have you discovered who stole mother’s stamps?”

“Not yet,” I said. “The investigation goes on. Perhaps you and Felice can help. When you all went aboard Phil Meecham’s yacht, you were told the cruise was canceled because of high seas. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” he said, “but we stayed to party.”

“You and Felice did,” I said. “But the Smythes, Gina Stanescu, and Angus Wolfson took off. I believe that’s what you said. Have I got it right?”

They both nodded.

“Did they tell you where they were going?”

“Shopping,” Felice said promptly, paused, then jabbered at her husband in such rapid French I couldn’t follow it.

“Window-shopping,” Alan explained. “I don’t think they were planning to buy anything, but they said they wanted to see the shops on Worth Avenue.”

“Such expensive shops!” his wife said. “Ooo, la!”

“Aren’t they,” I agreed. “So as far as you know, they were just going to wander about and do the tourist bit?”

The two looked at each other, then nodded again, vigorously this time.

“They all left the yacht in a group—the four of them?”

He frowned, trying to recall, but his wife supplied the answer.

“No,” she said, “not all together. Gina and Angus departed first and then, perhaps a half-hour later, the Smythes. I remember because...”

Suddenly both burst out laughing, sharing a mutual joke.

“What’s so amusing?” I asked.

Alan calmed down long enough to reply. “I shouldn’t peach on them,” he said, “but when Harry and Doris left, they took a bottle of Monsieur Meecham’s champagne with them.”

“We saw it,” Felice said. “It was so fonny. Harry tried to hide it under his jacket.”

“In case they got thirsty while window-shopping,” I suggested. “Well, I’m sure Phil Meecham never missed it. But Gina and Angus went off together?”

“Oh yes,” Alan said. “They are very close, those two.”

“Do you suppose—” his wife started, then stopped and bit her knuckle.

“Suppose what?” I urged her.

“It’s nonsense,” Alan said, looking at his new wife fondly. “Felice believes there may be more than friendship there.”

“Oh?” I said. “A romance?”

“It is not nonsense,” Felice said, pouting prettily. “A woman knows these things, and I say there is definitely a feeling, an emotion between them.”

“Impossible,” the husband said firmly. “First of all, he is at least twenty years older than she, and also he is gay.”

“Those things are of no importance,” the wife said just as firmly. “Perhaps they are both lonely.”

“That’s possible,” I admitted. “I hoped to have a talk with Mr. Wolfson this morning. Do you know if he’s around?”

“No, he is not,” Alan said. “He went down to the beach about an hour ago.”

“I hope he’s not going to swim,” I said. “It’s choppy out there today, and the radio warned of an undertow.”

“Oh no,” Felice said. “He can’t swim; he told us so. He said he’s just going to take a walk and perhaps pick up a few shells.”

I nodded and stood up. “I’ll see if I can find him. Thank you for the talk. I’m sure I’ll see you again before you leave.”

“You are not married, Mr. McNally?” she asked suddenly.

“No,” I said, “I am not.”

Felice looked at me speculatively. “I have a beautiful cousin,” she said. “About your age I would say. Also unmarried.”

“Felice!” her husband cried, and clapped a palm lightly over her mouth. “Please to excuse,” he said to me. “She is
such
a matchmaker.”

His wife took his hand away. “I just want everyone to be as happy as we are,” she said.

I left them holding hands and gazing at each other with bedroom eyes. Enough already!

The Horowitz estate fronted on Ocean Boulevard. Across the road was a paling of sea grape and then a waist-high concrete wall. Beyond that was the beach, the Atlantic Ocean and, eventually, Morocco.

But I wasn’t going that far. I walked northward to a break in the wall where a weatherworn wooden staircase led down to the sand. During the season you might see dozens of bathers in both directions. In late May I saw a family group of four swimmers to the north and two supine sun-worshipers to the south. Palm Beach Island is definitely not Coney.

I also saw, to the north, the distant, approaching figure of a solitary stroller I decided could very well be Angus Wolfson. I kicked off my loafers (no socks) and plodded through the sand. As we came closer it indeed proved to be the Boston bibliophile, carrying his sandals and sloshing through the shallows like a kid kicking his way through puddles of rain.

He was wearing white flannel bags and a silk shirt with flamboyant collar and billowing sleeves that Lord Byron might envy. Atop his head was a yellowed boater with a tatty band that he wore with an insouciance I admired, and he stabbed at the sand with the tip of a Malacca cane.

As I came up, he recognized me and swept off his ridiculous hat with a gesture of mock politesse and bowed slightly. “Mr. McNally,” he said, “what a delightful surprise.”

“Planned,” I told him. “I heard you were walking the beach and hoped to have a talk. May I accompany you, sir?”

“Only if you cease calling me ‘sir.’ It’s one notch from ‘pop.’”

“Old habits die hard,” I said. “I was taught to address male elders as ‘sir’ as a mark of respect.”

“Sometimes we don’t deserve it,” he said lightly. “By all means, walk along. An absolutely
brilliant
day.”

It was. An ocean breeze took the edge off the sun’s heat, and the blue sky was mottled with popcorn clouds. But the sea was undeniably choppy with a steady surf that came pounding in to swirl milky foam about our bare ankles.

We meandered slowly southward, Wolfson occasionally leaning heavily on his cane. I didn’t think he looked at all well. The sagging flesh of his face had a grayish tinge, and once or twice he pressed his free hand to his abdomen as if to restrain a persistent pain.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

“A temporary malady,” he said blithely. “It will soon pass.”