McNally's Trial (26 page)

“And in the event of his mother’s death, Oliver hopes to inherit a controlling interest in Whitcomb Funeral Homes?”

“I believe that’s his hope, father. It’s the reason why he’s been building up their cash reserves, so he can start his expansion program the moment he becomes the majority shareholder.”

The sire looked at me strangely. I can only describe his expression as one of grim and sour amusement. I had the oddest notion he was about to reveal something that might turn the Whitcomb inquiry upside down. But apparently he thought better of it and returned to his interrogation.

“And in his effort to increase Whitcomb’s cash balance, Oliver struck a deal with this gangster Gorton?”

“That’s the way I see it, sir.”

“An illegal activity?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You feel Gorton is responsible for what happened to your car?”

“I’m sure of it. He ordered the kneecapping of the Miata. It was a message to me to end my prying or risk a more violent response.”

“I don’t like it,” father growled. “I don’t like it one bit. But Sergeant Rogoff and the FBI agent are in pursuit of Gorton. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. It’s their job, Archy, I strongly urge you to cease and desist from any further inquiries into the schemes of Ernest Gorton. Is that understood?”

“Father, I can’t cease and desist. I’m already involved and can hardly send Gorton a letter of resignation. In addition, Sunny Fogarty is in danger. I could not endure seeing her suffer the same fate as Rhoda Flembaugh. I simply cannot wash my hands of the whole affair and stroll away.”

I knew the pater was concerned for my personal safety and I appreciated that. But if he had his ethical code, I had mine. No way was I about to give up this chase. Succumb to the crude threats of a wannabe Alphonse Capone? I think not.

The guv didn’t argue, knowing it would be fruitless. He said, “Do you have any idea of the exact nature of Gorton’s role in this matter? Why all those caskets are being shipped north?”

“No, sir. No idea whatsoever. At the moment.”

“Getting rid of the victims of gang killings?”

“Possibly. I’m hoping the FBI investigation will give us a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

“During your last conversation with Horace Whitcomb,” he said, switching gears on me, “did he agree our inquiry was to continue?”

“He did. After I convinced him it was impossible to terminate it as he had requested.”

“Good. Keep a careful record of your billable hours, Archy.”

And on that happy commercial note we parted.

I trudged upstairs to my third-floor cage reflecting I had not been entirely forthcoming with the author of my existence. It was true, as I told father, I thought Oliver Whitcomb had made a devilish bargain with Ernest Gorton in order to further Oliver’s dream of creating the McDonald’s of mortuaries.

But I suspected there might be another reason for their partnership: Gorton was a dependable source of all those “controlled substances” people stuffed up their schnozzles or injected into their bloodstreams. I did not believe Oliver was hooked, but I suspected many of his moneyed chums were. And it was those same stoned pals our hero wanted to keep happily dazed, for he was depending on them to help finance his grandiose plans.

But that was speculation and I could be totally wrong. I have been totally wrong before—as when I assured Binky Watrous he would suffer no ill effects from eating a dozen fried grasshoppers.

I knew I should work on my journal, bringing that magnum opus current, but the prospect of scribbling for an hour was a downer. I yearned for a more challenging activity, something that would set the McNally corpuscles boogying and enliven what had really been a dismal day.

And so, when my phone rang, I pounced upon it, hoping it might be Consuela Garcia announcing her return. In truth I missed my fractious fraülein. But it was not Connie; it was Sunny Fogarty.

“Archy,” she said in a hushed voice as if afraid of being overheard, “I’m calling from a public pay phone. I’d like to talk to you tonight. Is there any safe place we can meet?”

I thought swiftly. I can do that, y’know. Not habitually but occasionally.

“Suppose I pick you up in half an hour,” I suggested.

A pause. “But if I’m under observation,” she said, “won’t they recognize your car?”

“I’m not driving the fire engine tonight,” I said blithely. “I have a white four-door Acura. No one in his or her right mind would ever link it with A. McNally, the registered playboy and bon vivant. Wait in the lobby of your condo. I pull up, you pop out and pop in, and off we go. It’ll work.”

“You’re sure?” she said doubtfully.

“Can’t miss,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“All right,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important to me.”

“Thirty minutes,” I repeated. “White Acura sedan.” And I hung up before she raised more objections. The lady seemed spooked, and I didn’t blame her a bit. I had no desire for another encounter with that knife-wielding gent in the polyester leisure suit.

It went beautifully. Sunny was waiting, scurried to the Acura, and away we sped. I glanced in the rearview and saw no signs of pursuit. Certainly not a black Harley. That was comforting.

“Why don’t we just drive down the coast and back,” I proposed. “I have a full tank. Well, I don’t but the car does, and I think we’ll be more secure on wheels and in motion rather than holing up at some public place. Is that acceptable?”

“Fine, Archy,” she said, putting a hand lightly on my arm. “It’ll give us a chance to talk in private.”

“You told me it was important.”

“It is,” she said. “To me.”

Not another word was uttered while I headed for A1A and turned south. It was a so-so evening: scudding clouds, high humidity, a gusty breeze smelling of geriatric fish. It was the sort of dreary weather that would make a knight want to curl up with a good book—or one of the pages.

We were closing in on Manalapan when she finally spoke.

“Archy,” she said, almost whispering, “I want to apologize.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Mr. Horace told me he informed you that he knew of your investigation from the start. I’m sorry I misled you and your father.”

“Perfectly understandable and forgivable,” I assured her. “You were merely following the instruction of your employer.”

“Yes, and he had a good reason for acting as he did. He didn’t want his dying wife to learn he had discovered their son might be engaged in a criminal conspiracy. Mrs. Sarah loves Oliver so much.”

“I cannot quarrel with Mr. Whitcomb’s motive,” I said. “I’m sure he did what he thought was best. But he set in motion an investigation that can’t be stopped.”

“He said
the
local police and the FBI are now involved.”

“That’s correct.”

“Archy, do you think Oliver will go to jail?”

“It’s quite possible, Sunny. As well as me other Whitcomb employees who are accomplices in me scheme.”

“But what
is
the scheme?” she cried despairingly.

“We’re working on it” was all I could tell her.

“You may think it an awful thing for me to say,” she went on, “but I hope Mrs. Sarah won’t live to hear her son has been imprisoned.”

“Not so awful. A very sensitive and empathic hope. What is her condition?”

“Not good,” she said gloomily. “The doctor says it’s probably a matter of days. She’s going, Archy.”

My desire for an activity to enliven a dismal day was thwarted. I should have stayed home, I decided, and worked on my journal. This conversation was definitely spirit-dashing time.

We were almost down to Delray when I pulled into a turnaround and parked for a few moments. I did this because Sunny had started weeping, quietly and steadily, and it seemed unfeeling to continue driving while she was so distraught.

“And if that isn’t enough,” she said between muffled sobs, “my own mother is fading, and I don’t know how long she has. Archy, everything is just falling apart. Everyone I love seems to be dying and I’ve never been so shaken and miserable in my life. I just feel my world is ending.”

Then she turned suddenly to embrace me. Not passionately, of course; she was seeking solace and who could blame her. She buried her face betwixt my neck and shoulder, making little snuffling sounds like a child who’s fallen and is hurting.

“Sunny,” I said, hugging her firmly, “you’re going through a bad time. But you’re a very strong woman and I know, I
know
you’ll survive intact. Are you familiar with Lincoln’s philosophy, appropriate to all times and situations? ‘This, too, shall pass away.’ It may sound cold and hardhearted in your present state but do keep it in mind. I think you’ll be surprised at what consolation it offers.”

After a few moments we shared a chaste kiss, disengaged, and returned to Palm Beach. Sunny’s head remained on my shoulder during that silent drive home, and occasionally she touched my arm or shoulder, as if she wanted to make certain I was there, to make contact with the living.

It had been a harrowing evening and I trust you’ll be muy simpatico when you hear that, arriving back in my belfry, I immediately poured a double brandy and flopped down behind my desk to sip and recover from that wounding conversation.

I discovered that, in my cowardly way, I didn’t even want to
think
about my talk with Sunny Fogarty. And so I donned earphones and listened to a snippet of tape: Gertrude Lawrence singing the yearning “Someday I’ll Find You.” I played it not once, not twice, but thrice.

I finally went to bed in a deliciously melancholic mood, reflecting that Mr. Lincoln may have been correct.

But the memory lingers on, does it not?

W
E NOW ARRIVE AT
a section of this narrative which I find, regretfully, somewhat embarrassing to pen. It concerns how I discovered the exact nature of Ernest Gorton’s flagrantly wicked scheme.

I wish with all my myocardium I could claim my discovery was the result of deucedly clever deductive reasoning—akin to Mr. Holmes solving a case by noting a dog
didn’t
bark. But I’m sure you respect me as a chap of absolute veracity, scrupulous and exact, not given to embroidering the facts. And so I must be truthful about what happened. I fear you’ll find it ridiculous—and it
was
ridiculous.

It began on Wednesday morning when, as usual, I overslept. Upon awakening I immediately phoned my West Palm garage and was overjoyed to learn the Miata was re-tired, back in fighting trim, and could be re claimed at my convenience. Good news indeed.

I breakfasted alone: a frugal meal of cranberry juice, black coffee, and a croissant sandwich of liverwurst, jack cheese, tomato, a slice of red onion, and just a wee bit of a macho mustard. Invigorating.

I was heading for the garage when mother came trotting from our little greenhouse. She was clad in Bermuda shorts and one of my cast-off T-shirts. Over this costume she wore a soil-soiled apron, as so many pistil-whipped gardeners do, and I knew she had been digging into or perhaps transplanting one or more of her precious begonias. We exchanged a morning kiss.

“Archy,” she accused, “did you have onions for breakfast?”

“Not me,” I protested. “It must be that new Polish mouthwash I’ve been using.”

“Listen, darling,” she said, “do you think you might get over to West Palm Beach sometime today?”

“That’s where I’m heading right now, luv. To get my car out of hock.”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“I’d go to hell fa ya,” I said, “or Philadelphia.”

She giggled delightedly. “That’s cute. What’s it from, Archy?”

“Beats me,” I admitted. “One of those oddments rattling around my cavernous cranium. A song lyric, I think.”

(Dear Reader: If you happen to know the source of that quote, please drop me a line. Much obliged.)

“Well, here’s what happened,” momsy went on. “I ordered some hanging scented begonia bulbs from a garden supply house. I specifically and definitely asked for the apricot basket but they sent the lemon which I already have. I want to return their package and request what I ordered or a refund. I have it all packed up and addressed. Could you take it to that mailing place in West Palm and send it out by UPS?”

“Of course I can and shall,” I averred. “Give me the package and I’ll be on my way.”

An innocuous incident, was it not? Merely the incorrect delivery of lemon-scented begonia bulbs when apricot had been ordered. Who could have guessed that trivial business would lead to the solution of the Crime of the Century? Certainly not A. McNally, the demon detective who once again learned the importance of chance and accident.

It took me an hour or so to return my rental, bribe an attendant to give me a lift to my garage, and ransom the Miata. I paid for everything with plastic and kept a record of the extravagant cash tips I distributed. Papa might be interested in billable hours; I was just as interested in my next monthly expense account.

Then I set out for the mailing emporium to send mother’s begonia bulbs on their way. I’m sure you have similar handy and useful services in your neighborhood. They pack and address shipments of all shapes and sizes, and send them off via United Parcel Service, Federal Express, Airborne Express, or whichever carrier you request. Of course one pays extra for this convenience, but it’s well worth it to have the paperwork professionally prepared.

The mailing outlet was crowded when I arrived, and I wondered how the U.S. Postal Service could hope to compete with express shippers offering speedy delivery, sometimes overnight, of everything from a legal-sized envelope to a leather hippopotamus hassock swaddled in bubblewrap and encased in a carton that looked large enough to contain a Wurlitzer.

I sent off the mater’s package by UPS, received a receipt for same, and wandered outside musing on the scene within and imagining what would have happened to our nation’s commerce if we were still enamored of the Pony Express. I was climbing into my rejuvenated Miata when it hit me.

I cannot declare it was a stroke of genius or claim my sudden revelation gave me the urge to yelp with joy and execute a grand jeté toes atwirl. My first reaction was a desire to smite my forehead sharply with an open palm, devastated by chagrin that I had been such a brainless ass I hadn’t grasped it before. “It” being Ernest Gorton’s odious machinations.