McNally's Gamble (5 page)

“May I speak to Mrs. Westmore, please,” I said.

“Which Mrs. Westmore?” he asked.

“Mrs. Edythe Westmore,” I said hastily. “This is Archy McNally calling. You might tell Mrs. Westmore I am the son of Madeleine.”

“A moment, please, sir,” he said, and I wondered why he was so sad. He sounded as if he had just won the Florida lottery and had lost the ticket.

It didn’t take a moment; she came on the line almost at once. “Archy McNally!” she cried. “It’s so nice to speak to you again! How long has it been since you gallantly picked up my beads at The Breakers?”

“At least two years.”

“No! Surely not that Jong?”

“Tempus does fugit,”
I said lightly, and then I went into my spiel. I told her mother had mentioned she, Mrs. Westmore, consulted a very successful investment adviser, and since I had a modest sum to invest I wondered if she would be good enough to grant me a few moments of her time so I might learn more about this money manager, his personality, and how he operated.

And you know, while I was delivering this song and dance I had a sudden attack of déjà voodoo and was convinced I had uttered this pitch before. And of course I had—to Binky Watrous when I was instructing him how to handle Frederick Clemens. I am ashamed to admit it but the similarity between the two ploys had not previously occurred to me. Oh doctor, is the McNally brain turning to mashed squash?

I hoped Binky would achieve the success I did, for Mrs. Westmore said, “Of course, Archy. I’ll be happy to tell you what I know about Fred. He’s such a marvelous man and I was so smart to consult him. Would you like to come over here?”

“I would indeed, Mrs. Westmore. Perhaps early next week? At your convenience.”

“Just let me take a peek at my engagement book. Uh-huh. Monday is the only time I have free. How does that strike you?”

“Monday would be fine.”

“Listen, Archy, you’ve never seen my beautiful home, have you?”

“No, ma’am, I have not.”

“I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come for lunch on Monday, say about noon. That will give me time to take you on the grand tour and then at lunch we can talk about Fred and investments.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “You’re very kind to invite me.”

There was a short pause. Then she said, “And by all means bring your wife if she’d care to come.”

“Impossible,” I said with a laugh sounding tinny even to me. “I’m not married, Mrs. Westmore.”

“Well, we’ll have to do something about
that!”
she said heartily. I cringed, wondering if matrons consider matchmaking a hobby, a sport, or a divine calling.

“See you Monday,” she said briskly, and hung up.

I went down for my swim, delighted with the outcome of my plan—or rather mother’s plan. I hoped Natalie and Helen Westmore would be present at the Monday lunch. But then I imagined it might be the unmarried daughter Mrs. Westmore had in mind when she vowed to “do something about” my bachelorhood.

The ocean seemed awfully chill.

During the family cocktail hour on Friday evening I informed mother I had called Edythe Westmore and had been invited to lunch.

“She wants me to see her, quote, beautiful home, unquote,” I said. “Her investment adviser is a, quote, marvelous man, unquote, and she was, quote, smart, unquote, to consult him. Mrs. Westmore is not exactly a paradigm of modesty, is she?”

Father had been mixing the traditional dry martinis he favors, listening to our conversation. He turned with the crystal pitcher to fill our glasses.

“She spoke of her investment adviser, did she, Archy?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “His name is Frederick Clemens but she twice referred to him as Fred. I would say it implies a certain degree of intimacy, wouldn’t you?”

“Not necessarily intimacy,” he said in his lawyerly way. “A close friendly relationship perhaps.”

“His name is Clemens?” mother said, perplexed. “I thought it was Twain.”

“Same man,” I assured her. “You were using the pseudonym.”

And that confused the poor dear even more.

After dinner I went up to my snuggery and worked on my journal. I jotted notes on the conversations with Sydney Smythe, my lunch with Binky, mother’s description of the Westmore family, and the dialogue with Edythe. It may not sound like much to you and at the time I would have agreed. Later I learned those entries contained the seeds of a solution to the most puzzling inquiry I have ever undertaken, other than why scones always fall to the floor butter side down.

I was still scribbling away when Binky phoned. He was in a euphoric mood.

“She called!” he shouted. “Bridget! Ireland!”

“Brava,” I said. “Did you talk about the weather?”

“And other things,” he said smugly. “She misses me, Archy; I can tell.”

“How can you tell? Did she say so?”

“Not in so many words but she kept sighing.”

“Maybe she just had a cup of poteen.”

“What’s poteen?”

“Irish moonshine. Enough of this blather; did you call Frederick Clemens?”

“I did. A man answered but it wasn’t him.”

“How did you know?”

“Because he said, ‘Clemens Investments,’ and I asked, ‘Mr. Clemens?’ and he said, ‘May I ask who is calling?’ I gave him my name and said I wanted to talk to Mr. Clemens about investing. And he said, ‘Just a moment, please,’ and then a second man came on the phone and said, ‘Frederick Clemens speaking. How may I help you?’”

“So the first man was probably a receptionist, secretary, or assistant. How did Clemens sound?”

“How did he sound?”

“His voice, Binky. Loud, soft, deep, high-pitched, thin, resonant?”

“A mellow voice. Very smooth. The gift of gab, you know. A real salesman.”

“Did he ask any questions?”

“How much I was thinking of investing. That’s all he asked. I told him fifty thousand.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He suggested I come talk to him. He said he wanted to get an idea of my tolerance for risk. What did he mean, Archy?”

“He wants to find out if you’re a fuddy-duddy or a cowboy. Did you make an appointment?”

“Yep. Monday afternoon at three o’clock.”

“Well done, Binky. Remember what I told you about how to dress. And no birdcalls. You’re to impress him with your couth.”

“Easy. I’ve got couth I haven’t even used yet.”

“I can vouch for that: Call me after your meeting. Perhaps we can get together Monday night. Good luck.”

I hung up, pleased with the way things were going. Who wrote of possible slippage twixt the cup and the lip? No matter. I should have taken heed of the warning.

I know it was Homer who said, “There is a time for many words, and there is a time for sleep.” I slept.

I awoke the next day full of p&v and feeling not at all guilty for oversleeping on a Saturday morn. I peered out the window and saw a sunlit world with all the trimmings. I spotted Hobo wandering about, waiting for someone or something to entertain him.

The only planned activity on my calendar was a croquet tourney scheduled for noon at the North Palm Beach home of a Pelican Club habitué who fancied himself a Master of the Mallet. You may think croquet an effete game but I assure you it can be vicious when practiced by muscular young men and women, all firmly convinced that nice guys finish last. Needless to say, wagering was one of the reasons for the fierce competition.

I went through the usual morning drill and then pulled on white ducks with a brass-buttoned navy blazer. I bounced downstairs to a deserted kitchen and prepared a toasted muffin sandwich of sharp cheddar, plus a glass of cran juice and a cup of steaming black caffeine. And a second muffin sandwich of sharp cheddar. Croquet demands strength and stamina.

I exited from the back door and found Jamie Olson repainting Hobo’s doghouse. The hero himself sat happily nearby watching a man work—always a pleasurable sight. He spotted me, gave a short bark of welcome, and came scampering for a pat and ear scratch. I wandered over to Jamie and exchanged good-mornings.

“Getting shabby, was it?” I asked.

His dentures were clamped down on the stem of his old briar and he spoke around it.

“Yep,” he said. “And leaking. I caulked yesterday.”

“On behalf of Hobo,” I said, “I thank you. Jamie, you know anyone who labors for Mrs. Edythe Westmore?”

It was not an idle question. There is an informal network of butlers, maids, housemen, cooks, chauffeurs, and other servants of Palm Beach residents able to afford a domestic staff. These personal employees frequently exchange job tips and even more frequently exchange gossip about the habits and foibles of their employers, intimacies rarely revealed to the tabloids but so juicy they demand an appreciative audience. Everyone likes a good laugh.

Olson was my source of backstairs rumors and occasionally his inside skinny proved invaluable. I usually gave him a fin or two for his assistance—a practice that would infuriate my father if he learned of it.

Jamie paused in his painting, set the brush atop the bucket, and removed the pipe from his mouth. “Mrs. Westmore?” he repeated. “Got a place south of here?”

“Right.”

“Two live-ins,” he reported. “Cook is Mary Stebbins. Skinny as a rail. Cooks mostly got heft but Mary don’t. Houseman is Al Canfield. Rightful name is Algernon but he likes Al better.”

“I know exactly how he feels,” I said. “Who does the cleaning and donkeywork?”

“Commercial crew. Comes in three times a week.”

“About Al, the houseman... I spoke to him on the phone and he sounded down in the mouth.”

“Got a lot on his mind. Looking for a new place.”

“Oh? Do you know why?”

“Can’t please the missus. Do this, do that, you’re not doing it right, what’s taking you so long. Like that. Al calls her Madam Nag.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Understandable.”

I slipped Jamie his usual pourboire, gave Hobo a final back pat, and started for North Palm Beach. I felt confident I would triumph and perhaps pick up a nice piece of change.

I
LOST. I CANNOT BLAME
it on bad luck although there was plenty of that. But I played like the duffiest of duffers, and the merry hoots of my opponents were crushing. I also managed to lose almost fifty simoleons and was thankful payday was less than a week away. Otherwise I’d have to hit mama for a small loan since my bank account was inching toward the panic level.

The only thing that saved the afternoon from being a complete disaster was the bar and buffet provided by our generous host. A fine selection of cold meats and seafood was available and I partook of everything. But my maladroitness drove me to visit the do-it-yourself bar several times and I put quite a dent in the vodka supply. It didn’t improve my skill with a mallet but it deadened the pain of failure.

I arrived back home late in the afternoon driving slowly and carefully. I was in no mood for an ocean swim, feeling a nap would be more beneficial. I was sleepy—all the fresh air, you know. So I shucked my duds, flopped into bed, woke about an hour later and,
mirabile dictu,
felt bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I phoned Connie Garcia at her office, figuring she’d probably still be at work. She was and in no mood for casual banter.

“Lady C. is driving me right up the wall,” she complained. “I think I’m ready for Intensive Care.”

“I can provide it,” I promised. “How about our dinner date tonight?”

“It’s on,” she said. “But it’ll be latish and I won’t have time to go home and change.”

“How late?”

“About eight o’clock. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “Where?”

“Let’s go to Rinaldo’s. All I want is a small fettuccine Alfredo and a big Caesar salad.”

“No wine?”

“Silly boy!”

“See you at Rinaldo’s at eight,” I said, and we disconnected.

We shall now fast-forward to a small, comfortable, and garlicky Italian restaurant on South County Road. It is eight o’clock on the dot, and I am standing just inside the entrance awaiting Connie’s arrival. I am also stoutly resisting an urge to have a vodka rocks at Rinaldo’s little bar. We’d probably be drinking Chianti Classico shortly and I am aware of the perils of mixing grain and the grape.

Connie came bustling in about ten minutes later and if she was exhausted one would never have known it from her manner. She gave me a bright smile and a warm
abrazo.
Also, she smelled nice.

“Wine me and dine me,” she commanded.

“At once, m’lady,” I said, and found us a corner banquette backed by a garish oil painting of Vesuvius erupting. An apron-clad waiter hustled over to take our order, starting with a bottle of vino. It turned out to be softer and fruitier than I had anticipated but I had no objection and neither did Connie.

In case you have unaccountably missed my previous encomiums, let me tell you about Connie Garcia. She is a Latin femme fatale. She is a Marielita and I think her a maze of contradictions, at once soft, loving, blithe-spirited and jealous, distrustful, vengeful.

The latter three characteristics are much in evidence when she suspects or has evidence of my infidelity. More than once she has launched a physical assault upon the McNally carcass when my perfidiousness became obvious. How well I recall inviting a young centerfold to a Friday night dinner at an obscure English pub in Boca Raton. I was certain I would be safe from Connie’s intrusion or observation by one of the many spies who delight in informing her of my shenanigans.

But fate was unkind. Ms. Garcia entered with a female friend and immediately spotted me with my nubile dining companion. She marched over to our table and dumped in my lap the entire contents of my bowl of cock-a-leekie. Then she and her pal stalked out. I wasn’t scalded but my plan for a lubricious evening had been effectively dampened.

Connie had said all she wanted at Rinaldo’s was pasta and a salad. But when the antipasto trolley was wheeled up she could not resist and neither could I. We heaped our plates high with Tuscan hors d’oeuvres but had the strength of character to decline second helpings.

Connie began telling me of her current tribulations in organizing Lady Horowitz’s sit-down dinner.