McNally's Trial (23 page)

“And how is Mrs. Sarah feeling?” I inquired.

He tried to control his distress but failed; his eyes brimmed. “She’s dying,” he said, and my hope for a felicitous day went into deep six.

I
HAD NO IDEA
what to say; I’m not good at commiseration. But it was not compassion he was seeking.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, looking at me steadily now, patrician features sagging with a mixture of sorrow and shame. “It concerns the illegal activities taking place at the Whitcomb Funeral Homes.”

“Sir,” I said, and it was my turn to be desperate, “don’t you think it would be wiser to discuss this matter with my father? He is, after all, your attorney. I have no legal standing whatsoever.”

He gave me a gelid smile. “Your father is completely trustworthy, I know, but he can be a rather intimidating man.”

I could not disagree with that.

“Besides,” he went on, “you have been the one conducting the investigation Sunny Fogarty requested.”

Curiously, I was not unduly shocked by the revelation that he was aware of her initial consultation with McNally & Son and my resulting discreet inquiry.

I told Mr. Horace as much. “It seemed incredible to me,” I said, “that Sunny should recognize something illicit was going on and you not know of it. But she insisted the suspicion of wrongdoing was solely hers, you hadn’t a glimmer and were not to be informed of my nosing about.”

He sighed. “Please don’t blame Sunny. She was merely following my instructions faithfully, as she always has. Of course I knew something unethical and probably illegal was going on. It’s
my
business, Archy, as it was my father’s and grandfather’s. I know it as well as I know my collection of ship models. If the placement of a potted palm is changed in any of our homes I notice it at once. What I’m trying to say is that Whitcomb Funeral Homes are my life. You may think it odd that mortuaries can constitute a full and rewarding existence, but they do. I have nothing for which to apologize.”

“Sir,” I said, “if you suspected skulduggery was going on, why on earth didn’t you conduct a quiet internal investigation and then, if your suspicions proved valid, call in the police?”

He looked away from me, gazing somberly over the spangled lake. “Archy,” he said, “I love my wife. I love Sarah with a devotion so deep and so intense that sometimes I wonder if I shall be able to carry on after she’s gone. God damn it!” he shouted suddenly. “Why couldn’t I have become ill instead of her? It’s not right! It’s not fair!” Slowly he calmed. “I do not tell you this to ask for your sympathy or pity but to explain why I acted the way I did. As much as I love Sarah, so does she love our son. I don’t mean to imply she loves me the less, but Oliver is and always has been precious to her. We tried to have more babies but didn’t succeed, and so my wife lavished all her maternal love on our only child.”

I could guess what was coming but wanted to hear him say it. I knew it would resolve some of the riddles that had been gnawing at me.

“And then,” he said, turning to look at me directly again, “I became aware of our unexpected increase of income during the past six months. I asked Sunny Fogarty to look into it. We agreed something very troubling was going on.”

“The huge number of out-of-state shipments?” I suggested.

He nodded.

“You might have told me from the start,” I said. “Instead, Sunny tried to make me believe it was my discovery.”

“I apologize for that,” he said. “It was a scurvy thing to do but had to be done. Because it became obvious to Sunny and me that the chicanery taking place could not succeed without the active participation of our three chief funeral directors and my son, who is supposed to oversee the day-to-day operations of the entire business.”

“Why didn’t you confront Oliver and demand an explanation?”

“I couldn’t!” he cried. “Don’t you see it was impossible? My wife became ill about five years ago and her condition has steadily worsened. She has accepted that with more fortitude and grace than you or I could muster, I assure you. Could I go to that terminally ill woman and tell her our son was probably a thief and I was turning him over to the police? Could I really do that? Tell her the child she loved so very much was a criminal?”

I lowered my head. “A horrible dilemma,” I murmured.

“Yes,” he said. “Horrible. I could not devastate my wife’s final days, nor could I allow Oliver to continue his depredations against an honorable business that’s been in the family for three generations. I talked it over with Sunny Fogarty, and we decided our only option was to proceed against Oliver with an outside investigation in which I apparently played no part. It would be an inquiry by McNally and Son, our attorneys, and whatever was uncovered would be strictly a legal matter. Then I could assure Sarah I would do everything I could to aid our son’s defense. It wasn’t much of a solution to my problem, was it, but I saw no other choice.”

“I can’t think of anything else you might have done, Mr. Whitcomb. Booting Oliver out of the company would have destroyed your relationship with your wife. I should tell you she is aware of the hostility between you and Oliver. But she has no idea of the cause of the conflict. I doubt, from what you tell me, she could ever be convinced her son capable of criminal behavior.”

“Thank God for that,” he said fervently. “If it’s possible to die happy—and I’m not sure it is—it’s what I wish for my wife: that she may quietly and peacefully slip away without pain and with her love for me and her son intact. She deserves nothing less.”

We were silent for a few moments. I had no hint of what he was thinking, but I was brooding on the infernal complexities of living: enduring disappointments and tragedies, coping with problems and challenges, seeing ambitions thwarted and hopes deferred—just spending your ration of days doing your damndest to hang on to your sanity.

Mr. Horace straightened up in his chair, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. I could not interpret his expression; sadness and resolve were mixed.

“Archy,” he said, “what I’ve told you this morning has been a sort of preamble to what I must say now. Sunny Fogarty has kept me informed on the progress of your investigation. I gather that Ernest Gorton is involved in what’s going on.”

“It certainly appears so.”

“He sounds like a loathsome character.”

“He is that, sir.”

“My son’s close friend,” he said bitterly. “Sunny also told me you believe this Gorton knows of your investigation and has attempted to buy you off.”

I nodded.

“If Gorton is aware of your relationship with Sunny, do you believe she is personally at risk?”

I hesitated a beat or two. “I think her double-checking of your files and computer records is known to the perpetrators. I think it probable her office calls are monitored and her home phone may be bugged. Yes, I believe she is under close observation, but whether or not her safety is threatened, I simply cannot say.”

“Can you swear it’s impossible?”

“No, sir, I can’t swear that.”

“Then it is possible?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “Considering what’s at stake and Ernest Gorton’s reputation, I must admit it’s possible.”

“That’s what I feared,” he said tonelessly. “And it’s why I ask you now to end your investigation immediately. Sunny and I will end our inquiries as well.”

I was astounded. “Mr. Whitcomb,” I burst out, “you can’t do that!”

“I can,” he said, “and I will. You are an employee of the legal firm that represents Whitcomb Funeral Homes, are you not? I intend to write your father requesting your inquiry be ended. If it is not, I shall terminate our association with McNally and Son.”

I glared at him furiously. “You realize that such a course of action will in all probability allow what is apparently a crime in progress to continue.”

“I know that.”

“And the suspected criminals, possibly including your son, may then succeed in utterly destroying what you have described to me as an honorable business that has been in your family for three generations.”

“I know that also. But the personal safety of Sunny Fogarty, a devoted employee, takes precedence. If her life is at risk—and you admit it is possible—I’d rather surrender than see her harmed.”

My fury slowly cooled to admiration. He had obviously wrestled with this quandary for many sleepless hours and had come to the only decision he could live with. It was a high-minded decision. It was also an impossible decision.

“Sorry, Mr. Whitcomb,” I said, “it can’t be done.”

His face grew stony. “And why not?” he demanded.

“For two reasons, sir. First of all, you refer to me as an employee of McNally and Son. I am that and it pleases me. But regardless of your relationship with our firm, I shall continue my inquiries no matter what.”

“Even if your father orders you to stop?”

“Even if he does. But I doubt if that will ever come to pass. He knows me better than you do, Mr. Whitcomb. And you don’t know my father either. Yes, he can be an intimidating man, but he is also an extremely upright man. Never in a million years would he order me to end a criminal investigation. And I have absolutely no intention of doing so, whether as an employee of McNally and Son or as a private snoop. I have my standards, sir, just as you have yours.”

He was silent, staring at me.

“You may or may not believe what I have just said,” I continued. “But now let me give you the second reason why your proposed cancellation of the investigation is out of the question. This is information Sunny Fogarty did not relay to you because I didn’t tell her.”

I then related the involvement in the affair by Sgt. Al Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department and Special Agent Griffin Kling of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Both men are experienced law enforcement officers,” I told Mr. Horace, “and no way are you going to persuade them to end their digging. Agent Kling in particular is positively ferocious in his intent to end the criminal career of Ernest Gorton. Kling is a driven man, and I assure you any plea to end his crusade will be ignored.”

Mr. Whitcomb drained his coffee, and when he replaced his cup it clattered on the saucer.

“I suppose you think me a fool,” he said dully.

“No, sir,” I said, “I don’t think that. But events have been set in motion and they have an inexorable momentum you cannot stop. Until the matter is concluded— successfully, let us hope—Sunny Fogarty must take her chances, and so must you, I, Oliver, Ernest Gorton, and everyone else even remotely connected. We are all pawns, Mr. Whitcomb.”

“Yes,” he said with a twisted smile, “aren’t we? And especially Sarah.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that and didn’t ask.

Unexpectedly he yawned, stretching his arms wide, and I realized my guess of sleepless hours of worrying had not been amiss.

“I started the whole thing,” he said ruefully. “Told Sunny Fogarty to look into it. And now see what’s happened: my son a deceiver, Sunny’s safety at risk, my business threatened, the FBI involved. I have been hoisted by my own petard.”

“I don’t think that expression particularly apt, sir,” I told him. “It implies self-destruction, and you’re far from that.”

“Perhaps,” he said, not really believing it. “What do you propose to do now?”

“Continue what I have been doing. Sniff about, ask questions, listen to what people say and observe what they do, wait for things to happen. And sometimes give them a nudge.”

“It’s an art,” he said. “What you do.”

“Not quite,” I said. “More of a craft.”

Silence again, a long silence while he scrabbled at crumbs on the tablecloth. “My God,” he said in a low voice, “we do manage to mess things up, don’t we?”

I feared he was losing his nerve and it alarmed me. “Sometimes it seems so, Mr. Whitcomb,” I said, “but one never knows, do one? I mean, think of those lads who fought the men-of-war in your collection.”

That brightened him. “Yes,” he said, “you’re right. Have you ever heard the apocryphal story of what happened when John Paul Jones was battling the
Serapis
from the bridge of the
Bonhomme Richard?
His ship was riddled, on fire, sinking, decks awash with the blood of dead and dying sailors. Jones was called upon to surrender and shouted back, ‘I have not yet begun to fight!’ A Marine marksman high in the rigging looked down at the destruction below and said, ‘There’s always one son of a bitch who never gets the word.’”

We both laughed and I hoped he would be that son of a bitch, though naturally I didn’t mention it. I thanked him for the morning’s refreshment, we shook hands, and I departed. I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, thinking that for all his candor, his revelations and confessions, he had not yet told me the complete truth. The man was concealing something that troubled him mightily. I was convinced of it, but what that secret could be I had no idea. I had the dizzy notion it was the key word in a perplexing crossword puzzle. Ferret it out and everything would become clear: solved and elegant. Or so I thought.

I descended into our underground garage, parked, and-hopped from the Miata. Herb, our security guard, came lumbering over, his big dogleg holster flapping against his thigh.

“Hey, Mr. McNally,” he said, “you got a visitor. A lady.”

“Banzai!” I said. “Where is she—in the reception room?”

“Nah,” he said, jerking a thumb. “Over there.”

I turned to look. A new white Honda Accord. Very nice. I started toward it and the driver’s window came purring down. I leaned and peered within. There was no mistaking that tangerine hair: Ms. Rhoda Starlight/Flembaugh.

“Hi there!” she said brightly.

“T
REAT A HARLOT LIKE
a lady and a lady like a harlot.” Who said that? I have no idea, although it sounds like the Earl of Chesterfield advising his son. But I resolved to follow this counsel, so when Rhoda gave me a Cheshire cat grin and patted the seat beside her, I obediently circled the car, entered, and immediately became aware of the scent she was wearing. Stirring. One might even say invigorating—and I do say it.