McNally's Trial (3 page)

“How about lunch?” I suggested. “Noon at the Pelican.”

Connie considered a moment. “Yes,” she said, “I think I can manage it. Wear your puce beret; that always puts me in a hysterical mood. What have you been up to, lad?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Life has been
bo-riiing.”

“Not casting a covetous eye about for any available dollies?”

“Not a dolly in sight,” I assured her. “I’ve really been behaving myself.”

“You better,” she said menacingly. “You know my spies are everywhere.”

That was an unpleasant truth.

“See you at noon tomorrow,” I said lightly, and we hung up after an exchange of telephonic kisses—energetic sounds that sometimes leave a bit of spittle on the mouthpiece.

When I told Connie there was no temptation of the female persuasion on the horizon, I did not prevaricate. But little did I know of the events that were to ensue from that doomed evening. I had been guilty of three grossly mistaken assumptions in less than two hours—a sad performance even by yrs. truly.

I overslept the next morning, as usual, and awoke to a world of damp gloom. Squalls were gusting in from the sea, and the sky appeared to be swaddled in disposable diapers. I was tempted to crawl back into the sack but stoutly resisted. There were deeds to be done, I told myself, and worlds to conquer.

By the time I clattered downstairs to the kitchen (not forgetting my puce beret), the house seemed deserted and I breakfasted alone. A search of the fridge provided a glass of cranberry juice, an English muffin sandwich containing boneless Portuguese sardines with a dab of Dijon, and two cups of instant black coffee.

Invigorated, I dashed out to our three-car garage and put the lid on my chariot. Then I started driving through a rain that was not vicious but vengeful. I mean, it was steady, resolute, and seemed likely to last forever. Even Sunny Florida has days like that. Tourists stay in their motel rooms, curse, drink beer, and watch television talk shows until their eyes glaze over.

But I was not deterred by the inclement weather, being determined to accomplish all the important tasks I had planned for that day. My first stop was at the salon (“Hair Apparent”) of Herman Pincus, where I received a light trim, scissors on the side, nothing off the top. We discussed a possible cure for a limited but definite tonsure that had appeared on my occiput. The bare spot, no larger than a silver dollar, struck terror to my heart, and I had visions of street urchins yelling, “Hey, baldy!”

But Herman assured me a hot oil massage of the affected area would help. So I endured that, wondering if a very small, circular rug might be a better answer for my affliction. Something like replacing a divot, y’see.

My second stop was at a gentlemen’s boutique on Worth Avenue, where I purchase most of my threads. I was looking for any new hats that might be available since I have an irrational love of headgear. To my delight I was able to purchase a visored Greek captain’s cap woven of straw. It was definitely rakish, added a certain je ne sais quoi to the McNally phiz and, best of all, concealed that damnable loss of hair. I was convinced it signified the looming end of youth, romance, and perhaps even sexual prowess. (All is vanity, the Good Book saith, and I agreeith.)

It was then time to buzz out to the Pelican Club to meet Connie Garcia for lunch. I was a bit early, the place was almost empty because of the downpour, and I was able to sit at the deserted bar and discuss with Mr. Pettibone what I might have to chase my temporary melancholia. He suggested a brandy stinger, but I thought that a mite heavy for noontime refreshment. We settled for a Salty Dog, a lighter potion but rejuvenating.

The reason I have described my morning’s activities in such explicit detail is to give you a reasonably accurate account of an average day in the life of a relatively young Palm Beach layabout—at least
this
layabout. I freely confess it was a life of carefree idleness. My only excuse is that at the time I did not think myself engaged in any serious discreet inquiries. In other words, I faced no energizing challenge. Before the day ended I was disabused of that notion.

When Connie appeared it was immediately obvious the miserable day had not crushed
her
spirits. She was her usual bouncy, ebullient self and danced toward me as if the sun were shining and the future unlimited. I know it may sound sexist, but I cannot refrain from describing Connie as dishy. The fact that I am continually unfaithful to her only proves that when it comes to a contest between a man’s brain and his glands, hormones are the inevitable winner. It’s sad but it’s something males must learn to live with.

She was wearing stonewashed denim jeans and vest with a pink T-shirt blessedly free of any legend. Her long black hair swung free, and if it was rain-spangled it was all the more attractive for that. She exuded a healthy physical vigor, and her “What, me worry?” grin would have brought a smile to the face of a moody tyrannosaur.

“Hello, bubba,” she caroled, giving me an air kiss.

“Bubba?!”
I said, outraged. “Since when have I been a bubba?”

She giggled. “I just wanted to yank your chain. Hey, let’s eat; I’m famished and don’t have much time.”

There was only one other couple in the dining room, so Connie and I were able to sit at our favorite corner table. Priscilla came bopping over to take our order while snapping her fingers. Pris is the only waitress I know who wears a Walkman while working.

We ordered Leroy’s special hamburgers, which have no ham, of course, but are a mixture of ground beef, veal, and pork. He also adds other ingredients when inspired by his culinary muse. On that day I believe it was curry powder. Very nice. We also had a basket of thick chips and shared a platter of cherry tomatoes and sliced cukes. Coors Light for Connie and a Heineken for me. It was a delectable lunch as lunches go, and as lunches go, it went—rapidly.

Connie brought me up-to-date on the most recent excesses of Lady Cynthia, including a proposal to issue ID cards to all the bona fide residents of Palm Beach.

“Wouldn’t a tattooed number be more effective?” I suggested. “Is the woman totally insane?”

“Not totally, but she’s getting there. And what have you been up to, hon?”

“Zilch.”

“No discreet inquiries?”

I want to be honest—well, I don’t
want
to be, but I must—and I confess that since the meeting with Sunny Fogarty I hadn’t given a fraction of a thought to the doings at the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. It seemed ridiculous to investigate a business simply because it was showing a handsome profit. But idly, for no other reason than to make conversation, I asked Connie:

“Ever hear of the Whitcombs?”

“The burying people?”

I nodded.

“Sure, I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb. Socially active—and I mean
very.
You might even call them swingers.”

“Oh?” I said, beginning to get interested. “And where do they swing?”

“Here, there, and everywhere. They throw some wild parties.”

“In Palm Beach?”

“Boca. But I understand they also have a villa on the Costa del Sol and a condo in Saint Thomas.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Shows what one can reap from planting people. Do Oliver and Mitzi have children?”

“Nope,” Connie said. “Swingers are too busy to breed. Why this sudden interest in the Whitcombs?”

“New clients,” I said casually. “I’m just trying to learn more about them.”

She stared at me coldly. “I hope that’s all it is. I wouldn’t care to discover you’ve been consorting with Mitzi Whitcomb.”

“My dear Consuela,” I said loftily, “I keep my personal relations with clients to an absolute minimum. It’s a matter of professional ethics.”

“Son,” she said, “you’ve got more crap than a Christmas goose.”

“Zounds!” I exclaimed. “How quickly you’ve picked up the elegant idioms of your adopted country.”

“Oh, stuff it,” she said. “Listen, thanks for the feed, but I’ve got to run.”

I signed the tab at the bar and we went out to the parking area. And there, standing in the drizzle, I donned my puce beret. As expected, Connie drove away laughing hysterically. It doesn’t take much to make her happy.

I tooled back to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a starkly modern edifice of glass and stainless steel. Not at all to my father’s taste, I assure you, but the architect convinced him the headquarters of McNally & Son must make a “statement,” so mein Vater went along with the express understanding that his private office would be paneled in oak, with leather furniture, an antique rolltop desk, and other solid (and rather gloomy) trappings that would have pleased Oliver Wendell Holmes.

I parked in our underground garage and sat there a moment, thinking of what Connie had told me about the sociable younger Whitcombs. Hardly earthshaking, I Concluded, but it was a bit unsettling to learn that the CEO of funeral homes and his wife were swingers. I mean, one does expect somber decorum from people in that profession—not so?

But perhaps my moral arteries are hardening and I’m becoming a young Savonarola.

I
RODE THE AUTOMATIC
elevator to my fourth-floor cubicle. It would be gross exaggeration to call it an office. I am not suggesting it was so cramped that you had to enter sideways, but I always thought of it as a vertical coffin and spent as little time entombed as possible. I do believe my liege consigned me to that windowless cubby to forestall accusations of nepotism. If so, he succeeded brilliantly. Fellow employees at McNally & Son referred to my sanctum as “Archy’s locker.”

I found on my desk a large, bulky package bearing no return address other than the messenger service that had delivered it. My first reaction was that it might be a bomb sent by an enraged husband. But I discounted that possibility although I removed the wrapping rather gingerly.

Within was a handwritten note (in an artful cursive) from Sunny Fogarty. It stated merely that enclosed was the computer printout I had requested, naming the cemeteries to which the Whitcomb Funeral Homes had sent their “customers” for burial during the past six months. Ms. Fogarty also included her address (West Palm Beach) and phone number. She suggested it would be best, if I had further questions or wished to impart information, to contact her at home rather than her Whitcomb office. A very careful lady.

I was looking at the stack of computer bumf with some dismay when my phone rang. It was the would-be Philip Marlowe.

“Greetings, old sport,” chirped Binky Watrous. “I’m ready to go to work.”

“What happened to your golf game?”

“Washed out,” he said. “I’m ready, willing, and able. When do we start?”

“Immediately,” I said, eyeing the opened package on my desk. “Come over to my office.”

“On my way,” he said happily. “Half an hour at the most.”

I used the time to phone Lolly Spindrift. He is a gossip columnist (the three-dot variety) at one of our local rags, and his jazzy comments on past, present, and future scandals are read and enjoyed by most of the literate haut monde and hoi polloi of Palm Beach County.

Lolly and I have a mutually beneficial working relationship, a quid pro quo that profits both of us. Occasionally I feed him exclusive items from current discreet inquiries, but nothing, I assure you, that would imperil a client’s reputation. In return, the schlockenspieler serves as a database of local rumors and tittle-tattle. He simply knows everything that has gone on, is going on, and will go on in our hermetic social world.

“Hi, darling,” he said in his flutey voice. “What have you got for me?”

“Come off it, Lol,” I said. “After those tips I gave you on the Forsythe affair, you owe me.”

“Very well,” he said. “A clear case of noblesse oblige. What do you want, luv?”

“Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb,” I said. “Know anything about them?”

I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Do I ever! But why would you be interested in the happy grave diggers?”

“In due time, Lol,” I said patiently. “In due time you’ll be the first to hear. Now what have you got?”

“Wild ones,” he said promptly. “Apparently inexhaustible funds. Chronic party-goers and party-givers. And some of the people they party with are, shall we say, on the demimonde side. A very curious couple. It isn’t what I’d call a working marriage, sweetie. They both tomcat around like maniacs, obviously with each other’s permission if not approval. I’ve always thought there’s something dreadful and fascinating going on there, but I’ve never been able to nail them without fear of libel. Keep me informed, dear.”

“Will do,” I promised and hung up.

I lighted a cigarette while awaiting Binky’s arrival. What Lolly had told me only confirmed and sharpened what Connie Garcia had revealed. Of course I had no conception of what the lifestyle of Oliver and Mitzi had to do with the unexplained profits of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. But I suffer from a bloated curiosity, almost as enlarged as my liver, and it seemed to me further discreet inquiries about the “curious couple” were warranted.

Binky Watrous showed up in a blazer that would have been the envy of Emmett Kelly. He had seen my office before and was not shocked by my teensy-weensy professional crypt. First-time visitors are sometimes stunned speechless. My temporary man Friday flopped into the folding steel chair alongside my desk and helped himself to one of my English Ovals. He gestured toward the stack of computer printout.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That, son,” I said, “is the start of a new investigation. It records the names and addresses of cemeteries to which the Whitcomb Funeral Homes have delivered their dear departed over the last six months. You and I must go through this encyclopedia of mortality and compile lists of the cemeteries involved and the number of deceased each of them accommodated.”

Binky looked at me with something like horror. “You jest?” he said hopefully.

“I do not jest,” I said firmly.

“Archy,” he said plaintively, “don’t you have anything more exciting for me to do? You know—interrogating predatory blonds, shoot-outs, bloodbaths—that sort of thing.”