McNally's Gamble (22 page)

“I had one of your leftover ales for breakfast,” he announced. “Hit the spot.”

“And that’s what you called to tell me?”

“Nah. I thought you’d like to know Sydney Smythe’s English cousin is in town.”

“Oh? What kind of a guy is he?”

“She. A very straight, solid lady. We explained we can’t release the body for a few days and it didn’t upset her. Says it’s her first visit to the Land of the Brave and she plans to look around a little. Want to meet her?”

“No.”

“Still got the guilts, huh? The cousin—her name’s Penelope Blakely-Jones—found out Smythe owed two months’ rent at his motel. I guess the guy was scraping bottom.”

“I think he was.”

“Anyway she’s going to take a few personal things and give the rest of Smythe’s belongings to the motel owner to sell for the back rent.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Have you unsealed his apartment?”

“Yep. We went through all his stuff. A lot of junk. Nothing was any help. You get the fingerprints of Clemens and Katz?”

“Al,” I protested, “it was only last night you told me you wanted them. Give me some time.”

“The sooner the better,” he said, and hung up.

I went back to scrawling in my professional journal. Memories of the previous day’s events came crowding and I dutifully jotted them down without attempting to judge their importance or significance. It was purely mechanical labor requiring little thought and so enabled my fancy to soar.

Lest you think me totally gormless (actually I have as much gorm as me next chap), my dreams were firmly rooted in reality. The facts were these:

Lady Cynthia Horowitz, doyenne of Palm Beach society, was temporarily deserting our shores on Friday morning to spend the holiday season at her St. Tropez villa. During her absence her social secretary, my very own Consuela Garcia, was driving south to spend Christmas and New Year’s with her multitudinous family in Miami.

And so that Thursday night would be my last opportunity to enjoy Connie’s company until the new year. We had agreed on a farewell dinner at the Ritz-Carlton in Manalapan and decided it should be a black-tie occasion. I had already made our reservation and had my Christmas gift to her, diamond stud earrings, gift-wrapped and ready to be handed over with many wishes for a fabulous Christmastide.

And then after dinner? As stated, I allowed my fancy to soar and my anticipatory visions had me snorting like a randy sophomore.

My daydreams were demolished by a second phone call, this one from Walter Westmore.

“I know it’s too soon to expect results, Archy,” he said anxiously, “but Natalie and I wondered how your investigation is coming along.”

“Excellently,” I said, lying briskly. “I have already queried the professional agencies I mentioned in my father’s office. No replies received as yet. Also—and this is
entre nous
you understand—I have persuaded law enforcement officers to conduct a computer trace on Clemens and his secretary to determine if any criminal record exists. In addition, I have managed to place my assistant, an extremely clever and experienced operative, as an employee of the subjects to observe and report on their activities. He will serve as an undercover agent, one might say.”

“It sounds like you’re really making progress,” Walter said relievedly. “When do you think you’ll have something definite to tell us?”

“As soon as possible,” I said, wearying of the repetition.

“Wait a sec,” he said. “Natalie wants to speak to you.”

“Archy,” she said in a snarky voice, “you’ve really got to
do
something. Clemens talks to mother every day, and I’m afraid he’ll get her to hand over the money before you can prove he’s an oily crook.”

“Natalie,” I said as equably as I could, “you must be patient. I’ve been overseeing this investigation for only two days, you know, and Walter will tell you how much I have already accomplished.”

“You must do more,” she said, still snappish. “And if you take too long, Walter and I will have to do something ourselves. I don’t think you realize how important this is to us.”

I did not relish being dressed down by a client—and a nonpaying client to boot. (At the moment I would have liked to.)

“I fully realize its importance,” I said coldly, “and am doing my best to bring the matter to a successful conclusion. You’re quite at liberty to seek assistance elsewhere, you know, if that is your wish.”

“Oh God!” she wailed. “You can be
such
a prig!”

She slammed down the receiver and I yelled, “I detest your petunia!” at the dead phone.

It took a cigarette to soothe my shredded nerves. I finally calmed sufficiently to resume my chores as a diarist. I recalled Fred Clemens had referred to the Westmore siblings as kooks, as children from hell, and as a gruesome twosome. I was beginning to think he was a perspicacious analyst of human behavior.

I prepared my own lunch, only a small salad of ersatz crabmeat because I had already decided what Connie and I would have at dinner: a luscious Chateaubriand. Or perhaps, if it was available, beef Wellington. I returned to my desk debating a proper wine for the tender slab of meat I envisioned. Merlot? Pinot noir? A fine old cabernet? Burgundy? It was, I decided happily, a no-lose decision.

I finished my journal entries about three o’clock with the feeling I had achieved a great deal. The illusion faded when I reread my jottings. All the details were there but the pattern, the big picture, eluded me.

Connie phoned in an exuberant mood compounded of her freedom from her employer’s whims for two weeks (she was sometimes referred to by enemies as Lady Horrorwitz); the planned visit to her family in Miami; and our dinner date that evening. I hoped it was the last that made the biggest contribution to her high spirits.

I promised to pick her up at six o’clock and the moment we disconnected I flopped into bed for a short nap, knowing it was going to be a long evening. I awoke in time to shower, shave, and don my black tropical worsted dinner jacket and all its accoutrements. Then I made certain I had keys, handkerchief, wallet, credit cards, cigarettes, lighter, and Connie’s gift.

I bounced downstairs ready to slay dragons or rescue a damsel in distress—and received a five-star surprise. My father had just returned from the office and we met in the hallway. He observed my finery and hoisted an inquiring eyebrow. I explained I was escorting Connie Garcia to a farewell dinner at the Ritz-Carlton before her departure on a Christmas vacation.

“I do not believe your convertible is suitable for such a festive event,” he said, po-faced. “I suggest you borrow the Lexus for the evening.”

I was shocked,
shocked,
I could count on the thumb of one hand the number of times he had made that offer.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I promise to return it with no scratches or dings.”

“See that you do,” he said gruffly, and handed over the keys.

Driving the big Lexus was like piloting a safe on wheels after breezing about in my sprightly Miata. But I must admit I enjoyed the solidity and comfort. I opened the sunroof and fiddled with the radio until I found an acceptable station. I shunned my father’s tapes and CD’s, knowing they’d be Guy Lombardo or Mantovani.

I couldn’t have ordered a more enchanting evening. The faintly luminescent sky was cloudless and salted with stars. A pale moon was half a key lime pie and a tangy breeze billowed, too cool for a T-shirt, too warm for a sweater, just right for a dinner jacket. Even inland I thought I could hear the susurrus of the sea. What a night! I prayed it might end as felicitously as it had begun.

I pulled up in front of Connie’s building and saw her waiting inside the glassed lobby. She glimpsed the black Lexus but made no move to exit, obviously expecting my fiery roadster.

She was garbed in a drop-dead gown of shimmery satin in periwinkle blue. Her long black hair was up, braided and held in place with a glittering ornamental comb—something a flamenco dancer might wear. And she carried a small tapestried minaudière.

Connie could never be called elegant—at least by me. I think elegance demands cool serenity, physical slenderness if not emaciation, and sometimes a bloodless hauteur. Connie had something better: a fleshy vitality, open passions, a bursting energy I found bewitching if occasionally daunting.

I gave the horn a brief tottle, and when she glanced at the Lexus again, I waved a beckoning arm through the open window. She came from the lobby and I alighted to greet her. She paused a mo to inspect our transportation delightedly.

“Oh, Archy,” she said, “how grand!”

“Only for tonight,” I told her. “A royal coach for a royal princess.” I moved to kiss her cheek but she fended me off.

“Wait! Wait!” she cried, opened her little bag, fumbled within and brought out a sprig of mistletoe, complete with white berries. She held it over her head. “Now!” she commanded.

Laughing, I kissed her lightly once, twice, thrice. “Good planning on your part, luv. Keep the shrub handy; I’m sure we’ll put it to use.”

“I intend to,” she said firmly.

We drove south on Ocean Boulevard, the radio turned low until “Because You Loved Me,” a pop ballad of the day, came on, and then Connie turned up the volume. She lay back on the leather and gazed at the sequined sky through the open sunroof.

We chatted of this and that as we sped southward on the almost deserted corniche. Connie told me of the holiday parties her family had scheduled. When we passed the first sign announcing the distance from our destination I mentioned I had met a blind woman at the Westmores’ fete who lived in Manalapan.

“Her name is Barney Newfield,” I told Connie. “Isn’t that choice? What a wonderful old lady! She was Walter’s professor and mentor, and apparently they’re still quite close. She’s remarkably sharp and spry considering her age and blindness.”

“You shouldn’t say she’s blind,” Connie chided. “You should say ‘visually impaired.’”

“Correct. And you shouldn’t say I smoke too much. You should say I’m nicotinically challenged.”

“And I should say you’re mentally deprived instead of calling you a nut.”

We both giggled, she held the mistletoe over her head, and I took my eyes off the road long enough to kiss her chin.

We were ushered to a primo table in the dining room of the Ritz. And while I will not claim we were the cynosure of all, we did attract attention. I’m sure some of the curious/envious reaction was due to our formal attire but I think it was Connie’s game with the mistletoe that drew most eyes in our direction. No one seemed to object to our osculation. I certainly didn’t.

I shall not describe our dinner in detail other than to mention the wine I selected was a ’92 Haut-Brion. (I hope you approve.) The reason for my reticence is because I have found when writing about succulent, mouthwatering foods I am invariably driven to dash wildly to the refrigerator to see what’s available. So to prevent my waistline from exceeding my IQ I shall merely report it was a most enjoyable occasion made more memorable by a poignant tenderness I am certain we both felt. It was, after all, a farewell and if our separation was to be of only two weeks’ duration it was sufficient to give our pleasure an elegiac tinge.

We exchanged Christmas presents before our postprandial liqueurs were served. I gave Connie the stud earrings. She gave me gold cuff links in the shape of love knots. I was delighted with my gift, and her joy at receiving the diamonds was obvious. I helped her insert the posts into her pierced lobes and when the jewels were in place they looked smashing. Connie knew it and glowed.

Up to that moment the evening had been pleasurable and continued so. But when our green Chartreuse was brought an incident occurred that gave our dinner an added significance. We raised glasses to each other in a silent toast and I experienced a startling epiphany.

I do not claim my sudden and unexpected discovery rivaled Sir Isaac getting bopped on the pate by a falling apple or Archimedes yelping “Eureka!” in a hot tub, but I thought it a thing of wonder and good fortune. And what exactly was my serendipitous revelation? Patience! You shall learn shortly. Hint: It concerned the Fabergé ovoid.

“Why are you laughing?” Connie asked me.

“Because I’m happy,” I answered, and indeed I was.

We drove home with almost no conversation between us but content all the same. I have long felt a true test of lovers’ intimacy is whether or not they can be both silent and pleased while together. I don’t mean a silence of a day, week, month, or lifetime, but brief periods when nonstop chatter is unnecessary and unwanted, and shared quiet has its own charm.

We arrived at Connie’s condominium, parked, and before leaving the car my light-o’-love again haloed her head with the mistletoe sprig, and this time our embrace and kiss were more impassioned. Then we went up to her apartment.

Connie keeps a liter of Absolut in her freezer for my enjoyment, believing the. way to a man’s heart is through his liver. We each had a noggin of the icy vodka while we watched a video titled
The Best of Benny Hill
which left us exhausted from laughing. We revived by listening to a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing “All Through the Night”—so beautiful it leaves one haunted with longing.

Taking the song as our cue we disrobed slowly, smiling at each other.

Connie wore her new earrings to bed.

I won’t tell you where she held the mistletoe.

N
EED I INFORM YOU
I overslept on Friday morning? (In my own bed I hasten to add.) I awoke to find myself surprisingly clearheaded considering all the wassailing of the previous evening. True, I did seem to be moving slowly, as if a misstep or sudden action might have dire consequences. Fragile! That’s the word. I definitely felt fragile. But nothing two cups of black coffee and three Wolferman’s crumpets (with apricot spread) couldn’t remedy. They did.

I finally arrived at the McNally Building shortly before noon and found on my cluttered desk a message from our receptionist stating Mr. Frederick Clemens had phoned and requested I return his call. I did so and was answered by Felix’s toneless, “Clemens Investments. May I help you?”