McNally's chance (mcnally) Page 13

  And, thanks to mama’s business savvy, Gillian had been given all the advantages due her heritage. Did Sabrina also name all the royal bastards who had risen above the happenstance of their birth? She was, after all, a writer of romances.

  A few days later, Gillian demanded to know who her father was. Here, Sabrina must have regretted her boasting. She refused to answer Gillian, not only to honor her bargain but also because she didn’t know the answer. When Gillian announced that she was going in search of him Sabrina must have been beside herself with fear. It was a wonder she sat still long enough for Silvester to come down here and try to talk the girl and Zack into returning home.

  The waitress brought me my elevenses and it was just what I needed. One cannot think properly on an empty stomach. What I was thinking was that Sabrina should have sat still a little longer before chasing after Silvester. Her meeting with me had precipitated a chain reaction that was taking on all the characteristics of a bedroom farce.

  But given the agendas of the concerned parties, this comedy was apt to revert to tragedy before the final curtain. Appleton had the countenance of Santa and Cranston the tolerance of Scrooge, but even Santa was known to deposit coal in a dissident’s stocking, and what wouldn’t Ebenezer do if he learned he had been bamboozled out of a small fortune? Small? Appleton had hinted at how generous he had been. Double it and you’re talking a king’s ransom. But both men would gladly absorb a financial loss if only Sabrina and Co. would go away. And both were hell-bent on not being named father of the year.

  Sabrina, for now obvious reasons, was poised to do what she must to keep either man from learning the truth. The situation was a scandal waiting to happen.

  My first reaction after leaving Cranston’s mobile office was to call Sabrina and read her the riot act, but now a calmer head and a fuller stomach prevailed. Let the titans do battle while little Archy slipped quietly off into the sunset, body and soul intact. Only Sabrina and Archy knew that Sabrina had played Russian roulette with two loaded pistols, and not even she knew which had fired the blank. But she didn’t know

  I knew and I had no intention of telling her I knew. With this crowd, ignorance was not only sublime, it was judicious.

  Archy knew too much about these three and Cranston knew too much about Archy. Our government wasn’t the only one to operate on a system of checks and balances.

  From this moment on I would be the man that got away and prayed they would never come looking for me. When father returned I would unload my burden; until then I would play the ostrich and bury my head in Bianca Courtney’s sandbox. I paid my check, left a generous tip, and headed for the Palace.

  The Palm Beach police headquarters is housed in an edifice that would not be out of place in the hills overlooking the Cote d’Azur. Thus it had been dubbed the Palace by Sgt Rogoff, who labors within the castle walls. The twelve o’clock whistle was about to toot when I parked out front, hoping to catch Al on his way to lunch if he was on desk duty and not patrolling the streets.

  Should he emerge with policewoman Tweeny Alvarez I would try to make myself invisible, which is not easy when you’re sitting in a red convertible in front of a police station. Tweeny Alvarez had a thing for Al which I believed was prompted by the fact that he was the only man on the force who could best Tweeny at arm wrestling. I couldn’t tell you if the feeling was mutual because Al wears only his sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

  Tweeny is no Tallchief or Callas, but then Al Rogoff is no Nureyev or Domingo, so it was a standoff in the looks and talent department.

  However, I didn’t know Tweeny well enough to say who her idols might be. Given Al’s physique and manner, I would take an educated guess that Tweeny’s favorite Hollywood dream boat was either Kong or Godzilla.

  Al came out, blinked in the bright sunlight of a Palm Beach summer day, and approached the Miata as if he were about to ticket me for illegal parking. Actually, it’s the way Al approaches everything that gets in his path. “You waiting to be arrested?” he greeted.

  “No, sir. It’s take-a-flatfoot-to-lunch day, compliments of the Pelican Club, and your name leaped out of the hopper.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he groaned, getting into the car. Al Rogoff getting into my Miata brought to mind the fat lady at the circus squeezing into a girdle. Tell me something, Archy; doesn’t the Grill at the Ambassador Hotel ever have a take-a-cop-to-lunch day?”

  “Heavens, no. Besides, you’d be out of place there,” I told him, putting the car into gear and moving off. The Palace and the Ambassador triggered the image of Richard Cranston presenting his credentials to Her Majesty.

  “I feel unwanted at the Pelican,” Al complained. “I walk in wearing my uniform and half the guys in the room start looking for the nearest exit. Is the joint a front for a booking parlor?”

  “It’s not the uniform, Al, it’s your demeanor. You come on like Eliot Ness entering a speakeasy. Relax. Give the boys a big smile and a friendly wave and see what happens.”

  Al folded his arms across his chest and looked at me obliquely. “Screw you, Archy.”

  Now the man was sounding more like himself and I took heart. “Tweeny off today?” I ventured cautiously.

  “She’s at the range, qualifying,” Al said.

  “Is she a good shot?”

  “Tweeny? From fifty yards she can knock a flea off a dog’s ear without singeing his fur.”

  “Tell me, Al, is there anything Tweeny Alvarez can’t do?”

  “Yeah. The dame can’t sit through The Ring of the Nibelung in one take. She gets antsy halfway through Cotter diimmerung.” Al shook his head in disgust.

  Poor Tweeny. She probably had been set for a romantic evening with Sinatra singing Mancini and she got Siegfried warbling Wagner. This romance did not bode well.

  The Pride of the Pelican, Ms Priscilla, welcomed us with an armful of menus and, “Well, well, the fuzz and the shamus. Are you in hot pursuit or can you stay for lunch?”

  “We’ll take the corner table, young lady, and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “Oh, cool it, bub, don’t get your Jockeys in a knot. Two malts, as usual?”

  “You can.” Sitting, I said to Al, “That girl is a piece of work.”

  “You can say that again. I saw the young Lena Home on the tube the other night and she had it all, but you know what? Pris is prettier than Lena.”

  “And more sassy.” I picked up one of the menus Priscilla had dropped on our table. “What are you having, Al?”

  “I won’t know how much of your money to spend until I know why you got me here.”

  I tried to raise one eyebrow as does my august papa and failed.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Archy, we’ve been friends for years and you’ve never invited me to lunch without having me sing for my supper. So what is it you want to know?”

  “You really know how to hurt a guy, Al.”

  “I hope so.” Al slapped his forehead with the palm of his huge hand.

  “Hell’s bells, I forgot to smile and wave. Should I go out and come in again?”

  Priscilla arrived with our froth-topped beers in chilled pilsner glasses, perfectly drawn by Mr. Pettibone. With a nod, Al knocked back half the glass, leaving a white mustache on his upper lip, which he carefully shaved off with his tongue. But remember, he can sit through The Ring tetra logy and hum along. How do you figure a guy like this?

  “Hamburgers and fries?” Priscilla guessed.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Why not?” Al questioned with indignation.

  “Since I all but gave up the weed, I’ve been putting on weight and I have to watch my waistline. Besides, we should be cutting down on red meat. We’re not getting any younger,” I lectured with feeling.

  Priscilla let out a chuckle. Take it from me, gentlemen, the bloom is off the rose.”

  “That’s not funny,” I told her.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.�
�� Remembering her job she recited the afternoon’s special. “Grilled salmon. Very healthy, especially with a tossed green salad.”

  I looked across the table at Al who was shaking his head. Man does not live long on hamburgers and fries washed down with a few pilsner glasses full of suds. In the interest of keeping Al alive long enough to tell me what I wanted to know I ordered for both of us. Two grilled salmons, Priscilla, and the tossed green.”

  “Okay,” Al relented unwillingly, ‘but bring me an order of fries on the side.”

  As Priscilla was withdrawing I called, “Make that two orders of fries.”

  “What about your waistline?” she challenged.

  “I’m not going to eat them. I just want to look at them and remember when I could.”

  Al watched Priscilla’s departing form, which was done up in a Pucci — a print wrap dress in light blue, black, and mocha and sighed. Watching Priscilla in retreat after taking an order had become the fastest growing non contact sport at the Pelican, an honor formerly held by our annual Running of the Lambs in the parking lot.

  We were a bit early for a lazy Palm Beach summer lunch and were the only ones occupying a table in the bar area. There were a few men seated on stools watching market quotes on the TV and picking Mr.

  Pettibone’s brain for tips. The dining room was nearly empty when we entered, but a steady flow of singles and doubles trickled in as we awaited our food.

  While his mind was otherwise occupied, I inquired with a bored air,

  “What can you tell me about Bianca Courtney, Al?”

  “She and Binky had Chinese takeout last night. Chicken and snow peas with extra fried rice. They ain’t eating healthy like us.”

  “Are you a peeping torn, Al?”

  “No. Kevin Woo delivered my order before going next door.

  Sweet-and-sour pork with two spring rolls.”

  “Kevin Woo? From what part of China does he hail, Belfast?”

  Al finished his beer and looked about for Priscilla. “He’s third-generation Floridian. His father is Tyrone Woo. He owns the Pagoda.”

  I was getting more information than I cared to know. “So Kevin Woo delivers the orders and rats on his customers. Did you ever think of moving into a fishbowl?”

  “It’s not like that,” Al said. “We’re a friendly group and we watch out for each other. We ain’t no different from your gang. You got Lolly Spindrift we got Mrs. Brewster.”

  Here, Priscilla breezed by and deposited a plate of crudites on our table. “It comes with the salmon,” she informed us.

  Staring at the raw vegetables, Al ordered two more beers and a platter of onion rings. “And a few dill spears while you’re at it.”

  And some of Leroy’s fried mozzarella sticks,” I added.

  “Should I have Leroy fry the crudites?” Priscilla asked before wandering off.

  “Where were we?” I said to Al when she was gone.

  “On a diet, remember?”

  “No, after that.” Snapping my fingers as if a bulb had just lit up in my head, I exclaimed, “Yes, Bianca Courtney. What else can you tell me besides what she and Binky had for dinner last night.”

  “Let’s see. She had a visit this morning from a man driving a red car.

  Then a stretch limo pulls up outside her door and sits there until the guy leaves Bianca’s pad. He gets in the limo for maybe twenty minutes, and it just sits there like there’s a meeting going on. When the guy gets out of the limo, it drives off, and then the guy gets back in the red car and follows it.”

  This left me not only flummoxed, but speechless. Our brews arrived and I drank to play for time. Mrs. Brewster had witnessed Cranston’s cloak-and-dagger ploy and reported it to the neighborhood cop. Did the snoop get the limo’s license number?

  “I got a call at the station house this morning from Mrs. B,” Al said, like I didn’t know. “Nice dame, but old and nervous. She calls me if a UPS truck backfires. So who was in the limo?”

  Nervous old ladies did not take down plate numbers. They wouldn’t turn their backs long enough to get pencil and paper. “It was a client, Al.

  That’s all I can say.”

  “How come a client met you at the Palm Court?”

  Not even I could answer that with a story that was remotely believable, so I made no attempt to do so. “You said we’ve known each other for a long time, Al, right?” He nodded with a shrug. “Have I ever done anything to abuse that friendship?” He shook his head but spared me the shrug. “Then I have to ask you to trust me with this one. I can’t tell you a damn thing about the limo, Al, but I promise I will as soon as I’m able.”

  “Has it got anything to do with Bianca Courtney and her deceased employer?”

  Absolutely not,” I said with joy at being able to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Our onion rings, pickles, and mozzarella sticks arrived and we helped ourselves. I felt I had sweated off enough pounds over Mrs. Brewster’s see-and-tell avocation to make up for the few ounces I was imbibing.

  “Has it got anything to do with Sabrina Wright?”

  My joy was short-lived. I grabbed a mozzarella stick to ward off the evil eye and to appease the gnawing in the pit of my belly. Lunch with Al Rogoff could be hazardous to your health. The best way to avoid answering a question was to ask one. “How do you know Sabrina Wright is in town, and why would I be involved with her?”

  Al was working on a pickle spear. He really loved those things. “We read Spindrift, too, and we like to keep an eye on the visiting firemen, especially the big shots. And there was a rumor going around that she hired Archy McNally to find some guy who ran off on her.”

  There was that blind item again. Gadzooks, it had done everything but start World War Three. Bite your tongue, Archy, she’s not out of Palm Beach yet. “Do you read Sabrina Wright, Al?”

  “Hell, no. But Tweeny does.”

  Somehow I could not imagine Tweeny Alvarez reading anything but the Most Wanted list. Changing the subject without drawing attention to the fact, I said, “I imagine Bianca Courtney reads her, too.”

  “So tell me what you were doing at Bianca’s?” Al asked.

  I’m so clever it hurts.

  “I was delivering a microwave oven,” I said, munching my third mozzarella stick. Well, they’re better than popping tranquillizers.

  “Do I have to trust you with that one, too?”

  I told Al everything, beginning with Binky’s housewarming and ending with my conversation with Bianca. “I went as a favor to Binky, you understand. The girl, as you know, is young and foolish.”

  “The broad, as you and me know, is young and pretty,” Al said, delivering a death blow to the English language. But don’t ever mistake him for a fool. Many a felon has and lived to regret it for anywhere from ten years to life. “She told you about the barbell. It’s a laugh, Archy. She wanted us to dust it for prints. The guy lives in the house, for chrissakes, and if his paws weren’t on everything in the joint I would be suspicious.”

  “But did you ask him why he was seen returning it to the exercise room the day after the accident?”

  “Yeah. And he didn’t appreciate it. He knew Bianca was the snitch.

  The barbell was in the garage holding down a stack of newspapers waiting to be picked up for recycling. The housekeeper confirmed this.”

  Funny what people leave out of their stories when they’re trying to prove a point. Now I was committed to visit Antony without an h. Maybe I could talk Bianca out of the visit and into a midnight swim. “One more question, Al. What did the forensic people say about the head wound?”

  “The old dame must have hit her head on the floor of the pool when she dove off the board.”

  “Must have,” I pounced. “But could the wound have been caused by something else?”

  Al dismissed this with a wave of his hand, which actually created a breeze. “But she was alive and well when she dove in the pool and dead when we carried her out. Conclusion, sh
e hit her head in the pool.”

  And who saw her dive in the pool, alive and well?”

  “Her husband, that’s who.”

  Anyone else?” I goaded.

  Archy, the guy gets next to nothing from her death. You know that and so does Bianca. He was better off when his wife was alive. Okay, he had to dip his wick a few times a week, but in return he got treated like a prince. Now he goes back to pushing rich old ladies around dance floors.”

  I must say Al’s description of the marriage bed had a certain flair.

  Priscilla arrived with our grilled salmon, tossed greens and fries on the side. I took this moment to ask her if the family had heard anything from their cousin in California.

  “Not a word,” Priscilla said, ‘and mom’s been on the phone with cousin Lucy daily, but she hasn’t heard a thing from her father since his last call.”

  Covering his fries with ketchup from a plastic squeeze bottle, Al asked, “What’s this all about?”

  I related the tale of Jasmine’s cousin and the diary of Henry Peavey.

  “You know the name, Al?”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.” He removed a pad from his shirt pocket, and reaching further down he came up with the stub of a pencil. He jotted the name on his pad. “I’ll run it through the local and national police registers and see what comes up.”

  “Thanks,” Priscilla said. “I’ll tell mom.”

  I heard one of the men at the bar say, “It’s Troy Appleton.” Several people left their tables to get closer to the TV screen.

  Curious, I called out, “What’s happening?”

  “The local station is showing Troy Appleton speaking on the steps of the capital in Tallahassee,” Mr.

  Pettibone announced. “They say he’s going to make a run for the U.S.

  Senate.”

  If he doesn’t run for cover first.