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  I carried this magnum opus with a cold bottle of Heineken up to my den and settled down to feed my face and reflect on the developments of that frustrating day.

  As I gorged I became convinced the disappearance of the two former clerks of Parrots Unlimited did indeed have a bearing on the murder of Hiram Gottschalk. The connection was unknowable at the moment but I felt a relation did exist and required some heavy sniffing about.

  To do that, I realized, I would to some extent have to depend on the investigative talents of Binky Watrous—which was somewhat similar to a man with a broken leg leaning on a rubber cane. But Binky was capable of making observations and reporting odd or unusual occurrences, and I reckoned his raw data was necessary if I was to arrive at any intelligent analysis of what had happened and was happening in this baffling puzzle.

  In addition to giving Binky fresh instructions—couched in the form of a pep talk since the lad needed constant reassurance he was a reincarnation of Hercule Poirot—I intended to dig into the role of the Fish and Wildlife Service. Sgt. Rogoff had mentioned that the missing Tony Sutcliffe had corresponded with that agency. Al’s remark had been so casual I was certain the matter was more important than his offhand manner implied. The sergeant plays his cards very, very close to his vest. And so do I—if I wore a vest. Will a shocking-pink Izod golf shirt do?

  The sandwich and the brew worked their way and I was suddenly overcome by the need of a nap. Not a long one, you understand, but a brief, intense slumber to give my wearied gray matter (it’s really a Black Watch tartan) a chance to regain its customary zip.

  But before I drifted off I had a strange epiphany. Because parrots seemed to play an important part in this affair, I had come to visualize the Gottschalk ménage as an aviary, a cageful of exotic and brilliantly colored birds. Suddenly my fancy was revised and I imaged it as a zoo crowded with ugly and rapacious beasts.

  A curious vision certainly but mental pabulum all the same.

  CHAPTER 20

  BY SUNDAY MORNING THE SKIES had cleared—and I wished I could say that for my thoughts. I was in such a distracted mood I accompanied my parents to church: something, I regretfully admit, I rarely do. The sermon was based on the scriptural dictum “The meek shall inherit the earth.” How true, how true, and keep it in mind the next time you’re mugged.

  We returned home and went our separate ways. Father retired to his study to continue devouring The New York Times. Mother hurried to the greenhouse to commune with her begonias. And I went searching for Hobo. I finally found him—or rather he found me. He came trotting out of our small patch of woods and paused for a yawn and a long stretch. I had obviously interrupted a noonday nap but he showed no resentment and greeted my presence with an ankle rub.

  I had learned from experience the activity he enjoyed most was what I can only term roughhousing. I crouched before him and we engaged in mock combat. He attacked with snarls and growls, jaws open. I defended myself by cuffing him, pushing him violently away, sometimes even flopping him onto his back.

  He never bit me of course but delighted in giving my bare hand or wrist a good gumming. We continued this boisterous play until we both had to pause, panting. Then we went for a short walk about the grounds, Hobo padding contentedly at my heels. Finally I peered into his dwelling to make certain his water dish was filled and bade him a fond farewell, urging him to continue his nap.

  I retreated to my own doghouse and shucked off my churchy duds, donning a new cotton robe I had recently bought. Well, it was really a nightshirt and the reason for its purchase was that the back was printed with a photograph of Laurel and Hardy trying to push a piano up a hill. I could relate to that.

  I then settled down at my desk, blissfully mindless, and began to browse through the Sunday edition of one of our local newspapers. I found no mention whatsoever of the murder of Hiram Gottschalk, from which I could only conclude the police had made no progress. At least they had the decency not to issue the usual claptrap statement: “The homicide is being actively investigated and important developments are expected shortly.”

  I flipped the pages to Lolly Spindrift’s gossip column. His breezy comments on the deeds and misdeeds of Palm Beach County’s haute monde are always good for a laugh, or at least an amused smile, but there was one item I found more intriguing than risible. It stated:

  “What oh-so-handsome manager of a popular bird supermarket in West Palm is setting new records in the man-about-town sweepstakes, leaving many a female heart atwitter? A word of caution to this lothario’s conquests: You haven’t got a chance. He may be a gorgeous hunk, ladies, but his heart belongs elsewhere.”

  I read the item twice. I was certain he was referring to Ricardo Chrisling. But his characterization of Ricardo as a lothario was surprising. I had no idea the lad had so active an avocation. Even more puzzling was Lolly’s final remark: “...his heart belongs elsewhere.” What on earth was the blabmeister hinting? That Ricardo was gay? I doubted it but Monsieur Spindrift would be the first to know. I preferred to believe Lol was implying Ricardo had a one-and-only of the female persuasion.

  Another enigma to be unraveled and I knew it might require a champagne lunch to persuade the gossipmonger to reveal more of what he knew or had heard of the passions of Ricardo Chrisling.

  The remainder of the day was uneventful except for the dessert Ursi Olson served at dinner. It was zabagli-one: whipped cream, brandy, marsala, strawberries, and thin shavings of chocolate.

  O cholesterol, where is thy sting?

  I started the new week ready for derring-do and hopeful that before the day ended I might accomplish much, perhaps even positively identifying the Man in the Iron Mask. But I began with a more mundane challenge than that.

  I must start by telling you McNally & Son, like most legal firms, is computerized. All our attorneys and paralegals have access to databases able to provide almost instant references to laws, judgments, and precedents that would take hours to find in the stacks of lawbooks now mildewing on office shelves.

  Everyone at McNally & Son has a PC on his or her desk except for my father and myself. He doesn’t need one; clerks do his donkeywork. I don’t have one because I am a computer illiterate. In fact, I am a technophobe and have trouble changing a lightbulb without assistance.

  Our house cyberflake—every company has at least one—is a dreamy-eyed bloke name Judd Wilkins. He looks more like a 1960s hippie than a 1990s digital nerd, for he wears a long blond pigtail cinched with a butterfly paper clip and sports two earrings in one ear.

  Father endures Judd’s eccentric appearance and dress (stonewashed jeans and a sequined monkey jacket) because the lad is a certified genius when it comes to the information superhighway, byways, lanes, and trails. I mean he knows everything there is to know about computers, printers, modems, networks, and how they all interface. Is that the correct word?

  Anyway, Judd is carried on our employee roll as a paralegal but he is really our interpreter of the Brave New World of Bytes, capable of solving any glitches occurring in our electronic equipment. It is generally known he spends most of his spare time seated before his personal computer in his tiny condo exchanging important messages with strangers ten thousand miles away—messages like, “How’s your weather?” I believe Judd is convinced if the Messiah ever returns it will be via Microsoft.

  I approached him with a request for info on the Fish and Wildlife Service and particularly their Division of Law Enforcement.

  “Government agency?” he asked.

  “That’s right. Department of the Interior.”

  “No problem. What do you want to know?”

  “What laws are being enforced. What are the penalties if the laws are broken. Prison sentences? Dollar amounts of losses and fines after convictions—if they’re available. Number of investigators assigned. The areas most active in criminal activities, whatever they may be. I’m starting from scratch on this. I need anything and everything.”

  “No problem,” he
said. “You want names? Addresses?”

  “Sure,” I told him. “Especially the bad guys.”

  “They can run but they can’t hide,” he said. “When do you need this stuff?”

  “A week,” I said. “Sooner if possible.”

  “No problem,” he said, turned to his keyboard, and began typing.

  I left him, wishing I could say “No problem” to every task confronting me.

  Back in my very own tomb I phoned Parrots Unlimited and was answered by a male voice I could not identify. I thought I detected a slight foreign accent—Spanish? Portuguese? Icelandic?—but I could not be certain.

  “May I speak to Mr. Watrous, please,” I said politely.

  “He’s busy,” he said gruffly. “To what does this concern about?”

  Beautiful syntax, no?

  “I purchased a parrot from him recently,” I said, “and the poor bird appears to be molting at a ferocious rate.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Okay, hang on; I’ll get him.”

  A moment later Binky picked up. “’Lo?” he said warily.

  “Greetings, son,” I said cheerily. “Archy here.”

  “Shh,” he said.

  “What do you mean shh?” I said indignantly. “I’m not exactly screaming you know.”

  “People are lurking,” he said darkly.

  “Ah. New employees?”

  “A married couple. Youngish. Definitely not upper drawer. They lurk.”

  “Surely they know something about parrots.”

  “Mucho. Did you know that parrots can die of the fumes from an overheated nonstick frying pan?”

  “Why, no,” I said, “I don’t know that and shall do my very best to forget it. These new people—hostile, would you say?”

  “Well, maybe not hostile but, uh, watchful.”

  “Mistrustful?”

  “That’s the word, Archy,” he said gratefully. “Bridget and I are thinking of deserting the ship.”

  “Binky, don’t do that,” I said hastily. “I’m depending on you.”

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely. This is a very important discreet inquiry and you’re playing a major role. I want you to observe everything happening at Parrots Unlimited and give me the benefit of your wise perceptions. You’ve done such a splendid job so far as an investigator and it’s of vital importance you continue.”

  “Well,” he said, his voice oozing hubris, “I guess I can stick it out for a while.”

  “Good man,” I said. “Watch, listen, and report. By the way, how are you and Bridget coming along with your theatrical career?”

  “A success!” he cried. “We’ve been invited to perform in three more nursing homes. Our reputation is spreading.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Tell me, Binky, do you have a name for your act?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, preening. “We call ourselves The Busy B’s. Bridget and Binky. Get it?”

  “I do,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

  I hung up congratulating myself on my fortitude. The Monday tasks I had set were humming along briskly and I resolutely continued. I phoned Lolly Spindrift at his newspaper and found him in an uncharacteristically downbeat mood.

  “What’s wrong, pal?” I asked.

  “Another funeral,” he said dully. “I don’t know how many more of these I can take. Two this month. About twenty during the past year.”

  “Close friends?”

  “All of them. Not fun, sweetie.”

  “What time is the funeral?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Lol, I’m heading for the Pelican Club. I’m not suggesting lunch but why don’t you meet me at the bar for a cognac. It will help see you through.”

  “Yes,” he said immediately. “I can use it.”

  Half an hour later Spindrift and I were seated at the Pelican mahogany. He was working on a double Rémy Martin and I was sipping a tall g&t. Lolly is a small, birdlike chap who usually flashes a chirpy wit. But now he looked wrung out and pinned up to dry. It was obvious sorrow had brought him low; he seemed shrunken and his face was so wrenched I reckoned he was trying hard not to weep.

  We drank in silence for a while because I am not very good in the sympathy department. I mean I can feel it and ordinarily I’m glib, but when I try to commiserate it comes out so soppy I can’t believe the words are mine.

  Finally Lolly perked up and asked, “Why did you phone me, luv?”

  “It’s not important. It can wait.”

  “No, no; tell me. Get my mind off the temptation to take a long walk on a short pier.”

  “The item you wrote yesterday about the bird store manager... Ricardo Chrisling, right?”

  “Uh-huh. I figured you’d pick up on it since you asked me about him a week or so ago.”

  “Sparking about is he?”

  “Definitely. Hither, thither, and yon-ish. And very successfully from what I hear. He’s a handsome devil.”

  “Your last comment, ‘... his heart belongs elsewhere.’ What did you mean by that? He’s gay?”

  Lol gave me a wan smile. “Wish he was. No, I think the lad is straight. I keep picking up these hints he has a grand passion.”

  “What kind of hints?”

  “Nothing much really. Weekly orders from a florist delivered to his apartment. Late-night comings and goings, also at his place. A diamond choker bought on Worth Avenue. Things like that, all indicating he may be smitten. No solid evidence, Archy, but you know if I waited for definite proof I’d have to close up shop and get in another line of business. Listen, dear, I’ve got to dash to the funeral. Can’t be late, you know. You’ll be on time for mine, won’t you?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Thanks for the jolt. Just what I needed. I’ll get through it now without blubbering. Keep in touch.”

  “You betcha,” I said.

  “And now you owe me one,” he said, regaining his sauce.

  “Acknowledged,” I said.

  We shook hands. I don’t know why but I was glad we did. Then he departed, squaring his narrow shoulders and lifting his chin. Challenging life—and death.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE DINING AREA WAS JAMMED with the luncheon crowd and so I remained at the bar. The next time Priscilla appeared to pick up an order of drinks I asked her to victual me in situ. “Something light,” I told her.

  “Like what?” she said. “A double cheeseburger with home fries?”

  I sighed. “It’s so hard to get good help these days. Try again but not quite so calorific.”

  “How about a crock of onion soup and a grilled chicken sandwich?”

  “Perfect. By the way,” I added faux casually, “have you seen Connie around lately?”

  “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

  “What a brilliant bon mot,” I said. “Original?”

  “Keep it up, buster,” she said, “and there’ll be more in your soup than onions.” Then she looked at me pityingly. “When are you two going to sign a truce?”

  “I’m willing,” I said. “Tell her that.”

  “You tell her that, Romeo,” she said, and chasséd away.

  I was consuming my spartan lunch and reviewing my brief conversation with Lolly Spindrift when a sly thought slid into the McNally cranium. If Ricardo Chrisling actually had an unknown inamorata—and Lol is usually on target when ferreting out private affairs of the heart—could it possibly be Julia Gottschalk, or Judith, or perhaps both, the moled and the moleless? Hey, why not? They were not blood relatives; the twins were attractive ladies; he was a “handsome devil.” What a ménage à trois that would be!

  I was amused by the idea until sobered by a second thought. If such a relationship existed, it might hold the motive for the slaying of Hiram Gottschalk. Three conspirators linked by passion, greed, and amorality. A fanciful plot? Of course. But completely illogical? I didn’t think so.

  I was in a gouty mood when I finished my solitar
y lunch. Although I had been active that morning I had the painful notion I was spinning my wheels—or even slowly in reverse. All my initiatives seemed to result in more questions than answers. At the moment I could think of nothing to do but plod on and I am not by nature a plodder, fancying myself more Captain Ahab than Bartleby.

  I called the Gottschalk home from the pay phone at the Pelican Club. Mei Lee answered and, after identifying myself and inquiring as to her health (“Ver’ happy”), I asked to speak to Peter. It was at least three minutes before he came on the line.

  “Hullo?” he said in a voice so hollow it seemed to reverberate.

  “Hi, Peter,” I said with all the cheer I could muster. “Archy McNally. How’re you doing?”

  “Surviving,” he said. “I think. Why are you calling?”

  Good question. I had no good answer.

  “I have nothing to do,” I said lightly, “and thought we might waste some time together. Gorgeous day.”

  “I got no wheels,” he said. “I’m a prisoner.”

  “Why don’t I pick you up,” I suggested. “Take a drive. Go somewhere. Even a prisoner is entitled to fresh air occasionally.”

  “Yeah,” he said dispiritedly. “Go where?”

  “How about my place?” I said, the best I could come up with. “I’ve been to your home but you’ve never been to mine.”

  “I don’t know. I’m in a lousy mood. Down.”

  “Give me a chance,” I urged. “Maybe I can bring you up. You like dogs?”

  “Dogs? They’re okay I guess. We never had one. Just birds.”

  “Well, my family has a new pooch. A real character. You’ve got to meet him.”

  He wasn’t wildly enthusiastic. “If you say so. You’ll come by?”