McNally's Secret (19 page)

“You can talk to her through the intercom,” Clara offered. “In the north wing just inside the terrace.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll find it.”

“I love the way you smell,” she said suddenly.

I remembered Simon Pettibone’s observation: Life is not merely strange, it is
bee-zar.

“It’s not me, Clara,” I said, “it’s Royal Copenhagen. But I appreciate the thought.”

Lady Cynthia had two built-in saunas, dry and wet (if you’re going to do it, do it
right),
and the red light was burning over the door of the latter. The door itself was thick redwood planks and inserted at eye-level was a judas window of heavy glass. Alongside the door, fixed to the wall, was the intercom transmitter-receiver: a round knob of metal mesh.

I tried to look through the glass, but it was so fogged with steam that I could see nothing. I addressed the intercom.

“Lady Horowitz,” I called, “it’s Archy McNally. May I speak to you for a moment?”

A brief wait, then she replied, her voice sounding thin and tinny. “You don’t have to shout,” she said. “I can hear you perfectly well. How are you, lad?”

“Very well, thank you,” I said, and watched as her fingers wiped away the steam from the inside of the glass, and she peered out at me.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

“Not right now,” I said, laughing. “Just one short question and I’ll be on my way.”

She disappeared from the window, but I continued staring inside with nary a qualm. I was certain she was aware of my scrutiny and just didn’t give a damn.

She moved slowly through swirling clouds of vapor like an Isadora Duncan dancer, seeming to float. She appeared to be performing a private exercise, for her knees rose high and her extended arms waved languidly. She was a white wraith; all I could see was that wondrous body pearled with steam. It made me forget age and believe in immortality.

“What’s the question?” she asked.

“Did you ever examine the back of those Inverted Jenny stamps?”

Her face came close to the glass again and she stared at me. “Examine the
back?
Whatever for? Have you gone completely bonkers, lad?”

“Just wondering,” I said hastily. In a moment the glass was fogged again and she was lost to view.

I drove into town wondering if Lady Cynthia had been telling me the truth. People do lie, you know. I do. Frequently.

I had been delegated by my parents to purchase an inexpensive going-away gift for Felice and Alan DuPey, to be presented that evening at the party. So I wandered Worth Avenue, viewing and regretfully rejecting all the glittering baubles that Street of Impossible Dreams has to offer.

Finally, in a tiny shop on Hibiscus Avenue, I found something for the DuPeys I thought they’d cherish: two lovely polished seashells, as a remembrance of their stay in South Florida. One was a Banded Tulip, the other a Flame Auger. In size and shape, there was a definite physical symbolism in those shells, and I thought them a fitting gift for randy newly-weds. I admit my sense of humor sometimes verges on the depraved.

I returned home and helped Ursi pack the picnic hamper, complete with a linen tablecloth and napkins. I added the chilled bottle of zinfandel (not forgetting a corkscrew) and set out for the home of Jennifer Towley across the lake.

Her reaction to the picnic hamper was all I had hoped for.

“You scoundrel!” she cried. “You told me it would be takeout food.”

“So it is,” I said. “From the spotless kitchen of the Chez McNally.”

“How wonderful everything looks,” she said, inspecting all the viands neatly packed in covered dishes. “Shall I set the dining room table?”

“Don’t you dare,” I said. “This is an indoor picnic. We’ll eat on the floor.”

And so we did, spreading the tablecloth over the worn dhurrie in her small office. We sat cross-legged, surrounded by file cabinets, books of fabric and wallpaper samples, a desk cluttered with documents, her word processor, and all the other odds and ends of a littered sanctum devoted to business.

We lunched with enthusiasm, exclaiming over the flavor of the lemon chicken, the taste of oregano in the greens, the touch of garlic in the German potato salad. We were down to the macaroons and the remainder of the wine before we collapsed against furniture and talked lazily of this and that.

Jennifer looked especially attractive that afternoon, hair piled up and tied with a mauve ribbon. Her face was free of makeup and seemed shockingly young. She wore an oversized sweatshirt with nothing printed on the front—thank God!—and pleated Bermuda shorts. Her feet were bare, and I saw once again those toes that had driven Clarence T. Frobisher mad with lust.

“Have you heard from your ex lately?” I asked casually.

“A few times,” she said just as casually. “He seems to be doing wonderfully. The man he works for is thinking of opening a branch store in West Palm Beach and asked Tom if he’d like to manage it.”

“Sounds like a great opportunity. Has he mentioned anything about his gambling?”

“Continually. He keeps assuring me that he’s cured.”

“But you’ve heard those assurances before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “May I have another macaroon, please.”

I watched her white teeth bite into the cookie, and I went through the now-familiar mental wrestle: tell or not tell. If she meant nothing to me, I would have told her at once that Thomas Bingham was up to his old tricks again. But she did mean something to me, a great deal, and so there would be a selfish motive in my revelation, and that would be base.

One day I must try to draw up a blueprint of my moral code. Then, perhaps, I might know what the hell I’m doing and why I do it.

“He wants me to have dinner with him,” Jennifer said in a low voice, not looking at me. “And he wants to visit me. Here.”

“Oh?” I said. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know how I feel,” she said, almost angrily, and raised her eyes to look directly at me. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“All right,” I said equably. “Then we shan’t.”

“Let’s talk about you,” she said.

“My favorite subject.”

“What do you want to do with your life, Archy?”

“I can’t write, paint, sculpt, compose, or play the piccolo. So I want to make my life a creation. I want to elevate artificiality into a fine art.”

She laughed. “You’re putting me on.”

I raised a palm. “Scout’s honor. And now let’s talk about you. What do you want to do with your life?”

“I wish I knew,” she said. “I’m betwixt and between. A crazy, mixed-up kid. May I finish the wine?”

“Of course. But there’s only a drop left. I should have brought two bottles.”

“Oh no,” she said. “That would have pushed me over the edge. And I’ve got to get back to my bookkeeping; I’ll need a clear head.”

I nodded. “I’ll pack up and be on my way.”

She stared at me, and I couldn’t interpret that look. Something heavy was going on behind those luminous eyes, but I didn’t even guess what it might be.

“No,” she said finally in a steady voice, “don’t do that. Not yet.”

What a delicious afternoon that turned out to be, the most paradisiacal I had ever spent in my life. Most of the credit, of course, was due to Jennifer, who seemed to be a woman bereft of her senses. But if it was within my power to award a medal for actions above and beyond the call of duty, I would have pinned a gold star and ribbon to her sweatshirt—or affixed it to her bare bosom with a Band-Aid.

I returned home so fatigued that I knew an ocean swim would risk instant immolation. So I took a nap, slept fast, and awoke in time to shower, dress, and join my parents for the ceremonial cocktail. Then we all set off for Lady Horowitz’s party, my father driving the Lexus and humming something that sounded vaguely like “On the Street Where You Live.”

It was a sterling night, absolutely cloudless. And if there was no full moon, there were a jillion stars spangling the sky. A cool ocean breeze caressed, and the whole world seemed to have been spritzed by Giorgio. Perfect weather for an outdoor party. That was the luck of the wealthy—right? Remember the old Yiddish joke? A guy gets splattered by a passing bird, looks up and says, “For the rich you sing.”

The pool-patio area was strung with Chinese lanterns. There was a hurricane lamp with scented candle on each table, plus a bowl of fresh narcissi. As they say in New York, “Gawjus!”

A small portable bar had been set up in one corner, and service was provided by temps. Chef Jean Cuvier, wearing a high white toque, presided over the grill. All the other staff members were present as well as houseguests and about a dozen invited couples in various degrees of “informal dress,” from tailored jeans to sequined minidresses. For the record: I wore my silver-gray Ultrasuede jacket.

Two small added notes on that night’s festivities: A three-piece combo played old show tunes amongst the palms, and a small red neon sign set atop the bar proclaimed: NO SMOKING.

Since the McNallys knew most of the other guests present, there were many air-kisses and handshakes. My mother handed our gift to Felice and Alan DuPey, and they were delighted with the shells. I could see they made a polite effort to conceal their hilarity for, being French, they immediately saw the symbolism of those shapes. I was happy they hid their mirth; mother would have been horrified if they had tried to explain why the shells were so “fonny.”

I headed for the bar to get in a party mood and was waiting for the ham-handed keep to mix a vodka gimlet when my elbow was plucked. I turned to find the hostess, radiant in flowered evening pajamas and a silk turban that looked like a charlotte russe.

“Good evening, Lady Cynthia,” I said. “Lovely party.”

“Is it?” she said. “I hadn’t noticed. Listen, lad, what was that business this morning about my looking at the back of my Inverted Jennies?”

“Oh, that was just nonsense,” I said.

“Of course it was,” she said. “You ninny.” And she stroked my cheek with such a smarmy smile that I was certain she was lying. But for what purpose I could not fathom.

She moved away and I sampled my drink. Passable but not notable. Carrying my glass, I joined the chattering throng and greeted several friends and acquaintances. I garnered two dinner invitations. Single women (mostly widows and divorcees) outnumber single men in Palm Beach, and hostesses are continually searching for the odd man to complete their table—and I’m as odd as they come.

I spotted Angus Wolfson standing apart, observing the scene with what I imagined he thought was amused detachment. He was wearing an embroidered guayabera shirt that hung in folds on his shrunken frame, making him look like an emaciated barber. He was holding an opened Perrier, no glass, and I wondered if he was drinking directly from the bottle. I strolled over.

“Good evening, Mr. Wolfson,” I said. “How are you feeling tonight?”

He didn’t exactly glare at me but he came close. “You seem to have an obsessive interest in my health, young McNally,” he said.

“Not obsessive,” I said, “but certainly concerned.”

I thought he was about to give me the knife, but he caught himself, chuffed a small laugh, and took a swig from his bottle. “If you can’t become mean, nasty and grumpy,” he said, “what’s the point of growing old?”

“I’ll remember that,” I said, laughing.

“Oh, you have a few years to go,” he said, looking at me with a peculiar expression. “Spend them wisely. Don’t try to set the world to right. No one can do that. Just accept it.”

Either he was playing the Ancient Guru or his Perrier bottle was filled with gin. In either case, I had no desire to hear more of his homilies, so I smiled, nodded, and sauntered away. Besides, I had a bit of business to do.

When we drove through the opened gate in the Lexus, we found that Kenneth Bodin was parking guests’ cars. He was doing a fine job, too, maneuvering all those Cadillacs, Lincolns, and BMWs on the driveway until they were within inches of each other with no scraped fenders. I found him leaning against the trunk of a white Excalibur, sucking on a cigarette and simultaneously prying into one ear with a matchstick. That young man was obviously in need of a couth IV.

“Having fun, Mr. McNally?” he asked me.

“Not yet,” I said, “but I plan to.”

“How’s the Miata doing?”

“Taking the jumps like a thoroughbred,” I said, pleased at having found a reasonable segue to the question I needed to ask. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of taking a drive down to the Keys. Have you ever been there?”

“Never have,” he said, “and don’t want to go. Disney World is what I like. I was there last year and had a helluva time. Did you know you can—”

But I was saved from listening to how he shook hands with Mickey Mouse by the melodious sound of dinner chimes coming from the patio.

“Got to run,” I said hastily, “while the food lasts.”

“You’re having ribs,” he said. “My favorite. I’ll get mine later.”

He was correct: Jean Cuvier was grilling big racks of pork spareribs along with ears of corn in the husk. There were kabobs of onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and cherry tomatoes, a salad of romaine and escarole with an anchovy dressing, and loaves of crusty French bread heated on the grill. Also bottles of a very decent merlot.

There was just one thing wrong with that feast: my dining partners. It happened this way:

I returned to the patio and found most of the tables already occupied. I was looking about for a seat with jovial companions when Consuela Garcia grabbed my arm. She was wearing a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder crimson cashmere sweater that ended at midthigh. Tanned thigh. She looked sensational, and I started to tell her so but she cut me short.

“Listen, Archy,” she said, leaning close, “you’ve got to eat with Harry and Doris Smythe.”

I looked at her with horror. “Why do I have to ruin a perfectly splendid evening by eating with the Smythes?”

“Because no one else will eat with them.”

“No, no, and no,” I said. “What am I—a second-class citizen?”

She stared at me. “You want me to tell you when the madam takes off alone in her Jag?”

I sighed. “I get the picture, Connie. You are one cruel, cruel lady. All right, where are Loeb and Leopold?”